Page 7 - Hunter - The Vigil

“The hell are you doing here?” he hissed.
Both gangbangers came up short. Raimundo’s soldier was squat and broad shouldered, with thick,
powerful arms, but Gabreski towered head and shoulders over both of them. Raimundo spread his
hands. “Looking for you, vato,” he shot back. “You left me voice mails all damn evening, then you
don’t pick up your phone. I’ve been driving all over Kensington looking for you, man.”
Raimundo’s bodyguard took a step forward, his hand sliding into his jacket pocket. Just then,
Vince’s walkie-talkie chirped.
“Heads up,” Andrea said. “I’ve got a panel truck and three Suburbans turning off Lombard.”
“Goddamnit,” Vince cursed under his breath. He jerked his thumb back at the van. “Get inside,
quick,” he told the two gangbangers.
“Fuck are you talking about?” Raimundo said. “What’s going on, Gabreski?”
Vince grabbed Raimundo by the back of his neck and gave him a rough shove in the direction
of the stakeout vehicle. “Get in the goddamn van,” he snarled. The gang leader’s bodyguard let
out an angry shout and tried to pull out his piece; Vince grabbed him by the ear and shoved him

along as well.
Waters had the sliding door open by the time they reached the van. Vince shoved the two gang
members inside, then climbed in after them. Raimundo rounded on Vince at once, pulling back his
hood and glaring fi ercely at the big detective. The gang leader was 25, but his boyish face made
him look much younger. Gutierrez made up for his innocent features by being one of the most
vicious gang leaders in Kensington. With Vince’s help, he’d grown to dominate the other Latino
gangs in the district and capture the lion’s share of the drug and gun trade. “The hell is the
matter with you, vato?”
Raimundo’s bodyguard surged forward, reaching for Vince. Gabreski put a wide hand on the
gangbanger’s face and shoved him off his feet, then pointed at the gang leader. “I got a call
this afternoon from a special agent in Homeland Security,” he growled. “He said there were some
Russians in Kensington smuggling illegals in from Mexico. You know anything about this, Raimundo?
If you do, you better tell me now, because if I fi nd out you’ve been moonlighting on me, I’m going
to get real unhappy.”
The gang leader gaped at Vince. “Are you stoned, man?” he said. “What the fuck would Russians
be doing running Latinos into Philadelphia?”
“For money. Why else?” Gabreski shot back. “And you haven’t answered my question, Raimundo.
Do you know anything about this, or not?”
“Are you kidding me? Of course I don’t!” Raimundo backed away from Gabreski, shaking out his
rumpled jacket and trying to reclaim some of his lost machismo. “You think I’m dumb enough to
cheat you after what happened to Hugo? Fuck no, man. And there ain’t anybody running Latinos
through here that I don’t know about. You think I wouldn’t notice a couple hundred new faces
turning up every month?”
Then came the throaty sound of a diesel engine rumbling down the narrow street, and Waters
said in a cold voice, “Looks like somebody is gonna have to get his eyes checked.”
Gabreski leaned forward between the seats and scanned the dimly lit street. The panel truck
was a mid-sized version; Vince recognized the logo of a local rent-a-haul company on its grimy
fl ank. It pulled up in front of the warehouse, followed by a trio of black SUVs. The Suburbans
were still rolling when the passenger doors popped open and half a dozen men in heavy coats leapt
out. They were large, heavyset types, with military crew cuts and blunt, fl orid features. Four of
the men jogged up to the warehouse and clustered around the roll-top door; the remaining pair
walked up to the idling truck, then took an interest in the dark blue Scion sitting at the curb
just a block away. After a moment, they began walking toward the parked car. Both pulled fl at,
black handguns from their belts.
“Son of a bitch,” Gabreski hissed. Waters leaned forward, switched off the scanner, then
forced his way past Vince into the passenger area. The two detectives crouched against the front
seats and tried to see what was happening.
The two thugs walked up to either side of the car and pressed their faces up to the tinted
glass. They straightened, talking amongst themselves — and one of them pointed to the van in the
middle of the empty lot.
“What the hell’s going on?” Raimundo whispered from the back.
Vince cut him off with a raised fi nger. Moving slowly, he reached down and eased his Glock

from its holster.
The two men started across the lot, but paused as the roll-top door of the warehouse clattered
open and the truck lurched forward with a clash of worn gears. Vince heard a muffl ed voice call out
from one of the Suburbans, and the two thugs loped back to the SUVs like eager hounds. Vince let
out a shallow breath and watched as the truck turned and eased its way into the darkened building.
The thugs brought the roll-top down as soon as the vehicle was through, then began pulling sheets
of plywood away from a nearby door.