The Watcher

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. "A

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, A

The whispered voice.