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The four we've gotten ahold of are going to be in for a very fucking uncomfortable few weeks. Broken arms, jaws…a kneecap. I have no sympathy for any of them. They deserve every bit of pain we inflicted and then some.
The two who almost killed Mila are lucky I left them alive for the ambulance to cart off. Leaving them breathing went against everything I believe, but I promised her I'd be coming for her…and I can't keep that promise if I'm in prison for killing the motherfuckers.
Guerrero though? He's done. As soon as we find him, his life is over. If I have to play by Finn's rules and let him take the first shot to ensure I make it back to Mila, so be it. But he's going to die.
"I know," Brady says after a moment and then sighs. "There's no fucking way he was lying."
Jesus de Silva, Guerrero's right-hand man, is a rapist, a murderer, and worse. And he cried like a little bitch before we let up, confessing to a whole lot of shit we suspected but couldn't ever prove. He told us where to find the guns. He told us where to find the drugs. He told us fucking everything. The only thing he didn't tell us is where the fuck Guerrero is. Which means he doesn't know.
Guerrero is off the grid. Either he ran, or he's up to something else, and he's working alone. Neither option is particularly comforting.
"I'm not sure how much longer I can do this shit," I mutter, tipping my head back and closing my eyes. I'm tired of doing this same song and dance. The longer we're out here, the longer I'm away from Mila. That shit isn't sitting well with me. As badly as I want to put a bullet in Guerrero's brain…as much as he fucking deserves to be shot down like a rabid dog…Mila needs me more.
I know she's safe. No one even knows that Tahani recently moved to Sacramento, so there is no obvious reason I'd send Mila there, and she has two officers guarding her. Declan Carter and Jeff Benson will protect her with their lives if necessary. I trust them implicitly. But she's pregnant, she's afraid, and I should be with her instead of running all over Los Angeles, looking for a fucking needle in a haystack.
"What do you want to do?" Brady asks. He eyes me as he wraps his hand up, waiting for me to decide.
I want to get Mila, sort out shit with my daughter, and then sleep for the next week…but I can't. Not yet.
"I need to talk to Finn," I say reluctantly. The last thing I want to do is talk to Finn. The last time he called, having a fucking conniption about the second man we sent to the hospital, I hung up on him. I left my phone at Brady's after that. He's probably more pissed now than he was two hours ago. But he may have heard something we haven't.
We aren't the only ones combing the streets for Guerrero. Finn has half the task force out, rattling cages and trying to shake something loose. I hope like hell we find him before they do.
"It's your funeral," Brady says with a chuckle, shooting me an amused smirk.
"I seem to recall your phone ringing when we were leaving," I point out, knowing damn well he's in as much shit as I am at the moment. He may have turned in his transfer paperwork already, but until it's approved, Finn is still his boss too. "And you didn't answer that shit either." Matter of fact, he left his cell on his kitchen table, right beside mine.
"Couldn't. I didn't want you to feel like a pussy."
"You're so full of shit."
"Don't worry, bro. I'll protect you if Daddy gets mean." He flashes me a grin.
"Man, fuck you," I mutter, laughing.
Fuck, I missed his stupid ass.
Being done with this shit right alongside him is the right thing to do, not just because of Mila and Tahani, but because I can't imagine doing this job with anyone else. He's been by my side through everything, making me laugh even when I wanted to kill someone. I flip him the bird and stride out of the alley before jogging down the street toward the car.
This part of the city is dead at a little before six in the morning. Gang graffiti is scrawled all over the place, making it clear that el Demonio—a gang affiliated with Guerrero—controls this section of the city.
"You drive. My hand is fucking killing me," Brady says, reaching into his pocket with his good hand as he jogs beside me. He holds up the keys and then tosses them to me.
I snatch them out of the air and shake my head. "You need X-rays."
"Later," he grunts before ducking into the dirty alleyway where we left the car.
The late 90s model Corsica is falling apart. Half of the thing is primer gray; the other is what used to be white. The car has been lowered so much that it drags the ground on every speed bump and hill. I feel like I'm in a goddamn clown car in this motherfucker, but it blends in like nothing else would in this particular neighborhood, allowing us to get around undetected.
I follow Brady into the alley and then circle around to the driver's side. The door handle is broken, making it impossible to get in without help. Once he climbs in the passenger side, folding his big body until his knees are damn near in his chest, he reaches over and opens the door for me.
"I hate this car," he mutters when I finally manage to cram myself in and start the engine.
The car shudders and jerks but doesn't die. The smell of burning oil hits the air as soon as I push the gas and roll out of the alleyway, hooking a right.
We drive in silence until we're out of the neighborhood. Seven short blocks separate this territory from the next gang's, but driving from one territory to the next is like driving into an entirely different world. The gang graffiti here is less blatant, with small symbols carved and painted on storefronts and street signs instead of all over the place. The trash that littered the road in el Demonio territory is absent here. This area is every bit as impoverished as el Demonio's, but they take better care of their shit and have a sense of pride.
Once we reach downtown Los Angeles, we swap the decoy car for Brady's SUV and head for his house. Early morning traffic has picked up, slowing our progress to a crawl.
