Culprits Page 19

  The way he’d gone let out onto a clearing of a sort where modified shipping containers were on display. These were not stacked one on the other, but here they sat individually in a semi-circle in this area. Two of the containers been changed over so that the side of the metal box had been retro fit to open on hydraulic pistons as a makeshift awning. Sliding glass doors had also been installed in the thing. The interiors were staged as modest offices. The other two containers had been altered into modular living quarters with built-in beds and cubbies.

  Ellison heard a sound behind him and spun around quickly, crouching, hand going toward his hidden knife. A crow now rested at the end of on one of the upraised awnings glaring down at him. “Shit,” he muttered, his nerves taught like harp strings. “Get it together.” The crow shifted side to side on his clawed feet as Ellison started away.

  . . .

  As discussed with Collier when they were taking their guns from the trunk, Shim was to make it seem that Ellison was off alone. When he’d sent him down the passageway, Shim hadn’t gone off in another direction but had crept along a parallel passageway. From his vantage point he could see Ellison in the area with the modified containers. He’d seen when he’d turned around, reaching for his calf. He figured that meant he was carrying a blade. Hey, you couldn’t fault a guy for initiative, he concluded. Ellison began moving out of the clearing, and Shim gave him a few beats to get ahead, then he too moved into the space with the display settings. He intended to walk around one of the changed over offices to yet another passageway among so many, but in that way again roughly matched Ellison’s steps.

  He cleared the corner of the office container and was along the passageway of more double stacked units. This one was narrower than the others, two men abreast couldn’t walk along it. The gunman was crossing a gap between dual stacks when he was struck in the temple. He sagged in the knees and O’Conner sprang from the gap onto him.

  “Motherfucker,” Shim growled, off balance. He tried to raise his Ingram but was having difficulty. O’Conner had slipped a restraint of a nefarious design past his shoulders. His arms were pinned to his sides. The thing was essentially a large, wide belt that could be adjusted. It was padded and therefore the occupant, apparently a mental patient, Shim guessed, wouldn’t cut themselves struggling against the leather.

  Shim fell back against a container opposite and was about to curse again but O’Conner raised the collapsible baton he’d first hit him with. Viciously, he whipped the flexible shaft on the man’s head several times rapidly and with considerable force. Shim was not able to muster the strength to get out of his leaning position. The hoodlum’s eyes went vacant and he collapsed to the ground, blood soaking his short-cropped, sweaty hair. His skull was fractured and if the membrane was torn, he might well develop an infection and die painfully. All this had happened in seconds. A statue-faced O’Conner picked up the hood, draped him over his shoulder, and, noting the head wound didn’t drip much, carried him off to deposit him in a shipping container. He returned and retrieved the Ingram, having already searched the unconscious man briefly and relieved him of his smartphone. O’Conner moved off.

  . . .

  Sweeny had a bad feeling about this job. He’d heard about O’Conner second hand before this and it was his understanding this was not an individual given to hasty moves out of uncertainty or fear. The impression he’d been left with was he was a man not to be fucked with. Added to that, all this up and down the aisles in this place gave him the heebie-jeebies. He was getting a crook in his neck from alternately looking up at the tops of the containers and slowing his tread to peek in the gaps between the stacks. That son of a bitch could be anywhere, he reasoned, and if not for the bonus that Harrington had offered, he might just have gone AWOL. They’d passed civilization on the way in and surely there was a meat locker cool tavern back there where a fella could have a beer or two and ruminate on his future. He was pushing fifty and lately had come to the realization that the life of being hired muscle lacked upward mobility.

  He neared the end of yet another damn passageway and a body ran past up ahead. Instinctively, he crouched slightly as he let loose a set of rounds that whisped about like ghostly insects. His bullets pinged off the sides of the containers and thumped into the dirt. He knew he didn’t hit anybody. He considered doubling back, could be this O’Conner had help. What made them think this dude was alone in this goddamn place? Wide-eyed, Sweeny glanced over his shoulder. Hell of a time to have his mid-life crisis, he groaned inwardly.

  Resisting the urge to call Collier, as that would show weakness, he pressed forward. Damn him if the sun hadn’t moved in the sky and the shadows at the end of this corridor didn’t seem longer, deeper. For good measure, he shot the Ingram again, spraying rounds from right to left in case O’Conner was hidden in the gloom. No body fell out onto the ground. He went ahead and reached the end without incident. He was at an intersection of containers, passageways to either side of him and one up ahead.

  “Christ,” he gasped. Which way had O’Conner been going? He looked right. He was sure it was that way he’d run. Shit fire, but he’d have to find out for sure, or if Collier didn’t shoot him, he’d make sure everyone knew he was a big pussy.

  “What a life,” he said, shaking his head as he steadied his weapon. Sweeney eased along the walkway between the containers. He had both hands on the Ingram, one on the grip, finger extended across the trigger guard, and the other hand supporting the truncated frame. He wanted to be as accurate as possible. There would be no second chance. Despite being on point, he had the impression the looming metal boxes were closing in on him, constricting the light and cutting off his air. He stopped as he neared another gap between the containers. This one seemed larger than the others and an alarm jangled inside his head. O’Conner was there and would cut him down as soon as he passed by. But he’d get the drop on him, he’d come out on top.

  A wry grin on his face, Sweeny rushed forward and peppered the gaps to the left and right ahead of him.

  “Yah, yah, yah,” he yelled, rounds spitting from the end of the heated suppressor.

  He counted on his bullets ricocheting off the ends of the containers, flying everywhere along the length of those gaps. Skip rounds, some called them. In this way, either O’Conner was hit or he had to retreat, the gunman reasoned. As he ran forward, he pulled the empty magazine out and, as it dropped to the dirt, inserted a fresh one. He eyed one of the gaps and, turning, went prone, aiming his gun at the gap opposite. No body, no blood.

  “Shit.” Pressed to the ground, the breath caught in his throat. He got to a knee, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He closed his mouth, willing his body to slow so he could hear. But he heard nothing, not even the crows. He rose, wary, sweat on his brow and his heart pulsing in his neck. Where the hell was this bastard? Maybe he’d taken a powder or maybe the whole damn place was rigged to blow. No, that was foolish, wishful thinking, Sweeney knew. He was here. O’Conner wasn’t the type to ignore loose ends, and that fuckin’ pilot was a loose end who’d tried and failed to kill him and take his money. He could see where that might be a burr in his saddle.

  What if, Sweeny wondered, prowling about again, he could make a deal. Give him the pilot on a silver platter and they went their separate ways. Yeah, that could work. But there was Collier to deal with. Still, this was a big yard. He could make the agreement with O’Conner and Collier wouldn’t be the wiser. O’Conner could pull the pilot into one of these containers to have at him as he pleased later. Tie and gag him and lay low, how long would Collier want to be here? All fuckin’ day? Naw, he could tell by how he acted that Collier was a dollars and sense guy. That’s why the League had sent him in. The heist and Harrington leaving dead bodies and fallout in his wake had to be a matter they wanted to get settled.

  For instance, far as he could tell, that fine-ass wife of his wasn’t among the dearly departed. What was that about, and how come an asshole like Harrington ha
d let her be since, if it was true, she was in on the robbery? Big business was about—

  Sweeney stopped again, the hairs at the base of his neck standing on end. He looked up, firing. Two crows fell to the ground. Their small bodies distorted from where his bullets had torn through them. One of the crows had an eye shot out but its remaining orb glared unblinkingly at his killer.

  “Dammit,” he said, unnerved. Behind him, metal on metal banged.

  “Look, O’Conner” he began, trying to turn, trying to show he wasn’t a threat, that he wanted to be his ally. He wasn’t even a quarter of the way around when the .380s from the gun O’Conner had confiscated ripped into him. Sweeny was dead before he crumpled to the dirt.

  O’Conner had exited a door that had been added to one of the containers on one of the forty-foot side post its arrival at the yard. This was common as the various containers were pre-prepared for their after-market uses. He bent down to the body and applied gauze and tape to the fatal wound. He did this so as to not leave a blood trail. Using a fireman’s carry again, O’Conner lifted Sweeney off the ground. He strode off with him like he’d done with Shim.

  . . .

  “Shim,” Ellison said, louder this time. “He’s not going for it.” No answer, though he half expected that too. But knowing the man should be shadowing him and realizing he wasn’t, he was certain he was dead or at least laid up. They’d been roaming around this place for the better part of an hour and he was now back before the modified containers.

  There was the shuffle of footsteps and he glanced over to see Collier on the side of one of the boxy offices. His handgun was down at his side and he stared across the expanse at the pilot. For several moments the two men regarded each other as if strangers at an impasse on a one-lane bridge. Collier came closer.

  “I spotted some blood and spent shells scattered about in the section Sweeney was searching,” the bespectacled man said evenly. “I would surmise O’Conner has dealt with he and Shim, who doesn’t answer his phone. Their Ingrams are missing too.”

  “Why hide the bodies?”

  “Maybe he has help. Clearly, he didn’t hole up here in desperation,” Collier said, more for his benefit than anything else. “Or maybe he’s just fucking with us, keeping us guessing.”

  Ellison had an odd sense of relief. Possibly, in Collier’s estimation, he still had value. Though it could be O’Conner was saving the best for last and Collier was next up to be eliminated. He said, “Now what, send me up and down the aisles and hope he bites?’

  Collier looked off at a far point. He looked back. “He’s going to pick us off as we head back to the car.”

  “Then call for backup. You must have people out here.”

  Collier adjusted his black frames. “By the time I arrange that, we’d be dead. I don’t think he’s going to wait around and let that happen.”

  Ellison had a sour look on his face as if he had a hole in his stomach. “We’re dead if we stand around. You must have more firepower in the car.”

  “There is.”

  “Then like you said, what choice do we have?”

  Collier pursed his lips and began walking. Ellison soon fell in step beside him. Collier was about to speak, and that’s when Ellison knifed him, jabbing the steak knife in his side and relieving him of his handgun. The knife was dropped to the ground.

  “The hell,” the League’s man wheezed, grimacing.

  Ellison pushed him and Collier took a few steps backward, tripping over his own feet and plopping down on the ground on his butt. “This won’t help you,” he said.

  “I’m going to help myself.”

  When Ellison jogged around the corner of the container, footfalls receding, Collier took out his smartphone. But before he could dial 911, other footsteps approached. He knew who it was. He looked up to see him backlit against the sun. Even given the distortion of the angle, his impression of O’Conner was his size, big, solid, like he’d been put together with iron slag and tensile wire, and only went into motion when necessary. His hands appeared unusually large to Collier. In one of them was the recognizable outline of the M11.

  “Before you gun me, O’Conner, maybe you’ll listen to a proposition I have for you.”

  “What would that be?”

  “I’m not one of Harrington’s crew.”

  “Who are you?”

  “The League, I represent their interests.”

  “And their interests are in eliminating me.”

  Collier winced as he shifted, his hand pressed on his wound. Crimson stained his fingers. “Well, see it from our perspective. Any enterprise will act in the stead of its members. Such is not unusual.”

  O’Conner raised the weapon. “That’s right.”

  “But,” Collier said, holding up the bloodied hand, “there can be certain circumstances that cause a re-evaluation of the normal directives.”

  “You being wounded and all.”

  “And you clearly are not going to stop until you’ve caused considerable disruption to the course of things. There are matters in the works that do not need unnecessary scrutiny. Really, you know, it’s not like it’s your money.”

  “It is now,” he said flatly. “The League wasn’t going to build daycare centers with it.”

  “Point taken. If Harrington were to back off, if a détente could be reached, how would that be?”

  O’Conner recalled that picture of Harrington he’d first seen when he’d begun his research. “He isn’t.”

  “But I would talk to him. I could do that. Like any member of an organization such as ours, he is not immune to the desires of his other board members.” He winced again. He would need to make that call soon, he reasoned, pain lancing his abdomen.

  “Your board may not see it like you do.”

  “I can try. I do have some influence.”

  “Where’s the pilot heading?”

  “I wouldn’t want to guess. You might take umbrage,” Collier huffed hollowly.

  “But you have some idea. Man like you would have done his research and assembled information on me and him, a wild card. A double-crossing bottom feeder who weaseled his way into you all’s grasp as a way to avoid being among the hunted, to try to buy enough time until he could angle an escape. It’s not like he’s proven he has that much usefulness as a bloodhound.”

  “He did over sell,” Collier allowed. “Though that’s understandable given the circumstances.”

  “Well, it’s not like he had a future as a member of Harrington’s crew. Think of this as expediting what was already going to happen sooner or later.”

  “Still, there are lines a professional shouldn’t cross.”

  O’Conner hunched down. “He would.”

  “I’m not him.” Collier said firmly.

  O’Conner regarded the man then reached for his smartphone lying next to his leg on the ground. He blew the dust off and wiped off his bloody hand. He then pressed Collier’s right thumb on the phone’s physical button to activate the device. He then touched and swiped the screen for several seconds and found the app he was looking for. He tapped it alive, his amber eyes intent on the screen. Momentarily, a satisfying grunt rose in O’Conner’s throat.

  After O’Conner left, Collier used Shim’s phone which he’d exchanged with him. His hand shook slightly as he punched in the emergency number and he hoped he wasn’t going to pass out from shock before he could tell them his location.

  . . .

  O’Conner had surmised correctly a man like Collier, a detail-oriented sort, would have any car he was in tied to a GPS app. Just in case matters went south. Sure enough, he was able to track Ellison in the Lincoln on the man’s phone back to the Los Angeles area and a place called Lawndale. The municipality was on the edge of what was called the South Bay of beach cities. Hawthorne Boulevard, which further north became La Brea Avenue, bifurcated the small city and also intersected the 405 Freeway, which O’Conner had exited. Fr
om what he observed through his windshield, this was a majority Latino enclave, though there was a noticeable presence of blacks, whites, and Asians too. The housing stock was modest to creeping gentrification of mid-century models. The Lincoln was parked on a residential street a few blocks east of Hawthorne with single-family homes and low-slung dingbat apartment buildings. Around the corner on one end of the block, not too far from where the Lincoln was parked, was a senior care facility called Golden Gardens. On the opposite end, the way in which he’d come, at the intersection of that street, a numbered one and Hawthorne, was a strip mall with a sheepskin seat covers shop, a beauty supply outlet, and Le Magnifique nail salon. He found a place to park and got out of his car. He placed Collier’s phone on the ground and stomped it into pieces.

  As he did so, O’Conner wondered if Ellison came to roost here or if he simply dumped the Lincoln and obtained other wheels, maybe even caught the bus or called up one of those driver services to take him elsewhere. A black and white rolled by as O’Conner stood on the end of the block, hand in his pocket. It was a sheriff’s car and the female deputy inside didn’t seem to pay him any attention, but he knew better than to be complacent. A dispatcher’s voice crackled over her radio. It would not do for him to get busted when he was close to solving part of his problem.

  He started walking even as the car went away from him. He could feel those cop eyes centered on her rearview mirror, watching his back. O’Conner turned off the block and headed over to the main drag. He loitered in a donut shop slash Chinese food joint over a tepid cup of coffee. Two gardeners were in there discussing boxers and the best flowers to plant for this climate. O’Conner then walked back some fifteen minutes later, figuring the deputy, if she had circled back, would be gone by now.

  The Lincoln was still parked when he returned to the street. He frowned, considering what to do next. Walking up and down the block was a sure way to get spotted if Ellison was still around. On the other hand, he needed to be certain of his options. He took a breath and started off. He’d make one circuit of the block and hope the odds were in his favor and Ellison was holed up with a cold one while he too considered his next moves and not camped by a window. O’Conner noted the makes of cars in driveways and discounted the lawns where there was a child’s wagon or tricycle. He couldn’t see Ellison being chummy with the family type. Then again, nobody could imagine O’Conner living in a subdivision, so who knew? But for the time being, he eliminated those abodes from his calculations.