Chapter Two
A row of ancient metal warehouses lined the street. Squashed between two warehouses was a tavern. Every surface of the bar had been marred by red and black spray-painted gang signs. The thumping, rap-crap music blaring from the interior, rattled my van so badly the assortment of leashes fell off their hooks.
Tattooed bikers, hollow-eyed winos and strung-out junkies loitered around the entrance. They all seemed to enjoy the poor excuse for a song. A few transients did a bad hip-hop dance on the garbage strewn sidewalks.
I parked, rolled the window down and listened. The pounding music couldn’t drown out the raucous cock-a-doodle-dos that vied with the frenzied barking of frightened dogs. Bingo. The racket was coming from the last warehouse.
I flipped the visor down and checked myself in the mirror. An elderly nun looked back at me. My friend Sally worked at a mystery dinner theater and taught me the art of applying stage makeup. The black habit I borrowed barely hid my steel-toed boots. My special hitman latex gloves insured I didn’t leave any prints behind. I put a taser in my right pocket, picked up the box of hamburgers and climbed out of the van.
The street people eyed me hopefully. I gave them a big smile. “I’m Sister Mary and I’m here to feed the lost.”
A wino put a hand to his ear. “What?”
“Food,” I yelled.
Everyone crowded around me eagerly. Lordy, did they stink and where the hell did all the flies come from? I handed out the burgers. “Bless you my child,” I shouted repeatedly as I made my way down the sidewalk.
A big, muscle-bound biker stepped in front of me, blocking my path. He had menacing down to an art form.
I eyed him warily. Why did he look so familiar? Had I met him somewhere? Kind of hard to tell. His bushy brown beard hid his features, the mirrored sunglasses concealed his eyes and a black pirate skull cap covered his hair. I slid my hand in the pocket with the taser and raised an inquiring eyebrow.
The biker hollered, “Stay away from the last warehouse, Sister. Bad shit goes down in there.”
“Thank you, my son.” I handed him another burger and gave out the rest of the food.
Glancing over my shoulder, I watched the bad-ass biker walk back to the bar and start talking to another equally scary biker.
I took a cautious look around. No one was paying any attention to me. I sprinted down the side of the warehouse to a weed-filled alley.
My gaze froze on a cherry red Chevy Impala lowrider parked at an odd angle. “Oh crap.” Had Tomas taken his car back or had he grabbed Maria, or had she come on her own? Either way, not good.
According to several dogs inside, the mean ones were gone. I mentally linked with a hawk perched on the roof. “Watch. Warn,” I commanded.
The hawk screeched.
Dropping the box, I pulled out a lock pick and quickly unlocked the door. One of the advantages of being the daughter of a former mob enforcer was learning all the tricks of the trade. Not the killing part, but how to disable alarms, pick locks, steal a car and my favorite, evade the police. Dad had even taught me how to shoot a variety of weapons and I wasn’t too bad with a knife either. Since Mom was into peace on Earth and goodwill to all, it was our little secret.
I stepped inside and groaned. Crammed into cages were battered pit bulls, smaller dogs and roosters. There was no sign of Maria or Tinkerbell, but I knew the Yorkie was here. I spotted an office door and hurried over to it. Whimpering came from inside. I picked the lock and eased the door open. Tinkerbell was in a small crate. She yapped and did a little wee-wee dance.
“Hold on sweetie.” I released Tinkerbell and grinned as she shot from the crate, squatted on the cement floor and did her business.
An image of her owner formed in Tinkerbell’s mind.
“I’ll take you to her, but first we have to rescue all these animals.”
Tinkerbell looked up at me like I was nuts and barked.
“No. The dogs won’t bite me or you.”
She barked again.
“Because I won’t let them.” I surveyed the wire enclosure in the middle of the warehouse and grimaced. The floor was covered in blood-soaked sand and was that a finger? My stomach knotted in horror. Holy shit, it was. Did the broken nail have sparkly polish on it? Kind of looked like it, but if I checked, I could mess up the crime scene. The cops got pissy when you did that. Besides, just the thought of picking it up, gave me the heebie-jeebies. I’d get the dogs and chickens to safety, then call the police.
Tinkerbell woofed urgently.
“You’re right, we need to leave, but all of you won’t fit in my van.” Should I call Tom or Dick or Harry for help? They were all animal rights activists, tough as nails and lethal in a fight. I reached for my cellphone.
The hawk screeched.
I linked with him. The pendejo and two of his buddies had pulled up in a van with Lopez Meats on the side. Crap. Feeding time. I scooped up Tinkerbell and put her in the hidden saddle bag pocket of my habit. “Be very quiet.”
Drawing heavily on my psychic abilities, I took control of every critter in the warehouse and unlocked the cages as fast as I could. “Stay. No barking or crowing.”
Silence reigned. Smiling, I stepped into the shadows and waited. The Ringmaster was about to find out what it felt like to fear for your life.
“Who forgot to lock the damned door,” Tomas yelled as he stepped inside the warehouse.
I blinked at his sparkly gold Ringmaster baseball cap. Someone had an ego.
When no one answered him, Tomas growled, “Who?”
“We no have keys, jefe,” A thug answered, carrying a box of meat towards the dogs.
The other thug peered nervously over the top of his box. “Why they so quiet?”
“Who cares? Just feed them,” Tomas ordered.
“No bueno they so quiet.” The thug approached the penned dogs.
“Sic ‘em.”
As one the growling dogs charged out of their cages.
“Dios mio,” The men cried in unison, dropped the boxes and scattered like frightened rabbits with the snapping, snarling dogs in hot pursuit.
Baakkk! Baakkk! Baakkk! Baakkk! The roosters burst out of their coops. Their outstretched claws latched on to the freaked-out thugs’ heads.
I winced. That’s gotta hurt.
“Aiieeeee! Aiieeeee! Aiieeeee! Aiieeeee!” Flapping their arms like crazy chickens, the two thugs ran out the door with several of the barking dogs on their heels.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Tomas fired a big ass .50 caliber Desert Eagle pistol at the dogs. “Die hijo de putas.”
Well, hell. “Run!” I yelled mentally.
The rest of the pit bulls and chickens fled. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Bullet holes peppered the metal walls.
A rooster snagged Tomas’s fancy ball cap and flew off with it.
“That fucking puta is responsible for this.” His face a mask of rage, Tomas fired at the chicken fluttering around the rafters. Boom! Boom! Boom!
Pigeon poop and mummified bird parts rained down.
Thank the Lord, Tomas was a piss-poor shot. I eased towards the door.
The piss-poor shot spun around and leveled the Desert Eagle at my chest. “Move and you die. Who sent you?”
I crossed myself. “The holy Father. This is the work of the devil.” Boom! A bullet whizzed by my ear. “Shit!”
“You’re not Catholic and you’re not even a nun.”
Crap. What had given me away? I bluffed, “I’m from Our Lady of Solitude Monastery.”
“And I’m the Pope,” Tomas said and cocked his pistol. “Who sent you? Was it Maria? Are you an undercover cop?”
I gave Tomas my best clueless look and shook my head. “Take his gun,” I ordered the hawk.
The hawk flew in, snatched the gun out of Tomas’s hand and landed on a rafter.
“Fuck! What are you? A god-damned witch?” The pendejo roared and charged me.
I waited until he got close enough, then I spun and kicked him in the balls with my steel-toed boot.
With a grunt of pain, Tomas crumpled to the floor.
“Never take the Lord’s name in vain, dickwad.”
Way too many sirens sounded in the distance.
Time to leave.
The big, muscle-bound biker stepped out of a dark corner with a .45 caliber Ruger in his right hand. “Nice move, Sister.”
“I am merely the Lord’s warrior.” I said in a whispery voice and summoned a nearby flock of pigeons.
“Put your hands up, Sister.”
I knew that voice! It was Dutch, the asshole. Did he know about the finger? Duh, he was a homicide cop. Would he think I had something to do with a murder? Probably.
Dutch bellowed, “Hands up!”
Damn. Did they teach scary voice in the police academy? Cause it really worked. I raised my hands and twirled a finger.
The pigeons flew through the door and swirled madly around Dutch’s head. He stumbled backwards as the birds hammered him with their wings.
I unleashed a series of snap-kicks into his gut, knocking him back into the cage. I had been wanting to kick Dutch’s ass for some time now and my prayers had finally been answered. The pigeons continued their assault as I locked the door.
The hawk dropped the Desert Eagle.
Thunk! It hit Dutch on the head, dropping him to his knees.
Ouch! That was gonna leave a nasty bruise. If Dutch ever figured out who I was, he would gleefully lock me up for the next hundred years.
A vicious growl that would have done a Mastiff proud erupted from my pocket.
“You are one dead puta and the little dog too,” Tomas threatened as he climbed to his feet.
I looked down. Tinkerbell’s head was poking out of my habit and her teeth were bared in a fierce snarl.
The hawk shrieked a warning. Through our link I could see bikers, winos and junkies running toward the warehouse with weapons in their hands. Yippee, undercover cops. Lucky me. I had just walked into the middle of a sting operation.
“The police are here pendejo, and I’m sure they have a lot to discuss with you.”
“Dead. Do you hear me? Dead and the little dog too.” Tomas ran out a side door.