"I have no damn clue," I said, reaching into my leg pocket. "If you shut up, maybe I can find out."
When I'd caught the amateur before, he was using a standard parabolic mic that you can get in any of a hundred stores or websites. About a hundred and fifty bucks, it works well if you have line of sight on your target and there is nothing in between you, like plate glass. What I pulled out was much smaller and higher technology, using a laser to pierce any window and allow me to hear what was being said. The set I was using cost somewhere in the five thousand dollar range, and while great, wasn't perfect. I had to be able to get a surface that I could bounce the laser off of that would reflect back to me, or else I wouldn't be able to detect the changes in the light.
I was slowly trying out potential surfaces when I heard something next to me. Turning my head, I gawked as the amateur clicked something together and stood up. "Fuck it," he said, bringing the device to his shoulder. "Take out Tweak, we wear down the GDs."
He pulled the trigger on his device, and I realized he had a compressed air rifle of some type. The front window of the donut shop shattered as whatever the amateur was shooting impacted and GDs scattered like rats from a fire. In the dim night light I was able to see what the man was holding, and I ducked back. I was willing to help the man, but if he was suicidal, I couldn't do much to help him. "Stop, you fucking idiot!"
"Fuck that," he said, a smile on his voice as he pulled the trigger. His rifle was the grown up version of a paintball gun, with a larger shoulder tank and firing something I guessed was a lot more damaging than just plain old paint. I snuck a look over my shoulder as I saw about half the rounds smash into dust, causing the GDs to start hacking and coughing, and I knew at least half of the rounds he was using were filled with a variant of pepper spray, common with certain SWAT teams for crowd control as it was a lot more accurate and longer range than standard sprays. The other rounds I wasn't sure about, but they looked solid. One GD took a round in his shoulder, spinning him to the ground grabbing his arm in pain, but there was no blood that I could see.
Pulling my Glocks, I dropped back as the idiot finished emptying his air tank before dropping to his knees and looking over at me. "Pretty fucking wild, man!" he said, right before the first rounds started being fired back from the GDs below. "Oh, shit!"
"Yeah, dumb ass," I commented, scrambling back as an automatic rifle chattered below. "What you forgot was that the nearly full moon was behind you and you were kneeling like a fucking Call of Duty player busting shots for fifteen seconds. They know you're up here."
"Not for long," he said, breaking down his rifle in smooth, easy movements before throwing the pieces into his pack. He backed up and threw the bag over his shoulder, grinning like a madman at me. "You coming, or are you going to wait for them to come up the fire escape?"
Shaking my head, I led the way, leaping rooftop to rooftop, away from our pursuit. Still, I could hear the GDs below us, their cars and other vehicles fanning out to find us. "What you didn't fucking think about," I grunted in between jumps as we ran, "was the tactics of the gang you just decided to hit. The GDs Zerg their opponents when they’re attacked. What you did was like taking a stick to a fire ant hill. Problem is, they're faster than we are."
It was true, each of the groups in Filmore Heights responded to attacks in different ways. The 88s tended to roll in small, highly disciplined squads that would take an attack, but then counterattack with almost berserker ferocity. They'd kill their attackers and about half their family if they needed.
Meanwhile, the Latin Kings were damn near ninjas, working from behind the scenes to get their business done. As long as you didn't publicly insult their machismo, they were the most laid back of the gangs, although they would strike back. If they had to kill someone, they did it quietly, in the middle of the night, and melted away before you could respond. They also conducted themselves by a strict code of honor, which gave them the most support and street cred with the non-criminal residents of Filmore Heights. If you had to rent to a gang banger, you prayed it was a Latin King.
Meanwhile, the Gangster Disciples were like I had told the amateur, the Starcraft Zerg. They swarmed their enemies with more guns and more response than anyone else. You knew they were coming, and you only hoped they ran out of adrenalin or ammo before you got shot.
It was this rolling, firing wave of criminals that I was attempting to outrun. Reaching the alleyway that my bike was in, I looked over the side of the building, yanking my head back as I saw a GD lowrider roar by on the street. "Fuck!"