if [tribe] =
“And you… don’t you go looking all pleased with yourself. You think you could have made any more of a fucking light show? I don’t think they saw it out in Van Nuys.” Mu waved a dismissive hand at his boss and harrumphed. “CLED’s going to be up our ass in minutes with spelunking helmets and a shitload of rubber gloves. We need to motorvate. Stoney!”
Stonewall had been staring at the dead man’s face with a sour grimace. Hearing his name, he perked up and motioned for Bridge to join him. “Come on, let’s go.” Bridge gathered his companions and crossed the street hurriedly. “We need to book it, brother,” Bridge began.
“I know. Just wanted you to look at this and see if you saw the same shit I did.” He pointed to the dead man. The right side of the attacker’s face was a char-grilled black mess. Bridge could see what Stonewall had noticed in an instant. The left side of the man’s face was covered with a tattoo, a stylized devil with a pitchfork stretching from the slack cheek to the hairline.
“Diablos. FUCK! Do you know this assgoblin?”
Stonewall nodded. “Si. He’s actually an ex-girlfriend’s cousin. Flaco. He used to be Los Magos. Low-level muscle, no real ambition. He had some beef when El Diablos split off, something about somebody fucking his sister or mother or some shit. Nothing with me, though.”
“Diablos been out for Magos for a while though, right?” Stonewall nodded. “But isn’t going after you kind of punching above their weight class? You don’t attack the number two guy unless you want a damn war.”
The Mexican nodded again, running his fingers over the tight blond curls on his head. His dark brown skin shone with sweat and his cheek twitched in anger as he stood. “Exactly. What the fuck kind of play is this? Worst possible time to be causing this level of drama.”
Bridge noticed the absence of police sirens. “Where are the cops?” he asked. “I know they don’t give much of a shit about the Warehouse District, but they should be in earshot by now.”
Stonewall frowned. “I doubt it,” he grumbled without elaboration. “But yeah, we need to move it, in case there’s a second try.”
“What about the wounded?” Aristotle asked.
“They got money. Bunch of slumming art collectors. You can bet at least one’s got a combat-ready triage service on speed dial. Come on, let’s book it. Station’s about two blocks over.” He broke into a hurried jog north towards the subway station. Bridge cursed under his breath and fell into a matching pace.
Two blocks later, Bridge was panting and damp with sweat. Stonewall stopped short across the street from the station, his eyes scanning the entrance for guards while he hid in the alley. “Hold up. Don’t know who’s got patrol tonight.” He fished into a jacket pocket and brought out an ancient cell phone. He placed a call and began talking in low tones to someone on the other end.
“Yeah, who’s got station duty on 7th? It’s not Diablos? AsiaTown? All right good. Well, I’m coming in now, get Pedro to the Barn. What do you mean? WHAT?” He paused for a full minute, his brow furrowed deep in thought. “Ok, get as many of the looies as you can and meet up at the Barn.” He slammed the phone shut and cursed under his breath.
“What’s the matter?”
“We gotta get moving. Diablos just ganked Pedro.”