South Phoenix Rules (David Mapstone Mystery 6)

Mero Mero said, “It’s cool. Es chida.” And his minions relaxed their arms.

I breathed sweet, dusty air.

Peralta lowered the .45, kept it out, and I did the same with my two life-preservers.

“Is this the girl?” Mero Mero said.

Peralta nodded.

“Let me look at you, chica.”

Robin stepped from behind me and the top dog evaluated her with a lascivious smile.

“I don’t know you, chica. I might like to.”

“Quit fucking around,” Peralta said.

“Let me tell you something, ex-lawman. I only come out here because my uncle owes a favor to Guillermo. I don’t owe you shit.” He pulled off his cap and scratched his short hair. “But, what the fuck, I don’t know this girl. Don’t know anything about her. Don’t have anything against her. Should I?”

“No,” Peralta said. He holstered his weapon. I knew it was a gesture, and I kept mine ready to rock although down at my sides. He said, “I know you’re not a gangster like the mayates,” he said. “You’re a warrior.” One of the men ran his hand across an elaborate tattoo on his upper arm. I could make out a feathered helmet and a profile.

Peralta went on, “I’m a warrior, too. Maybe different sides, but a warrior. My Aztec blood is as pure as yours.”

“What are you saying?”

“Warrior-to-warrior, your boys sent her a severed head. That’s disrespectful. She’s a civilian. She’s not a part of our war.”

“What the fuck?” Genuine surprise melted his gang face. “We didn’t…”

I said, “You didn’t send her a severed head? Why did you have one of your homeboys watching my house?” I even gave him the address.

He blinked hard and shook his head. “I don’t even know you.”

Peralta honed in. “Am I talking to Mero Mero or not?”

The gang face returned, full of something to prove.

“I hope so,” Peralta said.

“I speak with authority,” the man said with great formality. “I don’t know either of these gabachos. Warrior-to-warrior, La Familia has nothing…”

His next word was lost in the bright red fog that suddenly came out of his head. The gold cross around his neck shimmered brightly.

Then we heard the explosion.

I didn’t think or hesitate. I just tackled Robin, drove her to the pavement, and lay on top of her, even before Peralta yelled, “Down!”

From the surface of the parking lot, I watched Mero Mero’s crew enjoy a last moment of confusion, not knowing whether to rush to their fallen leader, open fire on us, or heed Peralta’s commands. They did none of these, and each one succumbed to head shots. One, two, three…gone. That fast. Each shot involved a deep, artillery-like concussion and echo.

I stayed on top of Robin and she didn’t move. My heart was about to jerk free of my chest and run across the parking lot. The headlights from the vehicles now seemed like an especially bad idea. Peralta’s truck seemed a football field away.

“That’s a .50-cal sniper rifle,” Peralta said, crouched and searching with the barrel of his sidearm. “He’s got a flash suppressor. Maybe he’s on the roof.”

Then the shots stopped.

Peralta didn’t wait long. “Back to the truck,” he ordered, in the voice of the Army Ranger that he once was. I ran with my hands on Robin, shielding her. My back felt gigantic and vulnerable. We reached the truck in seconds, propelled by gallons of adrenaline, and climbed inside.

After making sure Robin was no more than bruised from me pushing her down, I pulled out my cell.