Reading The Dead: Street Savior

By Cameron Jon Bernhard

Homicide Detective Sarah Milton is having the most insane week of her life. An evil supernatural entity stalking the Skid Row homeless has possessed her boyfriend. She's about to find herself caught up in a bloody gang war, thanks to the machinations of an escaped convict with dissociative identity disorder and the vigilante killer on her trail. Deadly agents of a shadowy cabal are conspiring against her. A parade of ghosts are invading her privacy and driving her crazy. Adjusting to her new job, a boss who hates her, and the strange visions that have begun to hijack her senses are pushing her to the breaking point.

All she wants is to settle down with a good book, a bottle of Aspirin, and some peace and quiet. Unfortunately, her worries have only just begun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cameron Jon Bernhard
• Release date: Oct 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370019984

Cameron Jon Bernhard

Published since 2013, J.B. Cameron was forced to rebrand under the name "Cameron Jon Bernhard" to avoid conflicting with an identically named self-published writer. Though born in New Brunswick, Canada, his work shows more influence from an upbringing of American TV than his maritime roots. A writer who generally plays loose with the constraints of genre, Bernhard's dark style and black humor typically places fun, exciting characters in situations of suspense or urban horror, making an exciting roller coaster ride to both chill and amuse readers. Author of numerous novels, novellas and screenplays, his first published novel, "Reading The Dead - The Sarah Milton Chronicles," introduces a supernatural detective series unlike anything you'll find elsewhere.

Book preview

FOREWORD

I'll be the first to admit it. My intimate knowledge of Los Angeles street gangs rivals my expertise in the fields of brain surgery and nuclear physics. One of the reasons that I took so long to finish an initial draft of this book was due to the hours of web-based research required on topics such as Los Angeles gangs, living conditions in the L.A. Skid Row district, East and South L.A. neighborhoods and culture, gang slang, foreign languages, and much, much more. If I stumble in this regard, I'm sorry. I'm only as wise on such matters as Professor Internet will permit.

Despite my research, the street gangs at war in this book, East L.A.'s Posse Loco and South Central's Rollin' 99ers, are not intended to be a true depiction of the actual gangs controlling crime on the streets of Los Angeles. As a fiction writer, I incorporated certain aspects of their modus operandi, such as their use of distinguishing gang colors, tattoos, gestures, and graffiti (or tags), while glossing over other details.

The most significant change I've made is in regards to their manner of speech. As anyone knows after spending time listening to gangsta rap or watching films like Straight Outta Compton, the South L.A. gang culture regularly uses such explicit language that they almost turn profanity and racial slurs into an art form. Rather than embracing the gratuitous cussing rife in their everyday speech, I've opted to tone down the strong language a bit and replace it with broken English. It may not be 100% accurate, but it's less offensive and easier to understand, so it fits perfectly with my fiction.

While I'm on the subject of artistic liberties, let me also state for the record that I am aware the LAPD operates different bureaus, responsible for crime control over the many different areas in Los Angeles. Sarah Milton works in the Central bureau, so having her investigate a murder that happened in Brentwood, jurisdiction of the West L.A. branch, might seem highly unlikely. All I can say about this is that if this oversight is a sin, it's one shared by virtually every police drama and crime novel ever written. Sometimes, it's necessary to indulge in creative license. It won't be the last time it happens in this series.

That covers the bad and the ugly. Now for the good.

As this is the third book of the series, I would be remiss not to advise readers to take the time to read books one and two before turning the page. That said, if this is your first experience with the series, don't fret about jumping into it mid-stream. Much has changed in Sarah Milton's world between the events of book two and the start of this tale. In the months between the two, her life has undergone a significant do-over from the solitary existence of her early days. The previous books, though furthering your enjoyment of the series and its enduring mysteries, aren't the prerequisite reading that you might expect of an ongoing series.

For those who have followed her adventures until now, sit back and enjoy the ride. Expect revelations and deeper mysteries, police drama and action, new characters and familiar favorites, and all of the fun and excitement that you've come to expect from Reading the Dead.

Are you ready to join Sarah on the mean streets of Los Angeles? Fasten your seatbelt. It's bound to be a bumpy ride...

- C.J. Bernhard

DESPERATION DRIVE

CHAPTER ONE

1

Warden Chalmers stared at the winter rain clouds looming over the walls of Crenshaw Maximum Security Prison and thought, How appropriate! The gloomy weather matched the unease darkening his heart since the moment he received Vera Mendez's transfer orders. It seemed as though the Devil sent a storm to celebrate his mad bride's return from her exile behind bars.

I don't like this, he protested, at the risk of sounding like a broken record. I think moving her is a bad idea.

He frowned at the waiting armored transport van with the words State of California Department of Corrections written on the side. Not even the thought of an armed escort tailing behind them in a Ford Explorer SUV put his mind at ease. Their destination was a long way off, offering plenty of chances for her gang connections to spring her along the way. Assuming they hadn't already planned her escape from the secure loony bin that was to become her new home.

The handle of a metal door banged against the prison's stone walls. One of three guards emerged, holding open the door for the others. Though they were the reason everyone waited out here in the cold, Chalmers jumped at the noise anyway. The situation wore on his nerves. Despite his attempt to squash the transfer, bureaucracy had won out in the end. There was nothing left to do except hope for the best.

Vera Mendez doesn't belong here, Doctor Murrow replied beside him.

The balding psychiatrist with a penchant for tweed suits wasn't one of Chalmers' favorite people before he used his family's political connections to push through her prison transfer. Now, the foolishness of his words made the warden snort derisively. He couldn't decide if the good doctor was simply naive or too arrogant to see the obvious.

A Mexican woman in an orange jumpsuit shuffled through the door, hobbled by the chains binding her wrists and ankles. As her guards ushered her across the pavement, the prisoner kept her eyes to the ground, concealing her face under a long mane of bleached, white hair. Vera Mendez bore the signs of a hard life, one filled with pain and violence. It scarred her flesh and twisted her spirit.

She was twenty when the California penal system first took her in, five years ago. Though much of her youth yet remained, time ran differently behind the bars of a cage. Seeing the white-haired woman shambling across the parking lot, one could easily misconstrue her for a harmless senior. Mendez probably milked that illusion of vulnerability to help her gain a seat on the bus out of here.

Her act didn't fool Chalmers. Every sliding footstep she took towards the van caused the knot in his stomach to tighten. Where the suits viewed her as a mentally tortured victim, he saw only an irredeemable monster. If it were up to him, they'd encase Vera Mendez in concrete, toss her into the deepest hole in the Nevada desert, and then fill that up behind her. Rehabilitation was lost on such a broken soul.

She killed four people with her bare hands. She murdered a fifth in the prison shower with nothing more than a wet towel, Chalmers contended. If anyone belongs here, it's her.

Murrow removed his spectacles and polished them with the handkerchief from his back pocket. He was tired of having this argument, but knew that showing Chalmers his exasperation would only prolong the ordeal.

As difficult as it may be for you to understand, warden, it's not entirely her doing. Miss Mendez suffers from dissociative identity disorder. She's technically not herself when she's committing these acts.

"Sounds like a convenient excuse to me. This woman oversaw every criminal activity of the Serpientes street gang before she was old enough to vote. I think she's playing you and the justice system for fools."

Chalmers glared at the approaching prisoner. She kept her head down, pretending not to hear his dissent. She wasn't fooling anyone, he figured. His voice probably carried to the guards manning the watchtowers.

Be that as it may, Murrow responded coolly, I believe her condition is genuine. So does the governor or he wouldn't have approved her transfer to Lexington.

Chalmers scoffed. An insane asylum.

A state-funded, maximum security hospital for the criminally insane. Believe me, warden, she won't be going anywhere.

The guards delivered the chained prisoner before them. Vera's eyes remained glued to the ground. Chalmers shook his head at her transparent charade of docility. He had no doubt that she'd happily rip his throat out with her teeth if he turned away for an instant, regardless of the guns trained on her.

Sounds to me like you just lucked into a cushy retirement home, Mendez, he sneered.

Vera's gaze rose at the sound of his voice. She affixed him with a sultry look and tossed her hair with a nod of her head. Blowing him a kiss, she said, Come pay me a visit sometime, warden. Maybe we'll both get lucky.

Oh, for...

Murrow intervened before the warden's intolerance of his patient's condition caused her to regress. Jasmine, you remember what we discussed about inappropriate behavior.

Vera turned her head away, stifling a smirk.

Please load her in the van, Murrow instructed her handlers. Gently! Some of her alters aren't as benign as this one.

Chalmers and Murrow watched in silence as the guards escorted their shuffling captive to the back of the van. Two of them helped to lift her inside, where the third showed her to her seat. Vera sat quietly, while the guard fastened her bound ankles to an iron ring on the floor and slipped a padlocked seatbelt around her waist, before taking his place on the metal bench across from her.

Are you sure it's such a good idea for you to travel in the back with her? Chalmers asked. What if you-know-who comes out?

I doubt that's going to be an issue. Camilla's been quiet for months. I think once we get Vera into a more stable environment, we should see the last of her.

Chalmers spat. Seeing Vera Mendez preparing to leave his prison was already helping with the sour taste in his mouth. Good riddance.

The van's driver returned to them and gave Murrow a curt nod. We're good to go, doctor.

Thank you, Murrow nodded back. I'll be right there.

When Murrow faced the warden for his final farewell, he was surprised to find Chalmers holding out a hand to him. After months of bitter dispute surrounding the fate of his patient, he wasn't certain that any degree of civility remained between them.

I still don't know if this is a good idea or not, Chalmers admitted. Safe travels, doc.

Murrow smiled and shook his hand. Don't worry. We'll get her safely locked away.

Be sure to lose the key while you're at it. I know I'd sleep better at night.

The prison warden crossed his arms and watched as Murrow left to board the armored van. The psychiatrist struck up a conversation with the guard as soon as he sat down. Mendez leaned back in her seat and made herself comfortable for her ride to Easy Street. Chalmers shook his head and felt his blood pressure rise. The convict had the relaxed look of someone taking a vacation.

With their prisoner secure, both the guards and their armed escort piled into their vehicles for the trip to San Bernardino. The perimeter guard buzzed them through the front gate. Cameras and watchful eyes followed the convoy's progress as they proceeded past the outer fence.

The convoy headed north along a deserted two-lane road crossing the arid, mountainous region of northern California. As they sped past the Crenshaw Maximum Security Prison for Women sign at the outer limits of the property, the last camera observed their passage into no-man's land. They had at least nine miles of flat, open scrublands to cross, before hitting State Route 58. With nothing to see for miles but chaparral and sagebrush, concerns about reaching the main road never entered their minds.

A mile and a half into their trip, Vera's constant staring at the guard seated opposite her finally got the better of him. You planning on staring me down the whole time? he snapped.

Vera offered a salacious grin in response. If you want to help me with my zipper, I can think of a better way to pass the time.

Murrow's voice deepened. Jasmine...

I know, doc. Inappropriate behavior, Vera cried. It's just that there's only so much clam a woman can eat before she's hungry for a nice, juicy tube steak. If you're not up for joining us, you can always watch. She gave the guard a wink and added, He likes watching me.

That's quite enough of that, Jasmine, Murrow scolded.

Am I embarrassing you, doc?

No, he retorted. Just yourself.

At that, Vera withdrew into her seat and fell silent. Murrow studied her face. Despite months of sessions with her, he still found himself unable to predict which of her personas might choose to surface during the course of their conversations. It was the complexity of her various identities that made her such an intriguing case study.

Vera's sudden and violent reaction to the chains holding her in place caught both men off-guard. With the swiftness of a flipped switch, she went from sitting quietly to tugging her metal shackles in a wild frenzy.

Let me out! she screamed. I want out of this!

The guard peered questioningly at Murrow, uncertain if he should subdue the prisoner or allow her therapist to settle her down.

Vera? the doctor tried.

Please! Let me go! she wailed, ignoring him.

Zoe? he guessed again.

Vera settled down and pouted at him in the manner of a child. Let me go, she pleaded.

I can't do that, Zoe, he replied evenly. It's as much for your protection as ours. Please bear with the discomfort for a short while. We'll be at the hospital soon.

Hospital?

That's right. We're going to help you get better. You want that, don't you?

Vera remained silent. She regarded Murrow with a sideways stare, perhaps speculating on whether such a thing was even possible.

Please sit back and try to relax. It won't be much longer, he reassured her. I promise.

Without another word, she settled into her seat and closed her eyes. Murrow relaxed. It was a relief that Zoe appeared. He always had a rapport with that aspect of Vera's fragmented personality.

Jesus, doc, the guard muttered. How many, um...

"They're called alters, he clarified. At least four that I've discovered, so far. Zoe and Jasmine, Vera's innocent and carnal sides. There's also Estelle, who manifests as a motherly protector... and Camilla."

What's Camilla like?

Murrow's voice lowered. Cunning. Sociopathic. Homicidal.

The guard wondered about the tempest brewing in the mind of the seemingly relaxed woman across from him. All of those voices in her head, he marveled. He couldn't imagine how such a thing was even possible.

More than voices. Each alter is a distinct personality, Murrow declared. She's a fascinating case.

The guard flashed him an angry look. She's a human being, doc.

Yes, Murrow nodded, averting his gaze, of course she is.

The guard turned his attention back to the prisoner. He was surprised to find Vera smiling at him.

What's your name? she inquired.

Charlie, ma'am.

Vera's smile widened. "Gracias, Charlie. It's rare to find such a kind soul these days."

She leaned forward, pushing the limits of her restraints.

That's why I'm going to kill you last, she finished.

***

In the stark, flat countryside around the prison, the dark sedan stalled on the roadside was as visible as a buffalo on the Serengeti. As the convoy neared, its driver peeked out around his open hood. The bald, heavily muscled man in a white shirt and tie was likely someone's lawyer, but his physique suggested that he was more accustomed to lifting barbells than legal texts.

The man stepped out from the front of his car, waving for them to stop. A tattoo of a scarab beetle adorned the back of his hand. From their perspective, the occupants of the approaching vehicles noticed neither the design nor the handle of the Beretta 92FS jutting from the back of his suit pants.

Hell of a place to break down, Dave Oland said from the van's passenger seat. Should we stop?

Steve Parnell, the driver, shook his head. We can't. You know the protocol. Call it in. The prison can send someone out to help.

Dave watched the stranded lawyer speed by outside his window. Sorry, buddy, he offered with an apologetic shrug.

Standing alongside the parked car, Troy Gruber lowered his hand and watched both vehicles race by without slowing down. Expecting the prison cavalcade to stop was a long shot. Their plan always assumed that it wouldn't.

As soon as the SUV blew past, Troy turned to retrieve the item stashed under a blanket on the back seat.

Camilla grinned at her two escorts. Her gaze made Murrow and the guard uneasy. She almost seemed to have a sense for what was about to happen.

Dispatch, this is Mobile three-five, Dave announced on the radio. We passed a stranded driver on—

What is that? Steve called out, his eyes widening and his fingers tightening on the wheel.

A mirror image of the driver they passed emerged from a scrub brush a dozen feet ahead of them. He tossed a metallic spike strip across the road, directly in their path. At their current speed, neither avoiding it nor braking in time were likely possibilities. The doppelganger had timed his attack perfectly.

Oh, shit! Steve cried, ramming the brake pedal to the floor, despite it already being too late.

Four tires disintegrated explosively under the van, raked to shreds by the metal claws. Steve fought to maintain control as the soft hum of rubber on asphalt became the harsh scream of metal rims. They rolled down the empty road for an additional car length, curving for the ditch, and went off the embankment at full speed. The van rolled sideways, tearing into the soft earth and sliding in a cloud of dust for some time before finally coming to a stop.

The crash tossed the passengers around mercilessly. Vera's restraints caught her painfully, while her travelling companions took the brunt of the impact. Once their wild ride ended, they found themselves locked in a dark, metal box whose only illumination came from the small, bulletproof windows in the rear doors.

Outside, the sounds of gunfire echoed in the valley. The SUV accompanying them managed to stop before driving over the spiked trap, but Trey Gruber kept them pinned down with cover fire. The brothers were perfect mirror images of the other. Trey even had an identical scarab tattoo on his left hand, matching Troy's right one.

Inside the escort car, the guards shouted in panic as they procured their weapons. Trey's bullets riddled the door and smashed out the passenger window. Covered in broken glass, the guard in the passenger seat popped up a moment later, armed with a shotgun. He slipped the barrel of his weapon through the open window and took aim at their attacker. However, before he could pull the trigger, movement in the side mirror caught his eye.

Troy stood at the SUV's rear, armed with the 7.62mm NATO FN SCAR-H combat assault rifle that he retrieved from the back seat of their car. The guard caught a brief glimpse of the imposing figure in his mirror, an instant before the thunder of semi-automatic gunfire boomed across the savannah. Both guards died screaming as a barrage of heavy caliber, armor piercing rounds slammed into the SUV, penetrating metal, glass, and flesh like tissue paper.

Trey turned away from the sight of his brother mowing down the corrections officers and walked over to inspect the wrecked van. It lay on its side like a wounded beast awaiting the kill. After the echoes of the last crack of gunfire faded, his brother joined him, the carbine slung over his broad shoulder.

Confident that the van's occupants weren't planning to escape their metal sarcophagus, the brothers nodded to each other and headed back to their car. It would take both of them to retrieve their can openers from the trunk.

***

In the prison transport, Murrow was the first to stir. He coughed and rubbed the goose egg growing on the back of his head. His hair felt tacky with blood.

Is everyone all right? Charlie asked, standing up near the back doors.

Murrow nodded as he rose, holding onto the wall for support. Vera merely groaned as her restraints left her dangling face down from the ceiling.

What happened? the psychiatrist wondered.

I don't know. The guard looked out the small, reinforced window in the rear door. The road ran perpendicular to his view, some distance beyond the trail of disturbed earth and broken foliage left in the wake of their crash. We're off the road!

Vera jerked in her chains. My head, she moaned. She opened her eyes to take in their unlit surroundings. Doctor Murrow? I'm scared! Everything's dark! Doctor? Are you there?

I'm here, Zoe. Don't worry! Everything's...

Charlie pulled his eyes away from the window in time to spot Murrow trying to help his patient. He was too close to her!

Doc! Get back!

With a vicious sneer, Vera threw her chained wrists around Murrow's head and pulled him closer, tightening her restraints against his throat. The doctor gagged and tried to loosen the metal noose constricting his windpipe, but couldn't break free of her grip.

"Perdón, doc. Zoe can't take your call at the moment, Vera smirked. I know you're in no position to leave a final message, so I'll just make up something profound and tell her you said it, okay?"

Charlie moved slowly towards them, searching for an opening to free the captive. Vera...

The name's Camilla, sweet cheeks. I'll bet you're wishing you took me up on that offer for one last poke in my pie right about now, ain'tcha?

Vera squirmed uncomfortably. The restraints dug painfully into her waist. Hanging from the ceiling is really uncomfortable. What say you help a girl out?

Charlie pulled out his Taser and aimed it at her. Not happening! Let him go!

Vera snickered. Is this a negotiation? Is that what's happening here?

Their eyes met over the weakening struggles of her captive. A bead of sweat trickled down Charlie's forehead as he realized in that instant that the woman was even more insane than she looked.

Sweetie, you clearly don't know me very well. In all my years of running the baddest street gang in East L.A., you know the one law I never broke?

Charlie's eyes narrowed. His finger tightened on the Taser's trigger. Vera smirked over the receding hairline of her hostage.

I don't negotiate, she uttered.

Vera grabbed Murrow's head and twisted it sharply. In the enclosed metal box they shared, his neck snapped with the clarity of a popping firecracker. Murrow's eyes rolled in their sockets. His lifeless body drooped from the chain fastened around his throat.

You bitch! Charlie screamed.

He fired. Twin electrodes shot through the air. They found Murrow instead of their intended target.

Vera pulled her arms to her chest, yanking the doctor close enough to use as a shield. The voltage surged through the wires to the piezo-electric probes in his chest. Vera hissed in pain and opened her arms to release him, tasting only a fraction of the electroshock's sting. Murrow dropped to the floor, his limbs jittering from the current flowing into his breathless body.

Charlie looked up from the dead psychiatrist lying at his feet. Mendez swung from the ceiling, delighted with his pained expression.

Look on the bright side, she purred. Now that he's out of the picture, you finally have me all to yourself.

***

A loud crack jarred Steve Parnell back to consciousness. Before he regained his senses completely, two more sharp snaps followed it in quick succession. He opened his eyes to find three white flowers suspended in mid-air. When the fourth one appeared alongside them, startling him as it popped out of nowhere, he realized what was happening. Trey was firing at them, scarring the windshield's bullet-resistant glass with cloudy white blemishes.

Steve tugged at his seatbelt. It remained firmly in place, holding him sideways in his seat. Alongside him, Dave was starting to revive. Near his head, cracks zigzagged across the passenger window from its impact with the ground.

Dave? Are you all right?

His partner moaned in response.

Come on, buddy, Steve urged. We've got a situation here.

He unhooked the radio handset and adjusted the dials on the transmitter. The radio rewarded his efforts with silence.

Dispatch? Come in! he cried into the handset. This is Mobile three-five, requesting assistance. Do you read me?

Through the damaged windshield, he noticed that the large man who attempted to shoot out the glass was gone. Their attacker's disappearance worried him, particularly when a localized cloudburst rained down upon his side window, drenching the van's windshield.

When Trey reappeared a moment later, Steve's anxiety flared into complete panic. The man splashed the broken windshield with the contents of his gasoline can. Gas fumes seeped into the cab.

Oh, God! Oh, no! Please! Please, don't! Please! Steve screamed. He tried the handset again, desperate for a signal to escape. Dispatch! Come in! Help us!

Roused by his panicked cries, Dave began to stir. Steve?

Just take the prisoner! Steve shouted at the bald maniac. You don't have to do this. Charlie! Charlie, open the door! Just let them take her and go.

What's going on? Dave slurred. He watched the well-dressed stranger back away from the van. The man set down his empty gas can and dispassionately stared at them through the windshield.

Please! For the love of God! Steve pleaded. I have a wife and kids. Don't do this!

Troy joined his twin brother, after doing his part in dousing the gas tank and the rest of the van in water. He set down his empty container alongside Trey's and stood next to him. The effect of double vision left Steve and Dave blinking in amazement, uncertain whether they could trust their eyes.

Trey lit a match. As they watched the hungry flame flicker, both guards realized that no part of this nightmare was an illusion.

They held their breaths, watching helplessly as Trey flicked the burning match at their gasoline-drenched ride. Outside their window, the fire exploded into a raging inferno. Flames engulfed the bullet-riddled windshield, burning through the weakened surface to the air pocket inside the van. Glass crunched from the heat. The milky white flowers in the window spread their roots outwards in a crisscross of jagged cracks.

The guards found a final opportunity to scream before the windshield collapsed, filling the cab with choking black smoke and searing heat. The last sight they saw before they died were the faces of the men who orchestrated their demise.

Neither of the Gruber brothers showed any trace of emotion. They watched the van's driver and passenger burn to death with the chiseled expressions of Easter Island moai.

***

Charlie had heard Steve's panicked cries from the front of the van. At one point, he actually palmed the keys, ready to unlock the back doors. Only Vera's watchful eyes and wry smirk kept him from going through with it.

After the last agonized shriek from the pair up front, there were no more noises to drown out the jackhammer in his chest. The silence on the other side of the metal divider chipped away at his nerves.

Dave? Steve? What's going on? he shouted.

Do you smell something? Vera inquired, sniffing.

Talk to me! Charlie's voice cracked with desperation. What's happening out there?

He looked out the rear window. Blowing smoke partially obscured his view. When he turned back to Vera, he discovered that she was seeing the same thing. She watched it waft in through the air vent connecting them to the front compartment.

Smells like cooked goose, she snickered.

Shut up!

The smoke billowing into the van's rear compartment formed a thick haze in the enclosed space, stealing their precious oxygen. Charlie considered the doors. Escaping this death trap before they both suffocated was the obvious choice, but not if Vera's gang were waiting for him outside.

He popped the spent cartridge from his Taser. There was enough of a charge remaining for a couple of drive stuns. It was sufficient to incapacitate a single opponent, possibly even an armed one if he was fast and lucky, but wouldn't be much good against an entire group. He needed a better plan.

Vera coughed. It's getting stuffy in here. You might want to crack open a window.

Charlie knew that it was foolish to trust her, but his options were growing more limited by the second. Look, there's a couple of ways this can play out, he said. We both know that if I open that door, your gang will just kill me and free you. If I'm going to die anyway, I might as well have the satisfaction of taking you with me. He coughed and added, This smoke will kill us both, long before they manage to break in here.

She didn't react to his threat. Keep talking. You're really turning me on.

You give me your word that if I open that door, you'll call off... Charlie coughed. His voice was growing hoarse. ...call off your gang. You can leave me here and go. I won't try anything. Just promise me that you and your gang will let me go unharmed.

Vera's eyes narrowed. That sounds an awful lot like a negotiation.

It's not. It's my conditional surrender. Do you accept?

She ruminated on his offer. Finally, she broke into a hoarse bray that quickly degenerated into a coughing fit. "You've got cojones, Chuck. I'll give you that. It's a shame you're playing for the losing team. We could've had fun together."

Charlie glared at her. Your promise is sounding an awful lot like famous last words.

I promise! she cried, coughing again after inhaling another smoky breath. I swear that my gang and I will leave you alive. Now get me the hell down from here. I'm starting to get a headache.

Unconvinced about it being the right decision, Charlie fished out his keys anyway. With a sour grimace, he unfastened the locks holding Vera in her seat. She tumbled from her harness, catching herself inches from the metal bench sticking up from the floor of the overturned van. Charlie stepped back as she rose to her feet, smiling at him.

Vera held out her chained wrists. He gazed at her dubiously.

She grunted and rolled her head in exasperation. I promise! she insisted.

Hesitantly, Charlie knelt to unfasten her ankles before unchaining her wrists. He kept his eyes down, rather than catching the smug look on the prisoner's features. When he finished, he tossed the empty restraints into the far corner.

Vera rubbed her wrists. Better! That feels so good.

Charlie coughed and turned away. I can't believe I'm doing this, he muttered.

Oh, don't wet your panties! The thickening air made her cough. Let's go already. It's getting hard to breathe in here.

Charlie unlocked the exit. He turned the handle, allowing gravity to snatch the lower door and slam it to the ground. The element of surprise wasn't part of his plan anyway.

Both of them huddled around the opening, breathing in the fresh air. The cool breeze dispersed the smoke and revived them.

I'm coming out with your boss! Charlie shouted to the waiting gunmen outside. I'm not armed. Hold your fire. She's promised me safe passage.

He peered over his shoulder at her. Vera nodded. "Hola, minions! she called out. It's me! No shooting. I gave him my word."

There was no response from outside the van. Charlie stared at Vera. Impatiently, she shrugged and motioned to the door. Ladies first, she urged him.

He tossed the Taser through the open door, and then followed behind it with his hands raised. To his surprise, the gang of street thugs he expected to find waiting for him weren't there. He started lowering his hands when footsteps alerted him to someone walking around the van. A large man appeared through the drifting smoke, pointing a gun at him.

Don't shoot! he cried. We had a—

Troy fired, dropping Charlie instantly with a bullet between the eyes. Trey stepped out from the opposite side of the van. He walked around Charlie's body to join his brother in waiting for the vehicle's final occupant to make an appearance.

Vera emerged from the van, steaming mad. "¡Mierda! Who's the pendejo who took that shot? I'll be wearing your cojones for ear rings!"

She immediately stopped, upon spotting the unfamiliar twins in the tailor-made suits.

Man, is my face red! she chuckled. Her eyes dropped to the body staining the sand maroon. Bad luck for you, Chucky. Unless we're trying out new gang colors, these two are definitely not mine.

Vera dusted off her hands and regarded the two brothers without fear. If they wanted her dead, she and Charlie would both be cooling off on the ground by now. She wasn't sure what that meant for her, but figured that playing along would at least earn her a ride out of the desert.

So, now that you've had your barbecue, what do you boys wanna do next?

2

Homicide detective Sarah Milton squinted at the squalid church outside the open passenger-side window of their parked silver Taurus. The stucco siding of the Holy Blessing Church of God in Christ bore testament to years of struggle for control over the South Los Angeles streets. Dozens of spray-painted gang tags, most of them crossed out and replaced with others, chronicled the ongoing hostilities between the city's foremost street gangs, the Rollin' 99ers and East L.A.'s Posse Loco. In the bloody battle for territory, paint probably wasn't the only thing splashed on these walls.

Sarah groaned and rubbed her eyes. An invisible knife blade turned in her brain. She plucked the small bottle of Aspirin from her jacket pocket and dry chewed a couple.

Her partner, Harry Hard Knox, a pudgy veteran with one foot in the retirement grave, watched her with concern. Considering that he was almost twice her age and double her weight, he sometimes wondered which of them was in better shape.

Another headache? he inquired.

The same one, I think, she muttered, rubbing her aching forehead. It doesn't stop. It just eases up a bit while I'm unconscious.

You should get that checked. It might be a tumor.

Sarah gave him a strained smile. I'm not worried. I have it on good authority, straight from the internet, that it's simply a combination of eyestrain and stress.

It can't be stress, a child's voice piped from the back seat. You haven't been shot at in almost a whole week.

Sarah glanced over her shoulder. The blonde, teenage ghost nicknamed Anna Nigma smirked back at her. Once believed to be nothing more than a figment of Sarah's overactive imagination, the phantasm in the red dress and bobby socks had become a permanent member of her extended family. The return of her irritating, invisible little sister, following Sarah's near-death experience over a year ago, was a mixed blessing. Despite reuniting her with her childhood friend, the reawakening of her unwelcome gift to see the dead was more often an unnecessary complication in her life. Her frequent headaches were likely the latest side effect of that burden.

Anna looked away, staring out the window at the home across the street. You want me to go in and see what's taking this guy so long to come out? she asked. I think I can feel myself getting older.

Do you suppose Marcus spotted us waiting for him? Sarah inquired to her partner, who lacked the benefit of her head-splitting insight into the spirit world. We don't exactly blend in this neighborhood.

Through the windshield, she noticed that the pair of elderly black men sitting on the porch of a neighboring home since they arrived continued to scrutinize their unmarked police car. No surprise there. The vehicle containing Archie Bunker and his daughter was poor camouflage in the hood.

Harry looked out his window and considered the home across the street. Like every other property in the neighborhood, it was a simple stucco California bungalow, surrounded by a wrought iron fence. The only thing special about it was the individual hiding behind its walls.

He remained silent for a moment, before checking his watch. The kid's not answering our calls, he replied. Let's wait a little longer. If he doesn't come out in another thirty minutes, we'll head over to the school and try meeting up with him there.

You're hoping to catch him in class? Sarah's voice shrilled with doubt.

Hah! Hardly! His younger brother, Tyrone, was the model student. Marcus is in too deep with the 99ers. He's already learning the ropes to the only career he'll ever know.

Harry leaned on the steering wheel, looking old and tired. The detective had seen far too much in his long years on the force. The job wore the luster from his eyes.

No, the gang recruits new members in the schoolyard to help with their drug trade, he explained. They'll send a foot soldier like Marcus to keep tabs on them. If they get busted, the gang's not out one of their ranking 'shot callers'. As long as the kid keeps his mouth shut, he gets short time behind bars, and comes back with a whole new skill set, courtesy of the California penal educational system.

Sarah was appalled. That's horrible! Is there nothing we can do?

Harry chuckled at her naivety. You planning on stopping the drug trade in this country single-handedly? Sorry, squirrel...

Sarah, she mumbled with irritation.

...there's only so much good we can do. We can't change people.

Sarah fell into silent contemplation as she absorbed his words. Seated behind Harry, Anna stirred restlessly in her seat. Unlike the detective, her ghostly compatriot wasn't much for deep thinking. Thoughts that popped into Anna's head usually rolled off her tongue seconds later.

I do love your new partner, Sarah, she declared. Jack Nicholson, here, is such a positive influence in both our lives. I'm so happy that you started boning your coworker and had to transfer out of Violent Crimes. Really! I hope the sex is all kinds of worth it.

Sarah glared at her invisible tormentor.

Anna spotted movement from the house. An African-American youth in his late teens, wearing baggy pants and the green bandana of the Rollin' 99ers street gang, closed the front door behind him and started down the path to the sidewalk.

Hey! Is that him? she cried.

Marcus Reese was closing the front gate when he noticed the unfamiliar car parked across the street. Since his neighborhood wasn't on the route of any Hollywood bus tour, he figured there could be only one explanation for two whitebreads camping outside his home.

Sarah and Harry climbed out of the car. Marcus Reese? Harry called out. We'd like a—

That was all the confirmation Marcus needed. Before either of them could reach for a badge, he was off in a shot, racing down the sidewalk as if his life depended on it.

Hey! Wait! Harry shouted after him.

Harry threw open his door and slipped his ample belly behind the wheel again. There was no way he was outrunning Reese, not on his best day. Sarah, meanwhile, slammed her door and appeared ready to accept the challenge.

What is it with this kid? she growled. I'm on him.

The two old men on the porch watched with amusement at the sight of Marcus leaving the cops in the dust. The teen practically flew as he crossed the road, zipping past parked cars, power poles, and stucco homes peeking through iron bars. His white sneakers were a blur. Had he not fallen in with the gangs, he could have had a promising career as a track star.

Sarah ran along behind him, doing her best to keep up. The extra police gear she carried around her waist didn't help with her chances of catching him.

The whoop of police sirens and the screech of tires announced Harry's involvement in the pursuit. The Taurus blew past both runners, screeching to a stop next to a boutique at the end of the block, sporting the colorful name Pimp Yo Bling.

To evade capture, Marcus cut to the right, bursting through an unlocked gate as he headed into an alleyway alongside a two-story apartment complex. He sprinted up the stairs to the second floor, taking them two at a time.

Sarah caught up to the gate before it closed behind him. She slowed briefly, making chopping motions with her hand in the direction of the fleeing teen. Down the block, Harry caught her signal to cut off Marcus at the next street over, and took off around the corner to intercept him.

Feeling her age, Sarah pushed through the gate and chased Marcus up the stairs. As she reached the top, she spotted him racing for the railing at the far end. Without hesitation, Marcus hopped over the balustrade, scissoring his legs as he leapt into the air.

She froze, gaping breathlessly at the acrobatic youth, certain that she was witnessing his final moments of life. Amazingly, he hit the pavement and rolled. He sprung to his feet and raced off without the slightest injury or break in stride.

Are you kidding me? she wailed.

Sarah turned and scurried back down the steps. The best-case scenario in following his example would only result in a humiliating trip to the hospital for her. On her way down, she couldn't resist hopping over the bannister before reaching the final few steps. Her teenage years may be ancient history, but she wasn't ready to plop into a rocking chair alongside Harry's, quite yet.

Marcus crossed the driveway at the building's rear and reached the next street. At that same moment, Harry pulled up in front of him. Hanging out his window, the detective shouted, Hold up, kid. We just want to...

Marcus had no intention of stopping for anyone. He broke left, skirting behind the car, and sprinted across the road.

Damn it! Harry cursed, hitting the gas and speeding to the next junction where he might impede the panicked jackrabbit.

With her calves burning from the exertion of her prolonged sprint, Sarah caught up to them in time to spot Marcus hopping over the low gate of a neighborhood home and tearing across the property for the back yard. Without pausing to check for traffic, she raced across the street after him. She saw little reason for caution. An impact with a passing car would almost be a welcome relief from the agony of her throbbing head and aching legs.

In the back yard, a winded Marcus nearly tripped over his own feet as the family Pit Bull burst from its doghouse, barking ferociously at the intruder. He froze, gaping in terror as it reached the limit of its chain. The animal jumped and snarled, trying to break free of its leash and attack him. Marcus backed up a step, just in case.

A brick wall separated the property from the alleyway adjacent to the rear of a strip mall. Hearing his pursuer catching up to him, he skirted the wild animal howling for his blood and climbed over the barrier.

Sarah reached the back yard in time to watch him scale the brickwork. Marcus! she shouted.

She ignored the canine doing everything short of backflips to free itself and poured on the speed as she hit the wall. Grabbing hold of its top, she hefted herself over it in record time.

Desperation and exhaustion were taking its toll on the escaping teen. Rather than following the alley to the street, he went the opposite way, sprinting down the narrow road to a chain link fence blocking the far end. Everywhere he looked, the city threw up obstacles to prevent him from shaking his police pursuers.

Sarah ran along behind him at her best possible speed. She was used to leisurely jogs, not sprint hurdling. Every muscle below her waist begged her to stop.

Marcus! Stop! she screamed. Dammit!

The weariness in her voice spurred him on. Marcus hit the fence and started climbing. Through the gaps in the chain links, he spotted the sunlight peeking through the clouds, shining down upon the street on the other side. Escape was only a short climb away.

What he failed to notice was the ghost in the red dress standing between him and freedom.

On the other side of the fence, Anna faced him with a furrowed brow and her fingers clenched into tight fists. Her body quivered with the force of her concentration.

The lady... said...

Sarah slowed her pace to a brisk walk as she watched the air around her young friend shimmer and frost. Marcus remained oblivious to everything except a cool breeze as he scaled his final obstacle.

Stop! Anna shouted.

Releasing her concentration in a single instant, she fired a blast of freezing air at Marcus in a glistening fan of icy particles. The force of her attack shoved him off the fence and sent him flying backwards. He landed on his back, several feet away, his hands frozen and his breath misty.

Gah! he wailed.

Sarah looked over her shoulder. She and Marcus had the alley to themselves. A camera hanging on the building gave her a start, until she realized that a vandal had killed it a long time ago. Thankfully, the unexplainable phenomena that stopped her escaping quarry in his tracks went unseen by its broken lens.

Sarah walked up to Marcus, smiling. Are you all right? she inquired casually.

He gawped at her. Say what? How did..?

They both looked at the chain link fence. The frost coating a sizable portion of it had already begun to melt. Soon, there would be nothing special to see – for him, at least. Sarah was the only one who could detect the ghost jumping for joy on the other side.

Whoo-hoo! Did you see that? I did it! I really did it! I thought I could. I felt something that time, and I just... Wow! That was so awesome! Let him go, Sarah! I want to do that again!

Sarah smirked.

What was that? Marcus cried, trying to shake his frozen hands warm.

You took a nasty fall, she answered. Are you all right?

Harry's Taurus cruised past the alleyway. He quickly pulled in, upon spotting his partner standing over their quarry.

My hands are freezing! Marcus exclaimed. What happened?

I don't know, Sarah shrugged. Perhaps it'd be best if you stayed down and didn't move around too much. You might end up making your condition worse.

Yeah?

Yeah.

Milton! Harry's winded shout was the result of him jogging up the alleyway. Rolls of fat jiggled under his shirt like trapped animals trying to escape a sack.

Sarah gave him a wave. We're fine! she shouted back.

I'm not! Marcus reminded her.

He's not! she amended. I'm fine!

Harry joined them, gasping for breath. He spotted Marcus lying on the ground near a drenched fence and looked questioningly at his partner.

What's wrong with him?

Fell, she replied. I think he hit his head.

Marcus shivered. So cold...

Should I call a paramedic? Harry wondered.

Naw! It's probably low blood sugar or something. You going to be okay, Marcus?

Cold.

Sarah shrugged. He'll be fine.

Big baby! Anna scoffed as she joined the others. I wasn't even aiming at you.

Harry helped Marcus to his feet, where he wordlessly eyed the detectives while rubbing his cold hands. Sarah spotted his cell phone on the ground and retrieved it for him.

You dropped your phone, she said while returning it to him. Next time, save us both the hassle and answer it when we call you.

That'll be the day, Marcus muttered, stuffing it in his back pocket again.

We weren't arresting you, Marcus, Sarah explained. Why'd you run?

You're five-oh, he replied.

You got something to hide? Harry asked.

No, man!

So why'd you run? Sarah repeated.

Marcus shrugged. You're five-oh, he answered again, looking at them as if his meaning were obvious.

Sarah shook her head. We only wanted to talk to you about your brother.

Marcus scowled and started to leave. Tyrone's dead.

Harry grabbed his arm. Cool your jets, hot rod. We know he's dead. We're the ones trying to catch his killer.

What're you on my case 'bout? Marcus wailed. Why don't you go do your jobs?

Your kid brother was gunned down on the sidewalk in a drive-by, Harry said. I'm betting that bullet wasn't meant for him.

How are things between the 99ers and Posse Loco these days? Sarah asked.

Tight, dog! We're one big happy family. Can I go now?

Harry took a threatening step towards him. Why are you in such a rush to leave, Marcus? If I didn't know any better, I'd swear you had something to hide. You want me to pat you down?

I'd rather have Katy Perry, here.

You may think that, Sarah countered, but you really wouldn't. Trust me!

Why don't you simply cooperate with us? Harry suggested. You don't want to go downtown, and we don't want to take you in. Frankly, the paperwork's a pain. Just do us a favor and answer our questions so we can both go our separate ways.

Marcus looked around. The last thing he needed was anyone seeing him getting chatty with the cops.

Yeah, he sighed. A'ight.

Things between your gangs? Sarah reiterated.

The Locos rolled into Lynwood 'bout a month ago, Marcus answered. Talked smack like they owned the place. We sent their asses packin'. Put some of their boys in the ER. Shit's been heavy since then.

Heavy enough for them to start targeting family members? she asked.

"I dunno. Maybe. Sure, why not? Some of 'em cholos are bat-shit crazy."

Any of your gang brothers, or their families, experiencing similar reprisals? Harry inquired.

No way! Marcus replied. Locos wouldn't dare mess with us. 99ers'd take 'em out.

So they aren't planning on doing something to avenge your brother's murder? Harry confirmed.

Marcus hesitated, looking nervous. Course not, man! Tyrone's not gangster.

Maybe not, but you are, Sarah pointed out.

What you on 'bout?

Anna shook her head. This guy's as sharp as a rubber ball.

Harry filled in the blanks for him, his voice gruff. We're asking if the 99ers plan on stuffing any more body bags with innocents caught in the crossfire of your little turf war. See, we could care less if your gangs wipe one another out. Less headaches for everyone. Where we're having a problem is when it comes at the cost of the lives of good people.

Like your brother, Sarah interjected.

So now that we're on the same page, Harry continued, what are the 99ers going to do to get back at the Locos for Tyrone's death?

We ain't doin' shit! Word up!

The detectives eyeballed him. Marcus stewed under their scrutiny.

You believe him? Harry asked his partner.

Not a bit, she promptly answered.

I know my rights, Marcus cried. I want my lawyer.

We haven't arrested you for anything, genius, Harry retorted.

So I'm free to go?

Sure, Sarah responded. You're free to go.

Marcus watched them apprehensively for a moment, trying to decide if this wasn't some kind of ruse. When it became clear to him that the detectives weren't planning to harass him any further, he began to walk away.

I guess you were right about him not being helpful, he overheard Sarah commenting to her partner. It looks like we'll have to question the Locos directly.

Yeah, Harry responded in a voice loud enough to carry. Too bad. He seemed like a nice kid. It's a shame we have to put him and the rest of his family in jeopardy.

Marcus stopped in his tracks. Say what?

Harry and Sarah turned to face him. Oh, you're still here? Harry asked, feigning surprise. Never mind that! You have yourself a good life, Marcus.

Be sure to kiss your mom when you get home, Sarah added.

Kiss my..? Man, you better not be screwin' with me.

We came to you for answers because everybody in the neighborhood is too afraid to talk, Harry declared. If we have to question Posse Loco about their involvement in Tyrone's death, all we're going to end up doing is tipping them off that they missed his brother, the 99er they intended to kill.

How soon after our visit do you think it'll be before the Locos send a car around to pay you a visit? Sarah pondered.

Think your mom can handle losing both her children in the same month? Harry pressed him. Tyrone's death hit her pretty hard.

Cut that shit! Marcus yelled, visibly shaken by the detectives' needling. That's messed up!

Harry raised his voice in response. Then quit jerking us around and help us catch the creeps who put your little brother in a pine box.

He's family, Marcus, Sarah stated. If anyone has their ear to the ground, we're betting it's you. What do you know?

Shit, man! All I know is what I heard from some of Ty's homies. Some banger in a mask, driving a black Mustang. He rolled up on 'em with an Uzi and hit Ty before he could even see it comin'.

One guy? Harry confirmed. All by himself?

S'what I hear.

Harry crossed his beefy arms and stared at Marcus. Did any of his friends get a look at the plates?

Naw. By the time they looked up, he was gone.

Are they certain that the shooter had a submachine gun? Sarah checked.

Def! Little homie saw it stickin' out the window before he hit the dirt. Ty...

The weight of his words struck him. In that moment, Marcus could see his mother's recriminating stare as she stood across from the tiny coffin slowly lowering into her son's grave. Though she would never say it, he could see how badly she wished that the funeral were for him, rather than her sweet, innocent Tyrone.

Marcus frowned, lowering his eyes. He