Текст книги "Greed"
Автор книги: Dan O'Shea
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
CHAPTER 89
“You gotta go faster, man.” Paco, one of the Skull shooters Hernandez had up from Mexico. He was riding shotgun in the other SUV, two more Skulls in the back, the black gangbanger driving.
“You want some cop lighting us up? Doing the best I can. And keep that fucking gun down, will you? Some do-gooder sees it and 911s us, we’re gonna have company we don’t need.” The Skull kept holding the submachine gun up across his chest. He lowered it to his lap, below window level.
The driver was pissed. Fucking snakebit damn Honda turning into that garage behind them; hadn’t seen that coming. He taken a quick right onto Wells figuring he’d have to circle the block, shot left around a FedEx truck that was blocking the right lane, and that meant he saw the Wells Street entrance too late to make the turn. Next cross street was Madison, but that was one-way east, went through that intersection, cut up Arcade, more of an alley, really, but it would get him back to Wacker. Except there was a truck blocking it, hazards blinking, some kind of delivery. Reversed back out to Franklin, over to Munroe, up to Wacker, more red lights, the whole thing taking forever.
“Buzz your guys,” the driver said to the Skull while they sat at the light at Wacker and Madison. “See does he still want us in the entrance or what?”
The Skull made the call, loud Spanish voice, sounded worked up; driver couldn’t understand any of that shit, but then gunshots. Lots of gunshots. Didn’t need any translation for those. The Skull yelling into the phone, nobody answering.
The driver punched it. Way they timed the lights on Wacker, if he hauled ass, they’d make the green at Washington, be in the garage damn quick.
Al Din was halfway across the fifth floor when he heard gunfire from six. A lot of gunfire. It was time to pause, assess his situation. He parked at the end of the row. He could hear at least three different weapons, one of them automatic. Then the shooting stopped.
“There is shooting on a floor above me in the garage,” he said into his phone. “Do you have anything on camera?”
“Uh, I got a black SUV crunched in to what looks like a green Beemer, got some windows shot out. OK, I got a guy walking up to it. It’s your guy, Hardin. And here’s Wilson.”
Al Din heard a tightly spaced group of shots. Five of them.
Tokyo spoke. “Um, I don’t know who was in the SUV, but I hope they weren’t friends of yours.”
“Competitors,” al Din answered.
Al Din thought for just a moment. Hardin and the woman had taken out the men in the SUV. It would be just the two of them, alone. They had no reason to suspect he was here. And al Din had been in his share of firefights. When you have won, when you have survived, your system crashes a little, the adrenaline bleeding off. You let your guard down. Right now Hardin and the woman would be sloppy.
He wouldn’t drive up the ramp. A car they would hear and there was still plenty of parking on the floor below them. They would know that. They would be sloppy, not stupid. But the door to the stairs was behind him and to his right. He could be on six in seconds, could enter quietly, with any luck could get at least one of them before they even knew he was there. That would leave one. They were both good, but al Din would take his chances one-on-one with anyone in the world.
He got out of the car and ran for the stairs.
To his right, he heard a car roar up the ramp, heard the tires squeal as it turned hard toward him, heard it screech to a halt, still running. He turned his head, still running toward the door. He saw a black sedan stopped almost even with the stair doors, but in the main traffic row, two rows in from the wall. Both front doors flew open, two men out, weapons coming up.
“Al Din! Police!” The taller man shouting. The man on the driver’s side.
Without slowing, al Din swung his weapon taking the first available shot, the smaller man on the passenger side, firing two shots, the first slightly, high, but adjusting, the second punching through the window of the open door, hitting the smaller man in the chest.
Lynch had just nosed the Crown Vic onto the ramp up to five when he heard shots from above.
“Sounds like we’re late to the party,” Bernstein said.
Lynch put the hammer down, rocketing up the ramp and onto five. Halfway across the floor, he saw a man sprint from the line of cars parked to his left headed right and toward them at an angle. It was al Din.
He slammed on the brakes, him and Bernstein both leaping from the car, bringing their guns up.
“Al Din! Police!” Lynch shouted.
Al Din heard the car behind him, did the geometry in his head, got ready, but kept moving. He was in the open, wanted to be closer to the door if it came to shooting. But when he heard the policeman call out his name, he knew he had to change the equation, put their heads down, buy some time.
He made sure the weapon was at chest level as he turned. He didn’t want to have to worry about elevation, just had to be ready to squeeze the trigger when he tracked across the target. A smaller man on the passenger side of the vehicle. Al Din fired twice, his bullets punching through the window of the car. Early on the first shot, but he knew the second was on target.
That should freeze them for a moment. He continued his spin, kept running for the door.
Al Din surprised Lynch. Didn’t even pause, just spun, firing twice. Lynch heard glass break, heard a grunt, saw Bernstein drop out of the corner of his eye.
Al Din was almost to the door of the stairwell. Lynch sighted there. Al Din would have to slow to get in the door.
Al Din knew he would have to pause at the door. But he had the range now, could picture the larger man behind the driver’s door of the car. Just before the door to the stairwell, al Din spun again, the weapon leveled, waiting for the barrel to cross its target. He fired, fired again, shocked that the man wasn’t moving, wasn’t down. The first shot should have been perfect, but it slammed into top of the car’s window frame just in front of the man’s chest. The second shot may have been wide. Still, it should have been enough, should have had the man ducking for cover, but the man stood perfectly still, gun steady.
The larger man fired. Al Din felt the round hit him near the right shoulder. Didn’t mean it was over – al Din had been shot before. He switched the pistol to his left hand, was raising it for another shot when the next round slammed into the center of his chest.
Al Din fell back against the door, slid to the floor, his brain still racing through his options but his body no longer cooperating. How wide was that window frame? One inch? Two? That was the difference. His shot had been perfect. The other man should be down; al Din should be through the door, gone.
Al Din saw the man come out from behind the car, his weapon still raised, still trained on him. Al Din looked down at the pistol in his left hand, concentrated, could still feel the fingers, tightened them on the grip, focused on his arm, started to raise the weapon.
Just before he got to the door, Lynch saw al Din spin, fire again. Nothing Lynch could do, just hold his ground, aim. First shot hit something metal. Lynch heard the sound. The second tore through the fabric of Lynch’s coat sleeve, just below the left shoulder. Either it didn’t hit him or he didn’t feel it yet. Lynch figured if the little fuck was gonna shoot at him with a .22, then he’d better hit him solid.
Lynch fired, the first round hitting al Din high in the right chest, near the shoulder, al Din not skipping a beat, just switching his weapon to the left hand, starting to bring it up. Lynch fired again, center chest. That drove al Din back into the door, al Din sliding down, leaving a smear of blood behind on the green metal.
Lynch came out from behind the car, gun up, closed on al Din. He saw al Din look down at his weapon, start to raise his left arm, trying to bring the gun up. Lynch emptied the rest of his clip into the bastard’s chest, everything hitting on the midline between his collarbone and belt buckle. Al Din’s hand opened, the pistol dropped, and he slumped to the side, his eyes fixed and open.
Lynch ran around the front of the car, slid to a stop next to Bernstein, who was on his back gasping. Lynch looked for a wound, saw nothing. Then Lynch saw the hole in the breast pocket of Bernstein’s blazer. He lifted the coat open, looking for an entry wound, nothing, a small tear in the shirt, a little blood from a shallow gash.
Something fell from the pocket of Bernstein’s blazer. His iPhone, the screen shattered, the silver back of the device dented, split open a little at the apex of the dent.
“I should have let the fucker live,” Lynch said. “He killed your damn phone. Fucking thing saved your life.”
Bernstein tried to laugh, grunted in pain, drew in a shallow breath. “There’s an app for that,” he said.
CHAPTER 90
On six, Hickman and Lafitpour emerged from the cars they had been hiding behind.
“What the fuck?” Hickman said.
Lafitpour said nothing, still holding his phone.
“You can hang up now,” Hardin said. “Transfer the funds.”
“We had nothing to do with this,” Lafitpour said.
“I know. It was Hernandez. Transfer the fucking money. We don’t have much time.”
Lafitpour pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, started dialing. “Damn,” he said, killing the connection, starting again.
Hardin pressed the muzzle of his gun to the center of Lafitpour’s forehead. “Concentrate,” he said.
Lafitpour dialed the number in one try, made the transfer. “Done,” he said.
Hardin looked to Wilson. “Wanna watch them a second?”
She leveled her S&W at the two men.
Hardin holstered his pistol, pulled out his phone, called Fouche.
“Can you confirm the transfer?” Hardin asked.
“I’ve been watching the screen, mon ami; it just hit your account.”
“OK. Start spreading it around. If somebody tries to take it back, I don’t want them to find anything.”
“In five minutes, there will be no trace and no trail.”
Hardin hung up, looked at Lafitpour. “Give me your phone.” Looked at Hickman. “You too.” They handed their phones to Hardin and he threw them over the wall onto Wells Street.
“We’re leaving,” Hardin said. “You’re not. If I see you following us, hell, if I see you ever, it isn’t going to end well.”
Hardin and Wilson turned and walked toward the stairwell. Cab would be safer than the Honda now.
Just before they reached the door, they heard a shout echo up the ramp from the floor below.
“Al Din! Police!”
Then gunfire.
“That’s between us and out,” Wilson said.
“Hate to get shot now that I’m rich,” Hardin said.
“And things were going so well,” she answered.
They ran for the stairs.
CHAPTER 91
Lynch heard another engine coming up the ramp fast, then tires slamming to a stop, doors opening. He stood, looked back over the roof of the Crown Vic, saw a white Lexus parked in the middle of the lane, all four doors open, four shooters getting out, three with submachine guns, one with a pistol.
Lynch grabbed Bernstein under the arms and dragged him away from the Crown Vic into the line of parked cars toward the inside wall. Bernstein grunted, his teeth clenched, clutching his chest, but as Lynch dragged him, he grabbed the pistol he’d dropped when the round hit him. Bernstein pushed with his feet, the two of them scrambling behind the engine block of an old Buick just as the first burst tore into the sheet metal.
The four gunmen were only fifteen yards back, and closing fast. Lynch had already punched out the clip he’d emptied into al Din, slammed in a new one. One more clip left after that. Couldn’t waste rounds, but he couldn’t let these guys just close on him, either. He reached up over the hood of the Buick, picking the line from his visual memory, squeezed off three quick shots.
Bernstein rolled to his stomach, fired a couple rounds from under the car, aimed at legs, clipped one guy on the calf, a shout in Spanish, the guy hopping into a line of cars toward the inside of the garage, another guy, the driver, bobbing into the same row. The two from the passenger side went right, toward the wall.
“We don’t get some backup, we’re fucked,” Lynch said.
“Called it in when we entered the garage, figure a couple minutes,” Bernstein said.
Another burst ripped into the Buick, closer this time, better angle.
“Be about a minute more than we got,” Lynch said.
Lynch hit the ground and rolled to the back of the Buick, watching the floor on that side, looking for legs, looking for the two guys who’d moved in toward the wall. Bernstein wedged himself as far under the front end as he could, watching the right for the other two shooters.
Another burst, from the left this time, glass from the windows dropping on Lynch.
Lynch saw a foot, aimed, fired. Someone screaming in Spanish.
Another burst, the bad guys learning their lesson, somebody on Lynch’s side had laid his gun flat on the floor and pulled the trigger, rounds zipping along the floor, popping noise and then a long, fading hiss from the rear tire on the other side of the car.
“Son of a bitch,” Lynch grunted. One round had skipped up, ripped a bloody line down the outside of his right thigh.
Hardin covered the stairway down to four while Wilson looked through the narrow, wire-meshed window out into the fifth floor of the garage.
“Got a couple cops pinned down by a Crown Vic in the middle lane. A guy named Lynch and another guy.”
“You know them?” Hardin asked.
“Know him a little,” she said. A pause. “We leave, they die.”
Hardin closed his eyes a minute, swallowed, then nodded. They were who they were and they had done what they’d done, but Wilson had been a cop for a decade now, a good one. Hardin knew she couldn’t walk away from this and live with it. Truth be told, neither could he.
“OK,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Wilson nodded, looked back out the window. “Crown Vic is the cops. Got a white sedan on the far side, four shooters, looks like three with subs and a handgun.”
A single shot from the cops’ position, one of the bad guys gave out a yell, hopped into the line of cars across the center aisle, another bad guy following him. The other two moved between the cars on the near side, toward Hardin and Wilson. One of them straightened up, put a burst on the Buick, then a single shot from the cops, more cursing in Spanish, on their side this time. Then a burst from across the aisle.
“We take the two on our side first,” Wilson said.
Hardin nodded.
“Ready?”
He nodded again.
Hardin grabbed the door handle. It would open from Wilson’s side. She stood back a step, her S&W steady, waiting for a line. Hardin pulled the door back slowly, felt a weight pushing it. Al Din’s body fell into the stairwell, shot to hell.
Wilson went through the door, hugging the wall, working for an angle. Hardin came out behind her.
One of the shooters on the far side shouted something in Spanish, turned toward Hardin and Wilson, fired a round that splattered into the concrete wall between them. Hardin knew better than to rush. You got shot, you didn’t get shot, not much you could do about that. But if you kept your shit together, aimed, you’d at least hit what you were shooting at. Nothing fancy, center mass. Hardin fired, drilling the guy just below the solar plexus, dropped him in his tracks.
A guy with an MP5 popped up two cars in front of them, firing wild, the first rounds hitting into the back quarter of a minivan, just right of Wilson, the guy trying to adjust, swinging the gun her way, his finger still locked on the trigger, the glass in the minivan busting out as the bullets tracked toward her. Wilson didn’t even flinch, just aimed and put her first shot into the middle of his face. Two down.
Lynch and Bernstein heard the new shooting on their left. Bernstein saw the shooter on the far side catch a round in the gut and go down.
“Cavalry’s here,” he said.
“But who are they?” answered Lynch.
“You care?”
“Nope.”
Lynch looked ahead under the car. “Can’t pick a target on this side. Let’s light up the other fucker over your way, at least keep him out of the game.”
Bernstein nodded; they both rose, squatting at the hood, firing right. Lynch’s leg tried to buckle on him, so he leaned into the car, keeping the weight on his good side.
The other shooter on Wilson’s side popped up, right along the wall, his short burst just missing her, slamming into the windshield of the minivan. Wilson hit the floor, spun, looking for his legs.
Hardin heard the burst, saw Wilson drop, didn’t know whether she’d been hit or not. Brought both guns to bear on the guy by the wall just as the guy saw Hardin. Hardin put six shots into the guy’s chest just as the guy pulled the trigger on him. The guy dropped, Hardin felt his left arm yank back, lost the pistol in that hand, then felt the burn. Caught at least one round high up, close to the shoulder.
“I’m OK,” Wilson called.
Hardin twisted, looked across the aisle. Should be one more shooter over there. He saw the first guy he’d hit, gut shot guy, rolling toward the aisle, reaching for his weapon. Hardin lined him up and put two in his brain pan, saw the last guy coming out. Hardin fired again, three rounds hitting the target high center mass before the slide locked back. Empty.
Hardin went to reach for his spare magazine with his left hand, but his left arm wasn’t working. Felt more pain then. Hardin dropped the empty pistol from his right, squatted down, picked up the one he’d lost when he got hit. Didn’t know what he had left in that one.
Nobody was shooting, nobody was moving.
Wilson was back up, gun out, swiveling. “That everybody?”
“Yeah.”
She saw his arm. “You OK?”
“Will be,” he said.
From below, they heard sirens, lots of them. Sounded like half the Chicago PD was pulling into the garage.
Behind them, the two cops stood up from behind the Buick, the short one’s left arm hanging, the bigger one hobbling around the front of the car, his right leg bloody.
“You’re Hardin and Wilson, right?” the tall guy said.
Hardin nodded.
Both cops raised their weapons. “Not that we don’t appreciate the help and all,” the tall guy said. “But you’re both under arrest.”
“And we’re really hoping you’ll put the guns down,” the short cop added. “Cause I think you’re better at this shit than we are.”
Hardin, shrugged, set the 9mm down on the roof of the car next to him. Wilson laid her S&W down next to it.
“Which one of you got al Din?” Hardin asked.
“Me,” said the tall guy.
“Then you’re pretty good yourself,” Hardin said.
CHAPTER 92
A couple of units reached five, lights going, sirens going, stopping at angles on either side of the Lexus that blocked the aisle. The cops leapt out, going to guns, but Lynch and Bernstein had moved to the center of the aisle, holding their badges out, and everybody calmed down.
“Radio for some buses,” Lynch yelled to one of the uniforms. “Here and on six.”
“How many?”
“Lots,” Lynch said, “Hold on.”
He yelled over the sirens to Hardin.
“Anybody wounded upstairs?”
“Not unless I’m slipping,” Hardin answered.
“How many?”
“Four.”
“So four on six, at least six here,” Lynch said to the uniform, raising his voice over the commotion. “Gonna need crime scene, ME, fuck it, we’re gonna need everybody.”
Five minutes later, the first two ambulances arrived. The EMTs wanted to transport Hardin and Lynch, but Lynch told them to wait. He was on a gurney they’d pulled out, his right leg out straight, the pants leg cut off halfway up his thigh. One of the techs was cleaning the wound, shooting a local into the leg in a few spots. The back of the gurney was raised so Lynch could sit up. Hardin sat on the bumper of the second unit while a short woman cleaned and bandaged his arm. Another EMT was wrapping Bernstein’s ribs. When one of the techs tried to look at Wilson’s head, she told him to fuck off.
Hickman came out the door, holding up his creds, walked over to Lynch.
“I don’t know what happened here detective, but this whole crime scene is under federal jurisdiction.”
“Fuck you,” Lynch said.
A plainclothes car stopped, half on the ramp. Starshak got out. He walked over to the gurney, looked at Lynch.
“Get to a fucking hospital,” he said, turned toward Bernstein. “You too.”
“Just as soon as Hickman stops trying to Bogart my crime scene. He says this is a Fed deal.”
Hickman stepped between Lynch and Starshak. “Your people stumbled into and very nearly ruined a long-running and extremely sensitive federal investigation involving matters of national security that I am not at liberty to disclose at the moment. I might add, Captain, that you were told to stay away from this case, that it was a task force matter now.” Hickman was trying to be pedantic, but it wasn’t working because he was shivering. He was still in his shirtsleeves, and the temperature was in the fifties, a cold wind gusting into the garage from the east on and off.
“Membe Saturday,” Starshak said.
“What?” said Hickman.
“Refugee guy by the Stadium,” said Lynch. “We liked al Din for that, too. Nobody said anything about not clearing that case. Guess it wasn’t sexy enough for you Fed assholes to work it.”
Hickman shook his head, waved a hand. “Clearly that was connected. At any rate, I’m telling you now, this is a Federal matter. Transport your injured people, back your uniforms off to the street so they can control access to the garage, and get everybody else out of my crime scene.”
“Not gonna happen,” Starshak said. “Homicide is a state crime, not federal. And right now, all I’ve got is a multiple homicide. We haven’t even ID’d any of the victims yet, No way in hell I turn this over on your say so, especially since I got you on scene. Right now, you ain’t the US Attorney, Hickman. You’re a material witness. Maybe a suspect.”
Starshak turned to a nearby uniform. “Hardin, Wilson and Mr Expensive-tie, I-don’t-say-shit over there,” Starshak pointed at Lafitpour, who had come out the stairway door with Hickman and was standing by the wall, “link them up and process them.” Starshak poked a finger into Hickman’s chest. “And if this dick interferes, cuff his ass and run him in, too.”
“Cap,” Lynch said, “just so you know, Wilson and Hardin saved our asses.”
Starshak looked at Hardin, then at Wilson. “Well don’t this just get curiouser and curiouser.”
From above, Lynch heard the beat of a chopper getting louder, closer, then shutting down. Sounded like it landed on the roof. From below, the sound of more sirens, on the street, then some shouting. Starshak walked over to the wall, looked down at Washington Street.
“Mess of Feebs. Who called them?”
