Although Santiago Cruz worked for the county, he wasn’t the kind of officer who dealt with the general public. Keeping up with his parolees was time-consuming enough.
But the instant the punk-ass kid walked into the store, Cruz recognized the signs. His eyes all hip-hoppy beneath the beanie pulled down to his eyebrows, he was someone high as a kite and ready to do something really stupid.
The next second the teenager pulled a knife from his jacket pocket and jabbed it at Syed as he stood behind the counter. “Gimme all the cash, mother-fucker!”
Clearly the kid didn’t see Cruz waiting beside the coffee dispenser. He outweighed the would-be thief by almost eighty pounds and had eight or nine inches in height over him. Cruz sighed heavily.
Damn!
Cruz stepped into the aisle, drawing the kid’s attention. The sixteen-if-he-was-a-day boy jerked his head back and forth, up and down, like a manic bobble head. If Cruz used a gun, the take-down would be quicker, but talking down a hopped-up meth addict with a knife took time.
Time Cruz didn’t appreciate taking for a job that local police had responsibility for.
Syed’s face remained impassive, not a twinge of alarm. He’d seen Cruz take down far more threatening targets than a skinny kid.
Cruz held his hands up in a non-threatening, gentling manner. “Okay, kid, just relax. Put down the knife and we can talk about this.”
“Shut up! No talking.” He turned back to Syed, swinging the knife closer to the owner’s throat. “Get the money! Hurry up.”
“This is not a good idea,” Syed said to the thief. “It will end badly.”
“Shut the fuck up, old man!” His pupils dilated and his forehead sweaty, the kid swung the knife back and forth between Cruz and Syed.
“Look, dude, you can still get out of this,” Cruz cajoled, taking one step forward. “Just put the knife down and you can walk away.”
“You think I’m afraid of you?” the kid yelled. “I’m the one’s got the knife.”
Cruz shook his head slowly, a resigned look on his face. “No, man, I think you’re a stupid kid who doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into.”
The take-down was pathetically easy. The boy didn’t stand a chance and the victory felt hollow and annoying. Cruz subdued and cuffed the thief, and called local police for a pickup for attempted armed robbery.
Dumb jackass. Cruz would probably have him as a parolee in another five years or so.
The confrontation put him behind schedule by several hours. After a patrol car picked up the suspect – one Joey Johnson, sixteen, of Sacramento – Cruz made his way out of the store.
“You just can’t stay out of police business, can you, San-tee-AG-o?” Detective Andrew Flood emerged from his department-issued unmarked car. He was a detective who’d made his way through the ranks the hard way, and for no good reason, hated Cruz’s guts. He looked for the worst in people and usually found it.
Cruz grinned at the taunt. “Just making your life easy, Flood. All part of the county service.”
Flood scowled. “One day someone’s gonna knock you off that cocky pedestal you put yourself on, Cruz.”
“Who? You?”
Flood entered the store and grabbed a Styrofoam cup of coffee – without paying, Cruz noticed through the window – and returned to his vehicle. “Later, Santiago. Us big boys have a homicide to go to.” He laughed as if investigating death was an honor.
Cruz headed for Jesus Saves, just around the corner. Dickey Hinchey had better show up. He was ready to unleash his already frayed temper on the parolee.
Chapter 2
Pelican Bay State Prison, Crescent City, California, Present Day
Anson Stark was a gray man.
From his receding hairline to his slight build, from his stooping shoulders to his soft, mild voice, the inmate was all shades and shadows. A ghost of a man. Hardly noticeable, although he’d been a college professor in the world outside of prison.
A man easily forgotten. For all his precise language and polite manners, he was the picture of mediocrity. But one look into his pale, unearthly eyes and every officer in the Security Housing Unit knew why Anson Stark was the white shot caller at Pelican Bay State Prison.
The Lords of Death, the white gang called themselves, and their leader was “The Professor” – Anson Stark. In Correctional Officer Luca Jimenez’s opinion the Lords and Anson Stark were as deadly as all the other gangs put together.
Luca shook his head in bewilderment. Dios! Six months on the job, and gang politics inside the prison still baffled him. The white shot caller looked like an accountant or a teacher. In fact, he’d been an unknown, untenured community college teacher who earned less money than Luca did.