Текст книги "Greed"
Автор книги: Dan O'Shea
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
CHAPTER 82
Corsco thought about the Hardin situation. Hardin was Fenn’s contract, but fuck Fenn. The Eagle would take care of Fenn. Not like Corsco was going to see any money out of Fenn anyway, even if he took Hardin down. Never really been about the money anyway. Corsco had to admit that to himself. Been about hanging with Fenn, the Hollywood cool, about the women. Lesson to be learned there.
Still, supply and demand. Hardin was in demand, and Corsco was in the supply business. Question was, who did Corsco feed Hardin to?
That Munroe guy wanted Hardin, but that was just business. As long as Hardin ended up dead, Munroe didn’t care how he got there.
Hernandez wanted Hardin, but with Hernandez it was personal. And this past week had caused some serious tension with Hernandez. Corsco didn’t need that. Plus, if he gave Hardin to Hernandez, then Hernandez would owe him a favor. That Munroe guy didn’t seem like he was the favor granting sort.
Corsco called Hernandez.
“I assume you’re still looking for Hardin?”
“Yes. I want to taste that bastard’s blood.”
Jesus, thought Corsco. These Mexicans. Always with the blood tasting. “I have a man on him,” Corsco said.
“Bring him to me,” Hernandez growled into the phone.
“Can’t do that. But I’ve got a man on his tail right now, stuck in traffic on the Kennedy. Looks like Hardin’s heading downtown. My guy will stay on him as long as he can. If you can round up some troops, my guy will guide them in. What you do with Hardin is your business.”
“I will be in touch. If I get Hardin, I will not forget this.”
“A favor for a colleague,” Corsco said. “You would do as much.”
CHAPTER 83
“You have the money ready to move?” Hardin on the cell with Lafitpour. Hardin and Wilson had just cleared the accident at Lawrence, traffic starting to thin out a little.
“Yes, of course.”
“What do you need to make the transfer?”
“It only takes a phone call,” said Lafitpour. “As long as you have the account numbers and access codes.”
“OK. Hickman there?”
“Yes.”
“Put us on speaker.”
A pause, then Lafitpour, a little distant now, speakerphone voice. “We are on speaker.”
“You there, Hickman.”
“Yes,” Hickman said.
“OK gents,” said Hardin, “We’re making the deal today. Here’s how this works. I will call you with a location, and I will call you soon, so don’t step out for coffee or tie up the line. You show up, both of you, but only the both of you. I give you the rocks, you transfer the money. Then we all take a little ride until I’m sure the transaction has cleared and that nobody is trying to bust me again.”
Lafitpour chuckled. “And why, exactly, would we agree to be your hostages?”
“Hey, we could have played things nice and civil last time, remember? I wasn’t the one who queered that deal. And cut the hostage shit. This whole city is holding me hostage right now. I try to screw you on this deal, there won’t be enough room on the planet for me to hide. I’m selling the diamonds, but what I’m buying is your goodwill. Well, not yours. Hickman’s and the guys in Washington who are pulling his strings. I fuck you on this, I might as well save myself a few really uncomfortable weeks and just eat my damn gun.”
“And if I still don’t like your terms?”
“Then I have to find some new friends and some other way to keep safe. Wilson and me? I don’t think we can get $15 million for a book deal, but I bet I can get something, don’t you? And killing me is going to get a lot trickier after I’ve been on CNN blowing holes in this drugs and terrorists bullshit.”
Hardin heard Lafitpour sigh. “Excitement is rare at my age. I suppose I shall just have to treat this as an opportunity. We will do this your way.”
“OK, and don’t bother making a call and trying to scramble some assets. You don’t have time. I’d see them coming. If I see them coming and I have a clear shot at you, I take it. And then I hit the send button on my phone and reporters from the New York Times to Der Spiegel get some real interesting e-mail.”
“Some days I do despise technology,” Lafitpour said.
Tommy Porcini’s ass was getting numb, over an hour in this fucking traffic, but it made tailing the Honda pretty damn easy. He was still three cars back, but he could have sat right on their ass ever since O’Hare and they wouldn’t have thought a thing about it. Not like anybody could go anywhere.
Corsco’d called back. He was handing Hardin over to Hernandez, given Porcini’s number to Hernandez’s people. They’d been in touch. Looked like Hernandez had been over on the west side hanging in his crew’s territory. Word was he’d loaded up a couple of SUVs, was en route. Porcini was supposed to stay on Hardin’s ass until Hernandez got there.
“Al Din is on the move.” The surveillance guy talking to Lynch. They’d had eyes on al Din’s car full-time since they tracked it down.
“What’s he doing?” Lynch asked.
“Just sort of circling around the River North neighborhood right now, like he’s waiting for something.”
“OK.” Lynch waved Bernstein over. “We’re rolling.”
CHAPTER 84
Hernandez sat in the backseat of a Ford Explorer, one of his best Skull shooters next to him. One of the blacks from the West Side gang driving, a man who knew the streets, another Skull up front. Hernandez had three more shooters in a Lexus that another gangbanger was driving a couple cars ahead in the left lane. They’d cut north up some surface streets, got on the Kennedy at Fullerton headed back south. Hernandez was on the phone with Corsco’s man. He should be close – a red Cadillac CTS behind a black Honda in the right lane.
Corsco saw a red Caddy five cars up.
“Tap your brakes twice,” Hernandez said into the phone.
The brake lights on the Caddy winked.
“Hardin still in front of you?” Hernandez asked.
“One car up,” said Porcini.
“OK, we got him.” Hernandez hung up the phone.
Hernandez tapped his driver. “Get in the right lane. Call the other driver; tell him to get over, too.”
A few cars ahead, the Lexus cut into the right lane. The red Caddy pulled over into a middle lane. Hernandez’s driver cut into the vacated spot. Hernandez could see the Honda now. The Lexus was immediately in front of it. The Honda signaled a turn, getting ready to take the Randolph Street exit. The other driver was paying attention – he led the Honda up the ramp.
Hardin picked up his phone and dialed. He and Wilson were coming up on their exit. Time to get Lafitpour and Hickman moving.
“You two ready?” Hardin asked.
“Yes,” said Lafitpour.
“OK. Both of you take off your jackets. Either of you has a gun, put it on your desk and leave it there. Hickman got his phone with him?”
“Yes,” said Lafitpour.
“Have him call this number. That will be Wilson. He stays on the phone with her until we meet. You stay on with me. Don’t want you calling any friends, trying to arrange any surprises.”
Wilson’s phone rang, she answered.
“Just keep talking,” she said. A pause. “I don’t care about what asshole. Recite the fucking alphabet if you have to. Just make sure I keep hearing an open line.”
“OK,” said Hardin. “The two of you get outside – you’re taking a little walk.”
“We will lose our cell signals in the elevator,” said Lafitpour.
“Then take the stairs. There’s a parking garage at Franklin and Washington. Walk there now. Right now. Should take you ten minutes. Take the elevator to the sixth floor. Walk to the east end of the floor and stand by the wall, right in the middle. You aren’t there when I pull up, we’re done. And keep the phone by your mouth. You aren’t that interesting so you don’t need to keep talking, but I better hear you breathing.”
Hardin could hear street noises through the phone, could hear Lafitpour’s breathing picking up a little. Ten minutes meant he and Hickman had to hoof it, but Hardin didn’t want them relaxing, didn’t want them thinking. He just wanted them moving. Hardin hit the mute button on his phone. Wilson did the same.
“Hickman still there?” Hardin asked.
“Yeah,” said Wilson. “He’s saying some uncharitable things about you.”
“Looks like we might be alive for lunch,” Hardin said.
“Be able to afford a nice one if we are,” said Wilson.
Wilson cut up the Randolph exit, took Clinton south to Washington, and then turned east.
Hernandez sat at the left turn lane at the light at Wacker and Washington, the Honda in front of him, the Lexus in front of the Honda. The light changed and all three cars headed east down Washington. Just before the end of the block, the Honda turned into a parking garage. The Lexus couldn’t make the turn.
“Lost the other car,” the driver said to Hernandez as they turned into the garage, the Honda halfway up the ramp ahead of them.
“Tell them to circle the block,” Hernandez said. “Have them pull in, block the exit.”
The driver made the call.
The shooter next to Hernandez looked over; saw the boss stroking the barrel of the MP5 like he was trying to make it cum. The shooter smiled. He knew exactly how the boss felt.
CHAPTER 85
Al Din was near the Merchandise Mart when the Honda exited the Kennedy, Tokyo on his phone now, on speaker, guiding him in.
“Take a right, cross over the river on Wells. The target is eastbound on Washington. You’ll intercept in a couple of blocks.”
Al Din caught the light at Wacker, caught the next one at Lake, too. Almost enough to make him wish he believed in Allah so that he could also believe that Allah was smiling on his efforts.
Al Din stopped for a red light at Washington.
“Should have caught them on the traffic cam right at your intersection,” Tokyo said. “They turned in somewhere. Hold on.” A very long couple of seconds. “OK, I’ve got them on a security cam. Parking garage directly across from you on the right. Do you see it?”
“Yes,” al Din said.
“There’s an exit off of Wells. Turn in there.”
The light changed. Al Din accelerated through the intersection and signaled his turn into the garage.
Four cars back, Lynch cussed the jackass who double-parked, blocking traffic.
“We’re going to miss the light,” Bernstein said.
Lynch muscled the Crown Vic left, cutting off a taxi, getting a blast on the horn for that, shot ahead, cutting back to the right lane and into the intersection just as the light turned yellow and al Din’s car disappeared into the garage.
Bernstein got on the radio and called for backup.
CHAPTER 86
Wilson looped around the third floor of the garage, still full, caught the ramp up to the next level. On the fourth level, she started to see some open spots. The SUV behind them wasn’t pulling in to any of them. Shit. She had really hoped they were just looking to park.
“Got a black Explorer on our six,” she said. “Picked it up just before the exit. Still behind us.”
“Yeah,” Hardin said. “Saw that.”
“Looks like four guys in it.”
“Yeah, saw that too.”
“So I guess we shouldn’t make those lunch reservations yet.”
Hardin took out both of the 9mms he taken from Corsco’s men, held one in each hand.
“Not yet,” he said.
“Get up on their ass,” Hernandez said.
“Can’t lose them in here,” the driver said. “We hang back, let them park, hit them as they get out of the car.”
Hernandez nodded. That was the smarter play. Had to relax. Too much blood flow to his cock, he guessed. Just like being with a hot woman. The little head turning off the big one.
CHAPTER 87
Munroe had the chopper spun up and was hightailing it for the Loop. He was tracking the GPS on both Lafitpour’s and Hickman’s phones. Pretty clear they were on foot, walking north across the Loop. And neither one answering – calls going straight to voicemail.
Had to give Hardin credit. The whole west burbs thing was smoke and mirrors. Now he was crashing the deal, pushing Lafitpour into some fast meet where Hardin pulled all the strings.
“How long?” Munroe asked into his mic.
“Be downtown in thirty. Don’t know where I’m going to put this down, though.”
“Wherever I tell you,” said Munroe.
Munroe took a breath, let it out, started thinking. There was what you wanted and there was what you had, and they were almost always two different things. So Munroe started working through what he had.
The deal with Hardin was going to go through. Lafitpour would punch in the numbers and the $15 million would go wherever Hardin had him send it. Munroe was pretty sure that as soon as the money turned up wherever it was going, Hardin would have someone waiting on the other end to spread it out and make it disappear. That was the smart play and Hardin hadn’t done anything stupid yet. Munroe wasn’t going to be able to yank the chain on the transfer, pull the money back.
And, with $15 million and a twenty-minute head start, Hardin could get seriously gone.
Feds in raid jackets had been the plan for the first Hardin meet, but Munroe was hoping this to keep this one unofficial until after Hardin was dead. Guess that wasn’t going to happen. Had to do something to slow Hardin down.
Munroe called the director of the FBI – he didn’t have time to explain who he was to the field office guys in Chicago.
“What can I do for you Munroe?”
“I assume you have a rapid response team on call in Chicago?”
“Yeah.”
“Got a short clock situation here, Bill. Hickman, US attorney in Chicago; used to be one of your guys?”
“Yeah?”
“He’s being held hostage by a Nicholas Hardin and a DEA agent named Wilson.”
“This the thing we were supposed to be in on a few days back? Terrorist, drug lords, lots of other bullshit?”
“Gotten a little hairy since then, but yeah. I don’t have time to explain now, but I’m going to link you to the GPS on Hickman’s phone. Get a tactical team on that signal soonest – and I mean in like ten minutes. I’ll be there in twenty. It is imperative that Hardin and Wilson don’t get in the wind. And tell your boys these are dangerous folk. Hardin’s former scout/sniper, former Foreign Legion. Wilson’s got a mess of cartel notches on her belt, and they’ve both killed people this week.”
“You telling me you don’t want us reading them their rights?”
“You can read them. It just might be better if they can’t hear them when you do.”
“Do what I can, but you may get there before we do.”
Feebs were on their way, but them being on time was going to be a close thing. But the whole operation had officially gone sideways. Things were going to get loud and messy, which was exactly not what the big boys in DC wanted when they tabbed Munroe for this assignment. Munroe went through his mental ledger, started making calls, calling in chits, firing up the threats-and-favors apparatus. When you know you’re gonna ruffle some feathers, it’s good to have all your carrots and sticks lined up.
CHAPTER 88
Lafitpour and Hickman stepped out of stairwell and started across the sixth floor of the garage. Half empty up this far. They walked to the wall Hardin had told them to.
“We’re here,” Lafitpour said into his phone.
“Hang tight,” Hardin answered.
Al Din took his ticket from the machine, waited for the gate to go up, and then started up the ramp.
“Do you know what floor they are on?” he said to the phone.
“They just passed the cam on five,” Tokyo answered. “Only got six and the roof left.”
Al Din accelerated.
On five, Hardin started seeing more empty spots, things really thinning out at the back of the floor, toward the ramp to six. That’s why he’d told Lafitpour to meet on six. Hardin had scouted the garage a couple days earlier. This time of day, six was still mostly empty. Hardin didn’t want to go up to seven. Seven was the rooftop, no overhead cover. If somebody managed to put a long gun in play, he didn’t need to make it easy on them. Wilson cut the wheel, started up the ramp to six.
The SUV followed, half a floor back.
As soon as they made the curve on the ramp, out of sight of the SUV, Hardin nudged her arm. “Floor it. When you hit six, get to the far end as fast as you can. I’m going to roll out behind the pillar there. Pull in to the right, wait until you see them make the turn at my end, then get out. You’ll have the car for cover. If they don’t see me, we’ll have them between us.”
Wilson nodded, her face hard and unmoving.
She shot out of the ramp on six and across the floor, slowed as she made the turn at the far end. Hardin opened the door and rolled out onto the cement. Wilson sped away.
Lafitpour and Hickman stood by the wall at the east end of the sixth floor, turning to look as they heard a car accelerating up the ramp. A black Honda shot out and across the floor two rows to the west of them. Lafitpour just caught a glimpse of Hardin as the car passed. The black compact slowed radically as it turned at the far end. Lafitpour had just enough of angle to see Hardin roll out of the passenger door and come up with a pistol in each hand.
He heard another engine straining and saw a black Explorer erupt from the ramp, four men inside, the man in the passenger seat holding a submachine gun at port arms.
“Where’s the fucking car?” Hernandez yelled as the Explorer charged onto six.
“There,” the driver answered. “To your left.” Hernandez saw it, parking head in near the elevator. Bad angle, too much shadow to see in the windows. The driver pushed the truck hard, braked, tires squealing as he made the turn at the far end, circling back toward the Honda. The driver’s door opened, the woman got out.
Hardin squatted down on the west side of the pillar making himself as small as he could, a minivan to his left, blocking the view from the direction of the ramp. He heard the truck accelerate across the floor. He didn’t look, just straightened to a crouch as the truck passed behind him, screeched around the curve. Hardin held both pistols out in front of him. He’d be more accurate one handed, but he was a good shot with either hand, or with both, and there were times when more lead mattered.
“Where the fuck is Hardin?” Hernandez said as the truck curved around the pillar at the far end of the floor and zeroed in on the Honda. Better angle from here. Wilson was standing on the other side of the car and he couldn’t see anyone in the passenger seat.
Wilson dropped down behind the Honda’s engine block, her S&W in a two-handed grip, her arms braced on the hood of the car. To his left, Hernandez sensed movement and turned just in time to see Hardin, to see the back driver’s-side window shatter, to see the Skull shooter’s head explode. Hernandez rolled forward, trying to squeeze down into the footwell, feeling a ripping burn across the back of his shoulders as a round tore a furrow through his flesh. The air was full of the sounds of gunfire, a steady staccato beat from behind and to his left, Hardin firing, and then a slightly higher pitched ripping as Miko cut loose with his MP5 out the front passenger-side window.
Hernandez started to straighten, went to swing his MP5 up at Hardin, but a flurry of rounds slammed into the window pillar of the driver’s side, into the back of the driver’s seat. The driver slumped forward and the truck slewed left. Hernandez lost his balance, tipping against the front passenger seat. The dead Skull fell across Hernandez’s lap, knocking the MP5 from his hands.
Hardin saw the truck make the curve. The driver couldn’t shoot, not while he was driving, so Hardin took the guy in the back passenger seat first. Kill shot, the guy’s head exploding. Big guy on the far side of the seat dropped down, might have been hit, might not have been. Might have been Hernandez.
Hardin turned, tracking the car, putting out as many rounds as he could at the driver. Must have hit him. The Explorer swerved radically left, then slowed, drifted.
Hardin looked toward the Honda, Wilson behind the engine block; arms locked, rock steady, squeezing off shots. He heard an automatic weapon rip from the SUV. The left drift gave the guy in the passenger seat a straight shot at Wilson. Hardin saw a line of holes stitch across the Honda’s front passenger side, creeping up, a furrow opening across the top of the hood, Wilson not even blinking at that, just firing. Then the firing from the truck stopped and it rolled into a green BMW across from the elevators, crunching to a halt.
Hardin holstered the pistol in his left hand, ejected the clip from the one in his right, slammed in a spare, pulled the slide. He advanced on the SUV, the single pistol in a two-handed grip and trained just over the sill of the rear passenger window. He still didn’t know about the guy in the right rear, but if he saw even a hint of movement, he was ready to open up. Wilson came out from behind the Honda, reloading her S&W, closing on the truck from the other side.
The guy in the front passenger seat tried to rise up. Wilson put two through his head, changed her angle just a touch, and gave the driver a double tap, too, just to be sure.
Hardin got to the driver’s side of the SUV, looked in the back window. Shooter on his side was done, down across the seat, half his head missing. Hernandez was bent over behind the passenger seat, trying to dig a weapon up off the floor.
“Don’t fucking move,” Hardin said.
Hernandez looked up, froze for a second. “Why not, so you can shoot me?” Then Hernandez made another frantic move for the pinned weapon.
“No,” Hardin said. “So she can.” Hardin stepped to his left, out of Wilson’s line.
From the passenger’s side, Wilson’s S&W barked five times, tearing off the top of Hernandez’s head and shredding his back between his shoulder blades.
Wilson straightened and looked across the top of the SUV at Hardin.
“Thanks for waiting,” she said.
“I figured you had dibs,” Hardin answered.
