Chapter 57
CHAPTER
Valentine rodolpho had us.
We had no choice but to set the shotguns down on the concrete floor. He limped around in front of us, slowly waving the barrel of his weapon in our faces.
“We should kill them and go out the back door,” Rodolpho said to his cousin. “All three of them, Patrice.”
I spoke to Prince. “Kill three cops? I’m sorry, but any way you look at that, it is a bad, bad, bad idea.”
“Three cops gets you a one-way ticket to the gas chamber,” Sampson said.
“They’re right, Patrice!” Donovan said.
Outside, sirens were drowning out the sporadic shooting. The head of LMC 51 turned his head a split second before four quick, brilliant flashes and flat cracks came from somewhere deep in the stacks.
The first round hit Rodolpho, shattering his right wrist. He let go of his AR and spun around as it clattered to the floor, grabbing wildly at his wrist and screaming.
The second shot caught the Haitian gangbanger guarding Nancy Donovan between the eyes. He crumpled.
Prince almost got his own pistol up before the third round hit him in the front of his thigh. He howled and grabbed for his leg, then went down hard.
The fourth and last round hit Rodolpho in the buttocks and he fell over, screaming gibberish.
“What’s happening?” blindfolded Officer Donovan yelled as Sampson started to reach for his shotgun and Prince tried to raise his pistol.
The buff dude in the body armor and black hood stepped into the space, shouldering an automatic rifle.
“Toss the gun, Prince!” he shouted. “And don’t do it, Detective. I do not miss.”
Prince slid the gun away. Sampson straightened up, raised his arms.
Outside, the shooting had all but stopped, but the symphony of sirens and bullhorns was building.
“You’re surrounded,” I said to the hooded man.
“That’s fine,” he said, his attention sweeping from me to Valentine, who was panting and heaving with pain, and then to Prince, who had taken off his belt and was shaking as he tried to wrap it around his upper thigh.
“Stop,” the gunman said.
“I bleed. I feel it.”
“Why would I care?” the man said.
He pulled off his hood. The Haitian gang leader stared in surprise and then open hatred at Guillermo Costa, disgraced Marine, former leader of Los Lobos, ex-con who’d supposedly learned his lesson and gone straight.
Costa said, “Who did that to my nephew Shay Mansion? Who strung him up like that?”
Prince shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re—”
Costa shot. Donovan jerked in her chair. The round pinged off the concrete next to the Haitian, who looked terrified as he raised his hands.
“Next one takes off your cojones,” Costa said. “Who did that to Shay?”
Prince swallowed and gestured with his head toward his cousin. “Valentine. It was his idea. He saw it through.”
“Wait!” Rodolpho screamed and put up his hands when Costa stepped his way, aiming at point-blank range.
“You killed my nephew and destroyed my cousin,” Costa said. He shot Rodolpho dead and swung his attention and weapon back to Prince, who had gotten the belt around his upper thigh and was tightening it.
Costa nodded at us. “Tell them where the heroin is, Patrice. They’ll find it anyway.”
The Haitian frowned.
“Your cojones?”
Prince angrily gestured with his chin. “South side of the warehouse. The blue fifty-five-gallon drums marked ‘Dust-Control Liquids.’”
“And the other kid?” Sampson said. “Tony Miller?”
The Haitian looked puzzled.
I said, “The kid who was tipping off our narcotics division about the location of your street sellers.”
Sampson said, “The kid who was stabbed multiple times and tossed in the Potomac.”
Prince hesitated as if considering his options, then relaxed and pointed at his cousin’s corpse. “Valentine’s idea too.”
“I don’t believe you,” Costa growled. “And even if it was his idea, you damn sure brought in the heroin that killed Shay’s father, my cousin’s husband. In every way, the world will be a better place without you, Patrice.”
Prince had a moment of panic, a moment to shrink from his fate. Costa showed no mercy and shot him in the heart, then stood there, watching impassively, as the Haitian gang leader slumped and died, his eyes dulling.
It had all unfolded so fast, I did not realize how deep into fight-or-flight I was until Costa dropped the clip on his rifle, cleared the bullet in the chamber, and put everything down on the floor.
He stepped over Rodolpho’s body and took a seat on a folding chair by Officer Donovan, who was bent over, weeping.
He looked at us. “Sorry about all this, Detectives. It had to happen. You just got in Costa’s way.”
Costa patted Donovan on the shoulder and said softly, “You’re going to be okay, lady, whoever you are. Let’s get you free.”