The Border Lords by T. Jefferson Parker Page A

leather jacket. Her face was made up.
    Bradley told her again that she was not to begin taping until he had the boy safely out of the house. Then they could shoot away. After the boy was secure in the back of an LASD patrol car, the deputies would be available for brief comments. She smiled again and he felt the energy drink bumping up against his nerves.
    “Follow me,” he said.
    “I feel like my blood’s been replaced with adrenaline.”
    “It’s quite a thing, isn’t it?”
    “Good luck, Bradley.”
    Caroline Vega and Don Klotz were waiting for them at the Downey Road railroad tracks, five blocks east and five blocks north of Stevie Carrasco and his three MS-13 kidnappers. Bradley had dealt with a Mara Salvatrucha heavy once before. The man had unnerved him—an Aztec warrior with jug ears and a hooked nose and a tattooed face who looked like he’d be happy with a beating heart in his hands.
    Clovis pulled up behind the other cruiser and cut the engine. Bradley stepped out and watched the FOX News van park behind them. The night was damp now and the sky over Los Angeles glowed dully and the power lines sizzled overhead. To his right was the concrete riverbed, a tiny wobble of water in its channeled center.
    Bradley bumped fists with Vega, then introduced the two deputies to the two newspeople.
    “Stay in the van,” said Vega. “Don’t shoot until we come out of the house with the boy.”
    “He’s told us five times,” said Brewer with a smile.
    “At least five,” said Erik, the videographer.
    Vega fixed Theresa Brewer with a look. The deputy was dark-haired and dark-eyed and there was a predatory beauty in her face. She and Bradley had graduated from the Sheriff’s Academy together, and she’d been on patrol six months now. “I hope it sunk in.”
    Klotz hooked his thumbs into his Sam Browne and looked at Brewer but said nothing.
    “They’re on our side, Caroline,” said Bradley.
    “Just making sure,” said Vega.
    Bradley cut Theresa and Erik away and walked them back to their van. It was a big Econoline with the FOX News logo on the flank. “Vega’s wound a little tight tonight,” he said.
    “A little?” asked Theresa.
    “Get in and wait here. I need to get the script straight with my people. Then we’ll caravan to the house. Park . . .”
    “I know, Bradley—we park three houses down, opposite side of the street, so we can see you coming out. Then traipse over and give you your fifteen minutes.”
    “I hope it lasts longer than that,” said Bradley, smiling.
    “Depends how good the footage is,” said Theresa.
    “If you hear shots, stay in the van and keep down. Don’t just sit and gawk like tourists. There’s no telling what kind of firepower they’ve got.”
    Theresa Brewer squeezed Bradley’s hand, then climbed into the passenger seat of the van.
    Bradley joined the other deputies and caught Caroline’s hard glance. “Clovis, you and Klotz get a five-minute head start and the backyard,” he said. “It’s a corner house, so one of you can climb the fence on street side. No dog, but who knows what the neighbors might have back there. So be quiet, go slow, be careful. Caroline and I are going to knock and talk. Caroline will do the talking. We’re responding to a silent alarm in the neighborhood. We’re not threatening or suspicious. If they let us in, we’re golden. If they don’t, we smell dope being smoked, and we go in.”
    “What makes you think they’ll open the door?” asked Clovis.
    “They won’t know what to do. Two bored young uniforms checking out an alarm? One of them a hottie? A kidnapped kid stashed in the back somewhere? They’ll have to just hope we leave. Anyone runs out the back, put them down and keep ’em down.”
     
     
    The front door was open but the screen door was closed. When he stepped onto the porch Bradley smelled frying onions and meat and boiling potatoes. Far back in the house a stout woman stood in the yellow light of a kitchen.