Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
If he's here to arrest me now, I guess that's his prerogative.
"That's me," I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest.
"You found Calvin Titus."
I don't answer him.
"You also found Whitey Banks, Rocky Jackson, and Hector Alvarez."
"Who the fuck are you?" I ask, not sure I like that he knows so much of my business. I haven't exactly been discreet about carrying gang members and bikers in off the streets, but I've tried to keep my name out of it as much as possible, giving only my last name and nothing else. Figured it was easier that way.
"Jason Ames," he says.
"The name means exactly dick to me," I tell him. "Who do you work for?"
"The DEA."
"You're a Fed?"
He nods.
Well, fuck my life.
"What do you want?" I ask, a hell of a lot more wary than I was five seconds ago. If he's a Fed, I'm guessing he's probably not here for a friendly chat. Either he knows what I did before I left Los Angeles…or they've had enough of me stepping on their toes here.
"To talk."
"About what?"
"You."
"That's real helpful," I mutter, annoyed by his one-word responses. Hell, I'm annoyed by life in general these days. Everything pisses me off. "You plan to string together some actual sentences tonight or is that not on the agenda?"
He eyes me for another minute, his face set in hard lines. He's a stoic son of a bitch, but I've gotten good at reading people. It's all about the eyes. His are full of frustration and genuine curiosity. He doesn't know what to make of me, and I don't think he likes that much.
I find that oddly comforting.
"Why'd you bring in Titus?" he finally asks.
"Why not?" I respond, shrugging.
He cocks his head to the side and arches a brow, silently demanding an explanation. I'm not sure I have one for him, though. I've spent my entire life dealing with motherfuckers like Titus. I know him because I was him for half my fucking life.
My crew wasn't one-percenters, but I did what the fuck I had to do to protect January. My hands aren't clean. And I dealt with the motherfuckers often enough.
Since I can't go back to Los Angeles, I might as well put my knowledge to use. I've got shit else to do in this city. Why not help deal with their gang problem? It's not like the cops are making much headway with it, despite all their claims to the contrary.
"You know you've got close to 200 gangs, cartels, and MCs in this city?" I ask Ames instead of telling him all of that. I'm not in a sharing mood.
He jerks his chin in a nod.
"A kid died in a shootout at a mall not even a year ago. Everyone was all riled up about it, so you amped up patrols, took down a few bad guys, tore down the project, and patted yourselves on the backs," I say, shoving my hands into my pockets and moving closer to the building as the rain picks up. "Now you think because fewer people are dying, you're doing a good job, but you're wrong."
"How so?" he asks, ignoring the rain like every other motherfucker in this city seems to do.
I'm not sure if he's just humoring me or not, but I give it to him straight. "Because last year, you had 150 crews operating in this city, and most of that activity was condensed in a smaller area. Now you've got 200, and they're spread all over the place. You didn't solve the problem. All you did was give it a reason to move elsewhere. By this time next year, your problem is going to be even bigger and even more widespread."
Taking away their territory is pointless. They pick up and move out, sure. But when they do, they take their beliefs and associations somewhere else. They don't stop what they’re doing. They don't stop dealing or beefing with other crews. They just find new places to create problems and new buddies to recruit to the cause. 150 crews become 200, and then 300. And all those new crews carve out names for themselves the same way the others did.
And that's what cops don't get.
They think if they sweep in and push people out, they'll give up and go straight. The problem dies down for a while, and they think they won some big battle...right up until the shit hits the fan and an all-out war pops off in some other part of the city they weren't even looking at. Then they stand around scratching their heads, wondering how the fuck that shit happened.
It happens because they let it. They should have learned that by now, but they haven't.
"You're right," Ames says, surprising the hell out of me. He shoots me a look full of grudging admiration. I think I even detect a hint of respect in his tone. "This time next year, the situation will be worse than it was last year. But that doesn't explain why you're out here dragging gang and MC members in off the streets."