162 Colors of Hell by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

11

The pickets were in place by 9:00 a.m., parading up and down the sidewalk near the Skulls' clubhouse. A dozen of the enemy had lined up on the scruffy grass to curse and jeer, but police kept the two opposing sides apart. A boom box cranked up to the limit did its best to drown the chanting of the picketers, with their signs proclaiming Gangs Must Go, exhorting the authorities to Crack Down on Crack. A TV camera crew was working on the sidelines, shooting ten or fifteen minutes for a thirty-second spot on the evening news.

Vernon Souders led the parade, stepping out of line from time to time, urging on the faithful with a smile or encouraging word, facing the Skulls directly when he had the chance, determined not to be intimidated by their taunts and glares. These animals fed on fear, but Souders thought he could see behind the bright mask of bravado that they wore. He understood they were learning how to be afraid.

The game had been a one-way street in Hunters Point for much too long, the gang members strutting, showing off their guns and muscle, confident they were in control. The rival gangs were opposition, granted, but they could forget about police and the average citizens who populated neighborhoods like Hunters Point. Nobody cared at city hall, they reasoned, since the predators and their prey were all predominantly black. And by the time anyone wised up to the potential danger of the gangs, well, it would simply be too late.

The previous day's violence had changed all that, at least for the time being. Clustered on the grass and flashing obscene gestures with their hands, the Skulls looked as cocky as ever, but Souders picked up on a brand-new hint of insecurity he'd never felt from any member of the tribe before.

The man from Washington had done that, with his guns and God knows what. The grim events recorded in the morning paper had boggled Souders's mind, but he'd kept his mouth shut, hoping for the best.

The Skulls and Savage Nomads were reacting as anticipated. A few of the reports from last night's battle zone were obviously incidents involving group participation, with the triggermen identified as young black males. Civilian casualties were light, thank heavens, with a girl and two young men sustaining superficial wounds in separate incidents.

Where Blanski struck, by contrast, there was a unique precision to the work, with few survivors on the other side and no civilian dead or wounded in the lot. He seemed to balance out his strikes between the Skulls and Nomads, keeping up a kind of rhythm to the action, playing both sides off against the middle like a maestro.

One of the Skulls was shooting him the bird, and Souders stared him down, the young man muttering obscenities before he finally turned away. Another time, last week perhaps, it would have been impossible to undermine the young gangster's confidence.

Small favors.

Souders knew they were running out of time, whatever Blanski had in mind.

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