Las Vegas Girl_A Gripping, Suspenseful Crime Novel by Leslie Wolfe

Author:Leslie Wolfe [Wolfe, Leslie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Italics Publishing
Published: 2018-01-11T22:00:00+00:00

27

House Call

TwoCent’s property was a few miles west of the Strip, in an affluent neighborhood where Porsche Cayenne and Cadillac Escalade were among the most common brands of vehicles parked in front of triple car garages, making me wonder what kind of vehicles were worthy of being hosted inside. Tall, brick fences, many times exceeding 10 feet, obliterated the view into the backyards of those houses. Looking at the front of TwoCent’s house, the casual visitor could envision the large backyard with a pool and a covered patio, and maybe green lawns nourished by automated sprinkling systems to keep the desert dust at bay.

By the time we arrived, Zebra Team was already taking positions around the property, moving quietly and communicating exclusively via hand and arm signals. Two men stood near the main door holding a battering ram, ready to breach. Nieblas and Crocker were steps behind them, weapons drawn. Holt waved at them, and, from a distance, I thought I saw Nieblas scoffing angrily and making a dismissive hand gesture in response. Three other Zebras were ready to breach the fence by the gate, and from there to enter the house through the back door.

We turned our radios on in time to hear Nieblas give the order.

“Breach, breach,” he said, and the two men at the main entrance slammed the battering ram into the door, near the deadbolt. The door gave, and the two men took the ram out of the way, letting two other Zebras enter the premises first, closely followed by Nieblas and Crocker. We trailed behind them, guns in hands, ready to fire.

The first thing I noticed was the heavy smell of booze and sweat, thick enough to be revolting. Stale smoke filled the room, our tumultuous entry making it swirl and thin out under the oblique sunrays that pierced the lowered window blinds.

TwoCent slept splayed on a leather sofa, face down, his left leg hanging loose, almost touching the floor. El Bastardo had collapsed in an armchair, his jaw slack and leaking a thin trail of saliva. Hash had crumpled right on the floor, near the sofa. Another thug, unrecognizable beyond a pile of dreadlocks and some yellow baggy pants that didn’t even cover his underwear, had fallen asleep with his head propped on his arm, seated at the kitchen counter, inches away from a few cocaine lines drawn carefully on the black marble.

The noise we made busting through the door startled everyone, and a ruckus of shouts, cusswords, and guttural sounds filled the room. TwoCent scrambled to get off the sofa but tripped and fell to his knees on the thick oriental rug. Nieblas took position in front of him, pointing his service weapon at his face from 3 feet away. I stayed behind, not really that eager to get any closer to TwoCent.

“Hands in the air, asshole, you’re going back to the joint,” Nieblas said.

“Wha—whatcha doin’ in my crib, man?” TwoCent said, stuttering badly. “This is police brutality!” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabbed his forehead and cussed.

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