I HEAR VOICES COMING FROM THE ENCAMPMENT. Spanish, English, male, female. Even the squeals of a couple of kids at play. But it takes a few minutes to push through an overgrown tangle that rips at my jeans and catches at the hem of my Windbreaker. When I finally do break free, I feel as though I've stumbled onto a gypsy camp located like a bad joke in the middle of the city.
There's no one in sight as I walk through a narrow aisle formed by ragged tents and cardboard lean-to's. Whoever belonged to the voices I heard a moment ago vanished at the sight of a stranger wandering into their camp. The only interest I attract is from some kind of huge winged insect that buzzes relentlessly around my head.
I hate bugs.
The second time I swat at the thing, my ineffectual gesture brings forth a gale of childish giggles. I look around to find I've been followed by two tots, neither older than five or six, both little towheads, wearing dirty jeans and faded Chargers T-shirts. They hide their faces behind their hands when I turn to face them, their narrow shoulders shaking with laughter.
I squat down to their level. "You think that's funny, huh?"
The taller of the two spreads his fingers to peek out at me. "Don't do no good to swat. You're too slow and the bugs are too fast."
I consider that for a minute, looking around to see if we've an audience. It appears we don't. When the swamp creature with the wingspan of a small helicopter comes back at me, I snatch it out of the air and hold it captive in the palm of my hand.
Both kids look at me with wide eyes and open mouths. I hold the bug out to them and they look like they're ready to bolt. With a shrug, I open my hand and the creature takes flight.
"Show me how to do that!" The talkative one squeals, jumping up and down.
I stand, wiping bug dust from my hand by rubbing it against my jeans. "Maybe later. Right now, I'm looking for someone."
He squints up at me. "Who?"
"Don't know his name. But I just saw him come down here a few minutes ago. He was with two friends."
The kid tilts his head. "Why are you looking for him?"
So young to be so suspicious. But maybe that's what comes from living in a dump under a bridge.
When I don't answer right away, he pantomimes taking a hit on a joint, and then slaps the crook of his right arm with his left hand. "Weed or smack?"
The gestures and the question coming from this angel-faced kid remind me that this is not a game. My cavalier attitude undergoes immediate adjustment. I have to get the hell away from these kids and find Guzman.
I stand up abruptly. "You going to show me where the guy is or not?"
The chatty kid's face droops into a sullen mask. "He's in the last tent. Down there."
He and his silent companion start to follow me, but I whirl on them. "Get out of here. Playtime's over."
The glare, the heat in my voice roots them to the spot. But I want them gone. I sense the approach. When they still don't make a move to leave, I flail my arms at them. They turn tail and run.
I keep my back turned. I know someone is right behind me.
"Those kids bothering you?"
The words come from over my shoulder, a soft male voice.
I pretend to be startled, flinch and turn on my heels. One of Guzman's companions from a few minutes ago is now standing right in front of me.
I make a quick mental calculation. David should be around here somewhere by now.
The guy is doing some calculating of his own. His eyes sweep the length of my body. He has the look of a predator. "Didn't I just see you up on the street? With a big guy? You got him good. Big slap for such a little lady."
I draw myself up. "He deserved it, the asshole. Thinks he's such a big shit. Thinks he can treat me like dirt and I'm going to take it. I don't need the fucker. I don't need anybody."
I let a hint of desperation seep into the tirade. He picks up on it just the way I knew he would. His kind always look for weakness. It doesn't matter if it's man or vampire, the wiring is the same.
His face takes on a solicitous expression-you have to look closely to read the truth behind the mask. The eyes remain hard and cold but the voice is like a caress. "What can I do for you, pretty lady? You didn't come down here by accident. How can I help you?"
I start to fidget. "I heard I could buy what I need here."
He tilts his head, narrows his eyes. "Why here?"
I let my temper flare. "Why here? Gloria." I spit the name. "The cops know me in my neighborhood. They watch me all the time. I think David's bitch, Gloria, ratted on me. She's trying to get rid of me." I shove a hand into my pocket. "Look, I have money. Can you help me or not?"
He reaches out a hand of his own and stops me from going any further. Glancing around, he says, "Easy, chica. I can help you. Come with me to my tent. It's not safe for a girl to flash money. There are others here who would take advantage."
I haven't seen another soul except for those two kids. Still, I let my shoulders slump. "Thank you. I've never had to do this before. Not like this anyway."
He puts a hand on my arm and rubs my wrist, tugging gently until I follow him toward the tent at the end of the row. I pretend to stumble, and he helps me regain my balance with an arm around my shoulders. When he pulls me against him, I feel the gun tucked into his waistband under the oversized Western shirt.
A big gun.
His arm remains across my shoulders until we get to the tent. The second guy we saw walking with Guzman stands like a sentinel in front. My guy sweeps back the canvas covering that serves as a door, leans forward and says something in Spanish.
Great. Is he alerting Guzman that he's bringing someone in or telling him to start shooting?
He steps aside. If I balk now, it's over. I steel myself to take a defensive posture if needed and duck into the tent.
The air in the small tent reeks of dope and unwashed male. To make matters worse, it's muggy as a steam room and just about as hot. My skin prickles in revolt.
Guzman is seated cross-legged on the cardboard covering the floor of the tent. I needn't have worried about being greeted by a hail of bullets. He doesn't show the least bit of interest in me. He has a cell phone in his hand, and he keeps looking at it as if waiting for a call.
My drug-dealing friend has to bend low as he creeps to the back. He reaches into a knapsack, asking over his shoulder, "What's your pleasure?"
I fidget and scratch at my arms and chest. Junkie itch is what I'm going for but the fetid atmosphere inside the tent makes it more a shudder of disgust.
He watches and smiles knowingly. "Ah, la chiva then."
Heroin. That word I know.
He turns his back to me again as if not wanting me to see his stash but it's obvious he's shaking something into a baggie. "You got your works?" he says over his shoulder. "I can sell you a needle, too."
He's pinched the baggie closed and shoved the rest back into the knapsack. When he turns around again, I shake my head. "I'm good." I dig my hand into my pocket. "How much?"
The cell phone in Guzman's hand trills loudly. He motions for us to be quiet and snaps it open. He listens for a couple of seconds then, "Estas seguro." Another moment of silence. Then he speaks again.
He looks up at me and barks a command, voice harsh. His eyes burn.
The few words I recognize make me wonder if Guzman's cousin isn't in for a surprise. The rest seems to be an order for the dealer to hurry. Pronto translates in many languages. His expression makes ice form along my spine. I wonder if he's about to pull a gun and start blasting. One way to make things go faster.
I take a step back as he climbs to his feet, every cell in my body prepares for attack. But he pushes past me without another word.
"Two hundred."
The words pull me back. The dealer's eyes have gone as stone-cold as his boss's. Come on David, I think, make your move. My pockets are empty. How long can I stall?
"Two hundred," I whine. "What ever happened to dime bags?"
He smiles. "Supply and demand," he says. "Do you want it or do you want to take your chances with Gloria?"
The dealer's expression hardens, his hands move to the waistband of his jeans. I know I can make quick work of him but not without noise. The last thing I want to do is alert Guzman that something is wrong.
Damn it. I shift to another pocket. "No. I just forgot where I put the money."
He is neither amused nor indulgent. He doesn't drop his hand. "Rapido."
The word is a threat. If David doesn't show up soon, I'll have to come up with something besides money to offer him. Since he hasn't already suggested exchanging bodily fluids for the drugs, my options are limited.
Outside, there's an exclamation of surprise, a thump as a body hits the ground, and David's voice. "Anna?"
Finally.
My guy doesn't look to see what's going on before reacting. He goes for his gun.
I'm quicker. Once the constraint of keeping silent is removed, I tackle him. I hit him low on his body, chopping at his gun hand. He yelps and the gun falls free. But I've hit him too hard. There's a support pole in the middle of the tent and he falls against it. The pole cracks, the tent shudders, and we're wrapped in a canvas cocoon. He manages to land one good solid punch to my cheek before I pin his arms down. The punch hurt. My teeth are about to retaliate when the canvas is pulled away.
David peers down at us. He's got a cuffed Guzman lying on his stomach, his face pressed to the ground. David has one foot on the small of his back. Guzman is quiet, not struggling.
"You okay?" David asks.
I haul the dealer to his feet. "Peachy. What took you so long?"
David stares at a spot on my face. He smiles. "He got you, didn't he?"
The smile stops me from rubbing my cheek, which I was just about to do. "You don't have to sound so smug."
He hands me a pair of handcuffs. "Did it hurt?"
I yank the dealer's hands behind his back instead of answering. Mum, I snap on the cuffs and give him a shove.
David is still smiling. "Good," he says.
Since the tent is in shambles around us, we're standing out in the open. Guzman has yet to make a sound, his other buddy is out cold. The dealer I have in cuffs starts to yell in Spanish.
David grabs Guzman by the scruff of his neck and hauls him to his feet. "Let's go," he says to me. "He's telling his friends that we're robbing them."
"What about the other two?"
David motions with his gun to a scrawny tree a few feet away. "Cuff your guy to that. This one is still out. Quick. Time to go."
He says the last because we now have an audience. Heads poke out from tent flaps, men, mostly, with bad teeth and hungry looks. I don't waste any time. I shove the dealer to the tree and cuff him, press his face into the rough bark in retaliation for the punch. The scratches and trickle of blood don't shut him up. He's still yelling.
It's not having the desired effect, though. No one steps forward to help him. I'd bet they're just waiting for us to leave so they can loot his stash. I call to David, "Tell them we're calling the police for the other two so they'd better work quick and get out."
David nods that he understands and relays my message. The hungry looks become keen with anticipation.
I glance back when we get to the top of the road. About a dozen bodies are closing in on the dealer and his pal. He's still yelling, threats now probably. But the pack ignores him and descends on the tent. Even the two kids are dancing around with glee.
Christ. What a world.
David calls the police as soon as he has Guzman secured in the backseat of the Hummer. They tell us to bring Guzman in through the security gate at the back of police department headquarters. Not surprisingly, they want to be the ones to usher Guzman on his perp walk to the arraignment. I don't blame them. It was one of their own that he killed. They can take all the credit for his capture as far as I'm concerned. As long as we get the reward.
They also tell us we'll have a police escort that will pick us up on Friars Road. No lights or sirens, just added insurance that Guzman will get where he's going. We spot two cruisers and an unmarked car almost instantly.
Guzman is mute on the ride. I glance back at him once and he has his eyes closed. I can't tell if he's asleep or just plotting revenge on whoever turned him in. I don't care either way.
I expect Chief Williams to be among those waiting for us when we get to SDPD. He's not. Guzman is taken away quickly, disappearing into a special elevator that will take him to a holding cell in the basement. David and I are escorted upstairs, handed paperwork to complete and shown into an interview room to complete it.
A first.
Usually we're treated with about as much respect as the fugitives we turn in. Handed a clipboard and pen, if we're lucky, and sent to the same bench as the collared and cuffed miscreants to fill out the forms.
"Wow," I say to David when we're seated at a scarred table and brought coffee by a smiling deputy. "Never been treated to this kind of service before."
David thanks the deputy and waits for him to depart before replying. "Never brought in a cop killer before."
He starts in on the form.
"Want me to do that?"
David snorts. "We want them to be able to read it, don't we?"
"Good point," I reply without rancor. There's a lot of money at stake. I sip at my coffee, surprisingly not too bad, until the cup is empty and I'm getting antsy. I push away from the table and stand up. "I'm going to find the John."
David nods in an absentminded way, and I leave him with his head bent over the table, pen moving across the form, no doubt detailing the capture. I make my way to the lobby. I have no need of a restroom, one of the advantages of being vampire, but I want to try to contact Max again. Now that the job is over, my thoughts are back on him.
There's no one behind the desk. Everyone must be downstairs hoping for a chance to take a shot at Guzman. I walk outside and call my own number. There's still no answer. I'm saddened by the thought that Max is gone and I don't know when I'll see him again.
I return to the lobby and wander over to a bulletin board. There's a poster on it with mug shots and rap sheets-San Diego's most wanted. Guzman is number one but someone has already marked a big X over his face with thick black marker.
My cell phone rings as I peruse the rest of the list. I flip it open.
"Good job today, Anna."
The whispered voice.
"You didn't get yourself killed. I'm glad. That's a pleasure I reserve for myself. Tell your boyfriend."
But the threat hardly registers. My attention is diverted by the poster. Specifically, by number ten.
A woman with dark hair and hooded eyes.
The woman from Beso de la Muerte.