Ocean Drive, page 17
“That does sound like the Vipers,” Epstein said. “They’ve been known to operate in Surrey, but rarely in colours. Riding public transit is unusual for them.”
“Who’s the head of the Vipers?” Meghan asked.
“Million-dollar question. Marco DaSilva is de facto head, but he’s currently in Kent, not up for parole till next year.”
“The last name sounds familiar,” Meghan said.
“DaSilva’s nephew Tito is a member of the League of Nations. Tito was part of the defection a few years ago, along with Harvinder Singh and Tequila Narwal. My source tells me Tito is a heavy meth user, and there’s not much love between him and his uncle.”
“I want to talk with Marco.”
“I‘d really rather you didn’t, Staff Sergeant Quick. After the shootings of Bains and Atwal, the rank and file are riled up. The situation is volatile.”
“So am I,” Meghan said. “My kid was attacked. I want to talk to Marco.”
“Suit yourself,” Epstein said. “Only don’t be surprised when he claims not to know anything about the attack. He might even be telling the truth.”
* * *
Marco DaSilva’s counsel wasn’t responsive. They said Marco was dealing with severe depression, was thought to be a suicide risk. If Meghan wrote down her questions, Marco’s attorneys would give them to him when they thought fit. In any case, Marco DaSilva didn’t sound like someone actively running a gang.
A message had come in from Bob Sutter. Horrible what happened. Let me know how I can help. Meghan tore the slip in two and let it waft into the garbage.
Bob. Her friend and mentor who was what now, exactly? Still a friend, but lowered in her estimation. If you were going to have an affair, Liz Garrick was a good choice, beautiful and rich and probably discreet. But Meghan couldn’t help thinking Bob had been led by his dick into supporting Liz Garrick’s casino bid.
That was the worst part. Not that Bob would cheat, but that he’d be taken in by such an obvious ploy.
Speculation, Meghan reminded herself. As far as she knew Bob and Liz were just two adults who both liked swimming. It could be totally mercenary or the truest of true love, and only they would know.
The case kept coming back to Elizabeth Garrick, didn’t it? Alexa was her cousin, once removed. Michael May had keys to the Reeds’ house, which Liz had put up for sale. Cameron Shaw, her husband’s killer, had left his car near the bodies of two gang members, the same gang which Roger Garrick had done business with.
And the attack on Trevor in Meghan’s home? That part she couldn’t tie in. At least not yet.
* * *
“Can I go home?” Trevor asked. He’d been left alone to wander the station for most of the afternoon.
“Soon, honey.” Surrey PD had posted a car outside Trevor’s apartment. Meghan had done the same for her house. No activity at either so far.
“Can we at least order pizza?”
She gave him her credit card. “Get whatever you want, but something everyone would like. None of that white gunk on mine.”
“Béchamel. It’s good.”
“It’s heresy. Red sauce, cheese, mushroom and green pepper.”
“Got it. One Boredom Deluxe on its way.”
Meghan opened the office door to see if Amanpreet or Katy wanted a slice. She found Amanpreet standing at the front desk, listening intently to the scanner. Denny Fong’s voice filled the room.
“Ten Thirty Three, the emotionally disturbed person I mentioned, he—oh Jesus. Shots fired. Shots fucking fired. I’m sorry. I’m gonna be sick.”
* * *
Totem Park was a small outcropping between Marine Drive and the beach, watched over by a row of boxy postmodern residences. A walkway, a small plaza with two red cedar house poles, benches and floral displays. Denny’s Interceptor was parked next to the curb, behind a sporty looking orange Dodge. A figure lay slumped against the rear wheel.
Meghan arrived along with the other units. She caught sight of Denny, sitting on a bench near the poles, crying.
“I told him to put it down,” he said, looking up at Meghan as if imploring her to explain it to him. “I told him to.”
White male, early twenties, dressed in track pants and a Raptors jersey. A black automatic lay in his lap. The bullet had entered under his eye. Blood and brain matter gleamed on the pavement. It was starting to snow.
Meghan checked his pockets, found a baggie of small white capsules and a wallet. Ivan Stepcic of 214 Southmere. Beneath the jersey, she could see the glittery letters on his shirt.
Thrive or Die. Some choice.
“Why didn’t he listen?” Denny said.
Meghan didn’t answer. Across the street, holiday lights twinkled, out of synch with the lights from the Interceptor. She put an arm around Denny and let him sob into the folds of her coat.
Thirteen
Word of mouth. Among the boys, Ivan flipped out, drew a gun on a cop
quickly became
Ivan got set up
which became
The Vipers set up Ivan
and finally,
The Vipers took out Ivan as retaliation.
The story kept changing, till Cam had no idea what to think. The only thing that remained a constant was that the Vipers deserved to be put in their place. The Hayes brothers were making plans for that.
For Cam, that meant waiting around his apartment, staring at his collection of cellphones. He had three: a legitimate one for his PO, one for the League, and one that Harv had given him for private communications only. A hardworking parolee, a loyal League member, a conspirator in secret talks with the brains of the organization. He was a different person on each line.
Beyond all three was the pact he’d made with Zoe Prentice. She hadn’t contacted him in a long time. If she was working for a government agency, they were thinking long-term.
Or maybe they’d left him out to dry.
Sukhi texted every few hours. Cam often woke up to a library of unread messages. At first they were about her brother, if there was any news. But after a few days, anxiety and self-interest trumped family. She wanted to see him. He was leery, not knowing how things stood between her and Harv.
But Harv didn’t seem to care.
“Ever hear of the Marshmallow Test? An experiment where kids were given a marshmallow, told if they didn’t eat it, they’d be given two later on. Most couldn’t wait. Know why?”
“Hungry, I guess. I dunno.”
“A lack of vision.” Harv had used the vape pen they’d been sharing to point at Cam’s chest. “That’s Sukhi in a nutshell. She’s a great fuck, but she’s dangerous, brother.”
And Harv had laughed.
“Anyway, she’s your problem now.”
* * *
He’d stopped sleeping through the night, instead crashing at odd intervals. He was staring at the stationary blades on the ceiling fan when Tito phoned.
“We’re on for tonight.”
“Yeah?” Rubbing fatigue out of his eye sockets.
“You, me, Brad and the new kid. You got something?”
The .22 was drywalled into a hole Cam had cut behind the medicine cabinet in his bathroom. He said he’d be ready when they swung by.
A few minutes later Harv called.
“That dumb sonofabitch Cody,” he said. “Walking us straight into war. I tried talking to Dalton, but he just shrugs and says sometimes you have to send a message. Our plans are fucked if this goes wrong. Could set our shit back years.”
“How?” Cam asked.
“Scare off the people we need to make friends with. Make them think we can’t play nice. This is thug shit. One marshmallow shit. Not businesslike.”
Cam said he’d do his part.
“Stay safe, brother. Shit’s out of my hands for now.”
* * *
An hour later Cam was dressed in a black hoodie, his pistol resting in the centre pouch. No League clothing. No ID.
You get stopped, forget it. Go straight to jail and serve out your two years and change, on top of the gun charge and the consorting with criminals charge and whatever else they come up with. Tonight you’re a walking parole violation.
He thought about what he’d do if the cops pulled them over. If Meghan Quick was approaching him, asking him to step outside the vehicle. Go quietly? Run? Which Cameron Shaw would emerge?
It was cold outside. The weight of the gun was some comfort.
A white work van that he’d never seen before pulled into the parking lot of his building. Cam didn’t recognize the driver. The side door opened and he was helped inside by Tito. Sitting in the middle bench next to Brad and an Asian kid with blond hair who was introduced as Chalk.
There was no heat in the car. “Where we going?” Cam asked, his breath steaming.
No answer. On the floor of the van, near his feet, what looked like an assault rifle.
“3-D printed this morning,” Chalk said, grinning.
A pump shotgun next to it. On the middle seat two pistols and a box of ammunition.
As much as they all run their mouths, he thought, this is the first violence for some of them. Chalk looked maybe twenty, the kid adding piece after piece to the wad of gum he was chewing. Even Tito looked downcast and pensive. Not like beating a traitor to death. Their faces looked like those of soldiers you’d see in war movies, the transport hold full of fresh-faced kids taken out of boot camp and dropped into the shit.
Cam found himself the calmest person in the car. He bummed a smoke off Tito and said, “Let’s fucking do this.” And told the driver, “Tunes, man. Let’s get in the fucking mood.”
A thick, syrupy bass line poured out of the tinny speakers. The ch-tink and swoop of an 808 hi-hat. The others began to nod their heads. Cam didn’t know the words but he nodded harder than the rest.
* * *
They drove along Zero Avenue, in the same direction as the barn. But when they neared the turnoff the driver continued on. Down a branching side road, asphalt turning to gravel.
The van jostled and lurched over an uneven path, through a wooded area with a Lot for Sale sign across the entrance. The van pulled over at the gate. Cam and the others dropped down into a ditch half-full with melted snow.
Splashing across, pulling themselves up the bank, they stopped in a copse of tall maples. A three-quarter moon shone through the branches above. Cam couldn’t see any stars.
“What do we do?” Brad asked. He and Chalk seemed to look at Cam and Tito for answers.
Tito looked at Cam, shrugged. “Cody just said we wait and hit them when they show,” he said.
“Then that’s what we do,” Cam said.
He smoked a cigarette. The others passed around a bag of crank. On the second pass, Cam gave in—and, holy shit, he was out of practice with anything hard. He found himself trembling, bouncing in place, and stopped when he realized the noise he was making. He hunched down and nodded as if the music was still playing.
They heard the gargle of a motor and crushed out their smokes. Brad lay down sniper-style in the foliage, the rifle pointed at the highway. Tito had taken the shotgun.
The motor sound was coming from the south, from the border, and above.
He saw the plane, a small two-seater, skimming dangerously close to the tops of the trees. Heard a rustle and felt the ground thud. A bomb? He saw Brad swing his gun up from the forest floor and aim skyward, tracking the plane in its site. Cam brought his hand to the barrel, down, stopping him.
The hell—
He saw something fall through the trees, tearing branches, sending a thousand invisible critters scurrying through the undergrowth. A black plastic bundle of something. Then the scream of the plane banking, gaining altitude.
The others ran toward the package. Cam saw pinpoints, headlights along the road.
“Down!” he called.
Tito didn’t listen. Running knee-deep through leaves and sucking mud, he examined the fallen cargo. Started toward the other package beyond that. He was carrying the shotgun over his head, drifting farther from them.
Cam thought of going after him, or calling out to him, but the lights were growing closer. He tucked his mouth inside the collar of his shirt so his breath wouldn’t give him away, and sunk down behind the trunk of an ancient evergreen.
Insanity. What the fuck was he doing? If Tito was in charge, where was he running? Were they even in position?
“Hold on,” he called to Brad as the car slowed. Brad whipped around, aimed the gun at Cam’s face. Then, realizing what he’d done, said “Sorry, bro,” and redirected it at the headlights.
A procession. An SUV in the lead, behind it a panel van not unlike the one they’d arrived in. The convoy turned onto the road—
—and Brad fired, and suddenly there was light and gunfire and nothing made sense.
The SUV swerved and skidded off the road. The van carried on, stopping when it rear-ended the SUV. Brad was firing wildly. In a second the rifle had run through its magazine and Brad was scrambling to reload it among the leaves.
Doors opened. Shots lit up the road, chunked into trees nearby. Cam kept down. He saw Chalk open fire to his left, knocking holes in the van, pitting the windows. To his right he saw Brad look up at him, panic on the kid’s face. The plastic magazine wouldn’t slide home.
Gunfire cut into the brush between them. Cam crawled backwards. “This way,” he called.
A shadow moved across the van’s headlights. Cam aimed and shot at the figure, missing, focusing on the centre and imagining it was a paper target, holding his breath, firing, the second shot catching the man in the belly. He heard a scream, voices of confusion. Cam’s heart was pummelling his chest from the inside.
Chalk had fired his pistol empty and was reloading when the bullet hit him. He collapsed down, thankfully falling behind the edge of the root system of Cam’s tree. Cam looked over at Brad and saw the kid finally ram the magazine home, pull the trigger and, panicking, pull it again, and again, with nothing happening.
“Your pistol,” he called out, as another volley hit them. When next he looked over, Brad was on his back, hands over his bloody face.
Fuck.
He saw movement, a shadow, heard footfalls across gravel and saw someone coming toward them. Tall, gangly, cradling an automatic rifle.
Cam shot him twice. Waited, and shot at the man who went out to retrieve the other.
Screaming from somewhere. Cam slunk back, keeping the tree between him and the vehicles. Once he was back far enough he saw the lights from the vehicles had died.
He didn’t think he’d killed any of the people he’d shot. Brad and Chalk were injured. He couldn’t guess how serious. And Tito—where the fuck had Tito gone?
Cam peered from behind his tree and saw a shadow standing close to where Brad had been. Another behind it. Both walking toward him.
Movement to his left. Cam turned and saw Tito crash land behind a tree a few yards from him. Bullets slapped at the area around him. Tito was coughing, out of breath. Hands free of the shotgun.
The shadows moved in the direction of Tito’s hiding place. A roar, a muzzle flash, and then Cam felt himself pelted by slivers of the tree. He could hear the sound of their feet crackling the dry and frozen leaves. Saw Tito stand, his head swing around. Then run—run toward Cam, nearly tripping over him.
Tito spun around and saw Cam and his brow furrowed in curiosity as he fell. Guns went off, close by. Tito scrambled over him, rushed toward a thicket of blackberry bushes. The pair of shadows passed by Cam, laughing.
Facing away from Cam, a tall thick-bodied man, the shorter one carrying the shotgun. The ends of their bandannas trailed down their spines. They stopped and took aim at the bushes where Tito had gone.
“Marco’s nephew. The fucking traitor.”
“Come out, Tito. Come out, come out.”
Cam leapt up and shot the short one in the back of the head. The other man spun. Confusion at his fallen partner, no time for fear before the second bullet snapped his head back. He shot them both again.
More fire from the road, distant and inaccurate. Cam kept in a crouch, reaching for the shotgun, finding shells in the dead man’s coat pocket. The smell of blood and blackberries.
He saw the white van pull in behind the convoy and heard shots, screams. Creeping forward he saw Cody Hayes walk into the headlight glow and take aim, shoot at a prone figure on the road. Two volleys with an AR-15, walking up and putting another in the dead man’s skull.
“It’s me,” yelled Cam, holding up the shotgun from behind a tree.
“Where’re the others?” Cody asked.
“Tito,” Cam called. Hearing no response, he told Cody, “Brad and Chalk got hit. It was a fucking mess—”
A groan from nearby startled him. Chalk wearily raised a hand. Cody picked him up and dragged him to the van, slung him one-handed into the back seat.
“Fucking assholes.” Cody walked to the dead man in the road and fired again between the man’s legs, into his mouth. Unzipping his camouflage trousers, Cody spattered the mutilated corpse with a stream of piss.
Cam busied himself locating Brad, dragging the body toward the road. As he did, Tito appeared from the bushes. “So glad you showed up,” he said to Cody. “Goddamn. There were so many of them, we got surrounded. They were waiting by the package—”
“Told you to fuckin’ wait till they loaded up,” Cody said.
“Should I get it now?” Tito said.
“You gonna carry it that far?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Fucking right. Turns out only one of you is worth a shit.”
Tito climbed in beside Chalk and Cam. He looked at them tentatively. Cam felt numb but managed a nod. Tito returned it. That was all the thanks he’d get.
