I made my way over to Latin King territory, where a unique opportunity presented itself. The Latin Kings were almost the antithesis of the Gangster Disciples, in a lot of ways. Reserved where the GDs were loud and public, this extended all the way up the ladder to their leader, who was known on the streets as El Patron.
Part of it was that El Patron didn't even live in Filmore Heights any longer. While Tweak Petersen still lived in the same streets that he came from, Edgar Villalobos had escaped the streets of Filmore to live uptown, near the Park. I actually knew him from meetings with Sal Giordano, and while the past year hadn't been easy on him, he hadn't come up on my list of people to worry about just yet.
Still, seeing him on the streets of Filmore worried me. Traditionally, Villalobos sent his lieutenants instructions from the safety of his condo near the Park using text messages. Ditching my bike quickly, I barely had time to get to the rooftops before he and his crew came around the corner.
"Patron, I'm worried," one man said. "The vigilante, he listened in, but he hasn't moved on the information our boys said he overheard."
"Perhaps the Dogs did the work for us," Villalobos replied. "They claim they shot one of them."
"Si, Patron, but you know how those donut eaters like to brag. Also, there were two according to them. The other seemed to ride off with no problems. I have a cousin in The Playground, he says that bike belongs to The Snowman. If so, we might have big problems on our hands."
"Why do you think I'm down here? The men need to see I'm not scared of any myth. If The Snowman wants to bring his little game up to Filmore Heights, he's going to find that we're a lot harder to scare than those Confederation bitches. They were strong, but soft in a lot of ways. We're the ones on the edge of the steel every day. We'll see. But the boys need to relax. We'll take care of business."
I'd heard enough, and thought it was time to see if Villalobos was willing to back up his words. Sneaking my hand down into the leg of my pants, I eased one of my backup weapons from its holster.
Blowguns are one of the world's oldest stealth weapons. The darts are light, and in the hands of a skilled user, are very accurate. The main problem with them is that they're limited range obviously.
I had gone with something a little bit more high tech, but still old fashioned. Using high tensile strength rubber and the tube, I combined the ideas of a slingshot with a blowgun. I'd seen similar devices online and from talking to old prison veterans, but mine was certainly stronger than something made from rolled up newspaper, cardboard, and the rubber out of someone's underwear. I could hit accurately at up to fifty meters with the device, and best of all, it was totally silent.
Sighting carefully, I loaded my dart, and sent it into Villalobos' leg, right above his knee. I could have killed him if I'd used some of the darts that I keep on hand, but that wasn't my purpose. I wanted Filmore to stay even until Patrick and I could work together to take all of the groups down. Instead, the drugs inside temporarily paralyzed his leg, making him tumble to the ground with his next step. I took off, and was a rooftop away before the Latin Kings below knew what had even happened. Still, I could hear some yelling, and I hightailed it as hard as I could. I wasn’t going to repeat the same scene as last time.
I was still clearly ahead of them when I got to my bike and twisted the throttle, flying out of Filmore Heights at full speed. I streaked through The Playground before looping the Park area once again and hightailing it up towards home.
The bells of the clock towers around the city were just ringing one o'clock.
Chapter 6
Tabby
I could feel sweat trickling down my back as I waited for Patrick. I'd changed into workout clothes, and looked over at the spot where I had last been with him, the mats where I'd taken him in. My body yearned for him, but my mind still reeled at what he'd said afterwards.
I knew I was still screwed up inside from Scott Pressman. If I had ever needed more proof, it was in the way I'd fled from Patrick after he has said he loved me. Seriously, what person does that? He hadn't been growling or trying to hurt me. In fact, he'd never hurt me, hadn't even raised his voice to me once. When he'd told me, he struggled, and I knew he was telling the truth. He was as surprised by what he'd said as I was.
Even still, it scared the hell out of me. Sophie held me for nearly an hour as I went through hysterics that night, and since then I'd still felt cold sweats every time I went into the gym. Sophie had even changed my workout the day before to outside, taking the time with Mark to haul the weights I was going to use into the backyard of Mount Zion, just so I could get through it.
Today though, I wanted to face my fears. Why should I be chained by the mental fuckery of someone who never cared for me? Should I let Scott Pressman's screwing with my mind forever prevent me from hearing the words that any person should yearn to hear? Determined, I changed into my exercise clothes and stood in the middle of the gym, tapping my foot while I waited. It was six thirty.