T Parker - The Renegades

But as the miles slipped behind him Draper’s thoughts darkened to Hood and the awful predicament that the young deputy had forced him into. Since the Jacumba disaster, Draper had all but surrendered his two fine homes, his two lovely women, his little girl, his auto repair business, and his reservist’s position in the LASD. They were all too hot to touch. He was nothing more than a fugitive. Using false ID, he’d rented a Culver City apartment from a landlord happy to accept cash from a man who wanted no receipt. He felt displaced, bullied, humiliated. He refused to run: this was his home, his land, his people. He had to get his things back. Maybe not the sheriff’s reserve badge, but everything else. Everything else. But now, all he could do was lie low. Luckily he had large stockpiles of cash, and his precious weekly gig for Rocky and Herredia, constantly bringing in more and more money.

He felt a growing anger at Hood, who had brought all of this down on him.

“I need your help with something,” he said.

“I’m not going to loan you my five grand.”

“I want you to set up a meeting with Hood.”

Draper looked at Bradley and saw the gears working in the boy’s mind, trying to engage.

“Why?”

“I need to see him. But if he knows I’ll be there he’ll bring the cavalry. If he thinks it’s only you, he’ll come alone. Somewhere unremarkable. Somewhere public. The boardwalk in Venice, say. You don’t even need to show up. Better if you don’t.”

In the boy’s dark eyes Draper saw the glimmer of something seen and grasped, if not yet completely understood.

“Hood,” Bradley said quietly.

“Look what he did to your mother,” said Draper. “Look what he’s done to me. He’s the only one who has actually seen me. He’s the only witness against me. And he’ll damage you too if he can, Bradley. He eats away at things.”

Bradley said nothing for two miles. Then he turned and studied the cardboard box containing the head of his notorious ancestor, lovingly repackaged for transport by Felipe back at El Dorado. Looking then at Draper, Bradley’s expression was unknowable after having his picture taken with it.

“I’ll think about that,” Bradley said. Five minutes later his hat was on his lap and his head was lolling back against the window.

A week later Hood drove to Venice Beach to meet Bradley for breakfast. Hood was surprised the boy wanted to see him. It was early enough to get a good parking place near Ocean Front. Hood waited in front of the bookstore, looking at the covers. It was the first day of spring but the morning was gray and cool and the sidewalk was slick and the beach sand was darkened with drizzle.

It was too early for the bodybuilders at Muscle Beach, and too early for the bookstore to be open, but the sidewalk was busy with joggers and boarders and bladers and cyclists.

Hood could tell that Bradley had something on his mind yesterday when he called to set up breakfast. He was pretty sure he knew what it was.

A couple of days earlier, Erin had called him to say that she’d gotten a recording contract with a good indie label. Not much money, but a start. She was crazy happy. They’d celebrated the next night at the Bordello, drank a “whole truckload” of champagne, and at six in the morning, while watching the sun rise over Vasquez Rocks, Bradley had asked her to marry him. He’d actually bought her a diamond ring-big rock, gold. Must have cost five grand, she guessed. Bradley had told her that the diamond would outlive them both but their love would outlast even the diamond. She accepted immediately. She said she’d never felt so free and powerful and blessed in her life. She also told Hood to act surprised if Bradley called: she couldn’t keep from telling him herself ASAP, but she didn’t want to steal Bradley’s thunder.

After twenty minutes there was still no Bradley so Hood walked south toward the pier. He watched the fishermen for a while, saw the bait dropping into the dark green ocean and the mackerel slapping in a red bucket. He called Bradley but got no answer, so he headed back to his car.

Ocean Front was busier now, the sidewalk bustling and the vendors setting up. A platoon of pretty girls bladed past him, hair flying. A couple glided by on a bicycle built for two. A bunch of joggers hurried by, tight and colorful, like a school of fish.

Hood looked out toward the glassy dark Pacific and saw Bradley traipsing across the sand toward him. Bradley had on a bomber jacket and a trucker’s cap and his long black hair was flying in the wind beneath the cap.

Then, fifty feet ahead on the boardwalk, out where the bicycle built for two vanished into a throng of power walkers, Hood saw Londell Dwayne coming in his direction. He wore his black Detroit Tigers hoodie and a black knit cap down over his ears, and sunglasses. His hands were in the sweatshirt pocket.

Hood wondered at his unusual gait-not the lanky, cool-ass shuffle that was Londell-but a purposeful march. Londell was a man on a mission.

Hood wondered why Delilah wasn’t with him.

And why Londell was whistling.

He wondered why Dwayne’s face remained steadily fixed in his direction. Hood could tell that the man was concentrating on only one thing: him.

Hood looked quickly at Bradley, hands in his coat pockets now, still trudging through the sand toward him, eighty feet away.

A skater weaved between Londell and Hood. By the time she passed out of his field of vision Londell had dropped his gloved left hand from the hoodie pocket. The right hand remained hidden. He was still fixated on Hood, who elbowed back his coat and popped the holster snap and rested his hand on the grip of his weapon.

Londell was thirty feet away when a pair of joggers angled between them. In their wake Hood saw Dwayne bring out the pistol. Hood heard someone yell, “He’s got a gun!” and then everyone was screaming and running, the air stiff with chaos.

Bodies flew past at all angles, as if launched by an explosion. A small boy wearing earbuds and playing a harmonica walked between Hood and Londell, oblivious to what was happening. Hood grabbed him by his collar and pulled him to the ground. He heard the sizzling buzz of a bullet going past his face. But his line of fire was suddenly clear and to him the world stopped for one full second while he shot Londell twice dead center. Dwayne crashed through the display window of a swimwear store and sprawled through the mannequins as the glass rained down on him. Hood could hear the screams of the people all around but all he saw was Londell, gun still in hand, covered by the shards of glass. With his weapon in a two-hand grip, Hood ran to the window and reached in and pulled away Londell’s gun.

Hood’s two shots had hit six inches apart, one just above the heart and one just under. Londell was breathing fast and shallow and blood ran from his mouth and nose and pooled near the base of his throat. Hood looked behind him toward the beach but Bradley was gone.

Then Hood looked back at Londell and that was when he finally, truly saw the man. He could hardly believe his eyes. Hood lifted Dwayne’s cap back, which freed the pale blond forelock to wave in the ocean breeze.

Hood pulled off the sunglasses and looked into pale gray eyes. He ran a fingernail down the man’s cheek and saw the path it made through the black makeup.

“I’m not afraid,” Draper whispered. “Never was. Not now.”

“Maybe you should have been.”

Draper looked at him and blew between his lips like he was trying to whistle.

“You and Terry shot Lopes and Vasquez, beat Eichrodt so hard he lost his mind.”

Draper coughed blood and nodded. “I’m dying.”

“You took out Terry when his conscience got too heavy. And you let me live so I could ID Londell.”