I played a hunch and headed over to GD territory. The amateur had hit the 88's once, and the Latin Kings once. If he was trying to actually lower the overall gang presence in Filmore Heights, he'd come after the Gangster Disciples next. After the gang wars of the nineties, they were the last of the big powers left. It was what I would do if I were in his position.
Rappelling quickly down from the steeple, I slid down the church's roof before freeing the rope and then reattaching it to the side of the building and descending to street level. I got on my cycle and drove off, heading towards the east side of Filmore Heights. The GDs had their headquarters in the east side, and they controlled the area with an iron fist. Part of it was due to their numbers. Vastly outnumbering both the 88s and the Latin Kings combined, the GDs were the oldest of the three big gangs in the area. Mostly African American, they also had Hispanics, especially Puerto Ricans which for some reason the Latin Kings didn't accept in their ranks. They'd also absorbed a lot of the remnants of the Filmore Crips at the end of the gang war, boosting their ranks even more.
I stopped my bike while in the border zone between GD and 88 territory, parking it in an alleyway behind a dumpster. I found an old discarded tarp and pulled it over the bike, hoping it would be enough. The electric motorcycle wasn't registered, so if it was stolen there was no way I'd get it back, although the price of replacement didn't worry me. It was the principle of the thing that bothered me. Well, that and having to go rooftop to rooftop or through back alleyways out of Filmore Heights and then somehow still getting my way to my nearest strike base where I had another vehicle in order to get home.
My bike stashed, I headed up the nearest fire escape to the roofs. Staying near the edge so I could still see the streets below, I took off at a light jog, looking for the GD headquarters.
I was two blocks away when the sound of a car engine below caught my attention. This car was tuned up, whatever it was, and I stopped, dropping down to a knee on the rooftop. Pulling out my binoculars, I caught sight of an old compact car down the street. It pulled into a parking lot and out of sight before I could make a clear identification, but something about it tickled my attention. Maybe it was in the shape, but I swore I'd seen a similar vehicle to it before.
Shaking my head, I turned back towards the GD territory, quickly making my way along the rooftops to just across the street from the GD leader's house. Tweak Petersen had been head of the GDs for about three years, after the previous leader had been killed off in an 88 attack. Tweak had consolidated his territory and pulled back, which in the short term weakened the GDs, but allowed them to eventually halt the advance of their rivals. By actively recruiting the young men of his territory, he had plenty of street soldiers.
Tweak was famous for running his operation out of a donut shop that was in his area, which was strange. Not only was the shop fronted by plate glass, making it easy to see him, but also Tweak was a Type 1 diabetic. Insulin dependent, Tweak was almost never seen indulging in the shop's specialty, but instead sipped endless cups of coffee that left him with such a caffeine addiction that it had earned him his nickname.
I was watching the shop for nearly twenty minutes when I heard the movement behind me. I dove to the side and rolled, pulling my Glock to see what it was. "Amateur."
"I really wish you wouldn't call me that," the other man said. "By the way, I almost snuck up on you."
"You were a whole building away," I retorted. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Same as you it looks like," he whispered, kneeling next to me. He was carrying a large duffel bag, which was what had made most of the noise, slapping against his back when he jumped. He had something large and either metal or plastic, or a bit of both, in there. "So what is Tweak up to?"
Something in the amateur's voice tickled something in my brain again, but I dismissed it temporarily. Other things to focus on. "Normal night's work for a gang leader," I said, "but I just got here. You going to do anything stupid?"
The amateur shook his head and set his bag down. "Not this second. You can put the gun away."
I holstered my Glock and looked back across the street. It took a little while, but a pattern became evident. A donut shop, even one that was open twenty four hours a day, tends to have very clear peaks in business, especially in the morning hours as you'd expect. It was rare, even at a Krispy Kreme that had fresh hot samples, to have a line after six at night.
While the donut shop Tweak was sitting in never quite got packed, there was a constant line of young men coming in. They'd buy a single donut or sometimes two, then while they were waiting, they'd talk with Tweak for a minute before leaving. It was much higher than normal, as the last time I'd spied on Tweak he had maybe a dozen visitors in a night.
That night however, the visits were almost constant, and Tweak was busy issuing orders directly to the street level. "This is weird," the amateur said. "He shouldn't be talking directly to the soldiers, but his lieutenants. What the hell is going on, Snowman?"