Текст книги "The Execution"

Автор книги: Dick Wolf

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

CHAPTER 67

Chuparosa checked the exterior surveillance cameras, front and back. There was nobody outside the building, no vehicles except those parked along the curb, nothing moving. No police cars, no vans.

If it was a cop, he had come alone. Which meant he was crazy or stupid.

If it was not a cop, who could it be? The unluckiest thief in the history of the world? Or another, unexpected threat?

Chuparosa buckled on his holster containing the Glock 21. He reached for the M4 carbine he had stolen from a drug dealer three weeks before.

He decided he wanted to keep eyes and ears on Calibri, and started down the stairs after him. Tomás Calibri had been shot twice fighting communist guerrillas during his stint in the Mexican military, where he was awarded the Condecoración al Valor Heroico and the Cruz de Guerra. Three years later he offered his mercenary services to the Zetas. He was a man of questionable intelligence, in Chuparosa’s opinion, as well as being a little insane—but he was a good man in a fight.

Calibri was starting toward the door to the basement. As Chuparosa came off the bottom step, the elevator from the basement groaned to life, the thick cable starting to pull the car upward.

Chuparosa motioned to Calibri to take up a position opposite him by the elevator door. Calibri could cover the elevator while Chuparosa watched the basement door, and they could each shoot without concern for hitting each other.

The elevator hummed and whined and shuddered as it moved up toward them.

Whoever this strange visitor was, they had him.

CHAPTER 68

Chuparosa, thought Fisk, quickly surveying the room by flashlight. He spotted a freight elevator gaping open, a rectangular slab of darkness in the wall. He thought to try the stairs first—quieter—but he had already announced his presence with the bulkhead chain.

The sound of the freight elevator would certainly put whoever was upstairs on alert, but it was time to take a chance. He was alone in an unfamiliar building. The advantage was theirs.

The Hummingbird might be up there.

The freight elevator was an ancient thing. It operated with a worn, old-fashioned brass handle that you pushed one direction or the other. Right was up, left was down. A spring forced it back to the off position as soon as you let go of it.

If it even worked.

There were no automatic doors, no safety features, just a telescoping grating that you pulled across the face of the elevator. Or not. It operated either way.

Back in the good old days before the Occupational Safety and Health Administration, before city inspectors and class action lawsuits, if you didn’t pay attention and you hung your foot out of an elevator, it was severed at the ankle. And it was your own damn fault.

So Fisk did not have to close the grating or the door to get the elevator to move. Instead he simply pushed the brass handle to the right. The elevator sighed deeply, then jerked to life, rising slowly.

He knew he would only have a moment to find out whether he could pull off the trick he was considering. He risked a flash with his SureFire as the base of the elevator rose, and he crouched and surveyed the undercarriage to see if there was anything there he could grip and hold on to. As it moved upward, he saw that the base consisted of a network of iron struts. The bottom cable was straightening slowly. Fisk switched off his flashlight and moved quickly.

He grasped one of the struts with his left hand and dangled there, the shotgun in his right. He turned so that he was facing in the direction of the door as the car rose.

He realized he would again only have a few moments to evaluate his situation once he reached the first floor. If he was spotted, he would have to let go and fall back into the darkness—and probably break both ankles. The pit in which the elevator rested contained some kind of base or spring assembly to cushion the elevator, so there was an excellent chance he would fall on something very hard—maybe slicing his flesh or even impaling himself.

So dropping free of the elevator was the least attractive option.

His hand started to burn. The strut was hard-edged and thin, cutting into the base of all four fingers. The elevator shook, thumped, paused, then continued onward. Each movement threatened to break his grip. Fisk was concerned that if he had to hang there too long, the sharp edges would cut right through.

The top of the elevator was rising into view on the first floor.

A voice, whispered, Spanish: “Empty. A diversion.”

“The stairs then.” The second voice was softer, dubious.

Fisk hoisted the pistol grip of his shotgun up into firing position. It was a pump gun, which meant he needed both hands to cycle it. Since he was hanging with one hand, Fisk had only one shot. Then it was either fall back into the dark uncertainty, leap onto the first floor and take the fight to the voices, or hang on and ride up to the top floor.

As the base of the elevator cleared the lip of the first floor, Fisk could see again. Two pairs of feet, shiny black shoes, one near, one farther down the hallway. Toes facing away from him.

Time crawled as the gap beneath the elevator and the floor grew larger and larger. Fisk only had one shot. He had to be sure.

Just then the near set of feet jogged down to join the other at the end of the hall. A bolt was thrown and they started through a door.

Before they disappeared, he saw a submachine gun in the second one’s hands.

Fisk heard, under the groaning of the elevator mechanism, footsteps echoing on the metal stairs.

They were going down just as he was coming up.

Slowly the first floor scrolled fully into Fisk’s vision. His waist passed the floor, then his thighs, then his knees.

Enough finally to swing out and jump. He hit the ground with a thump—no way to land softly—and paused to shake the fire out of his left hand and forearm. Another second or two and his grip would have failed. It had been that close.

He was one man with a shotgun against two men with submachine guns. The smart play was to retreat, to get out of the building and wait for support.

Then he remembered the girls trapped down in the basement.

And the bulkhead door, open to freedom.

As he was starting down the hall to the open door, a figure suddenly appeared in it. Dressed in white and black like a waiter, he also had a large paunch. He raised the muzzle of an MP5 and unleashed a short, disciplined burst of submachine gun fire.

Fisk felt as though he’d been hit in the chest with a brick.

Instinctively he pulled back on the trigger of the 870 as the impact shoved him backward. The roar was deafening in the enclosed space.

But the gunman was already gone. Fisk’s ears were ringing too loudly to hear his own footsteps on the metal stairs going down.

It was only then that Fisk realized he’d been shot. He looked down. All three rounds had struck his vest, which, because of the gunman’s apparent military training and skill as a shooter, had saved Fisk’s life.

A worse shot might have hit him in the face or the neck or the groin or the arm.

This guy had put three rounds dead center, destroying nothing but Kevlar.

A man that good would not make the same mistake twice. Center mass was standard military training, but once you knew your enemy was wearing body armor, you went for the head.

Fisk pumped the shotgun and charged down the hallway. For the first time in his life, he felt an odd fatalistic sense that things just might not break his way. And to his surprise, it did not really bother him. Something about it seemed natural and right.

The whole series of thoughts just came and went like a small dark cloud passing over the sun on a summer day.

He rushed through the doorway to the stairs. If the men had been waiting, he would have been cut to shreds.

They were not. Fisk ran to the bottom, passing the bloody wall and floor, passing the horrified screams of the girls behind the locked doors. The open door above left enough light that Fisk did not have to use his SureFire. He did not want to risk moving his hand off the rifle pump anyway.

As Fisk turned into the narrow hallway, he fired a quick round just to keep them honest. It lit up the tight space, but Fisk saw no one. He racked the 870 again and continued his charge.

He popped up the bulkhead stairs into the light, aiming right and left down the narrow space between buildings. No one.

The door to the next building closed slowly, with a click.

Fisk had to follow. He was racing toward the door when he saw a figure enter the sidewalk space at the far end of the walkway.

CHAPTER 69

Garza had come too late. The Emergency Service Unit heavy rescue truck was parked outside the warehouse Fisk had pointed her to, agents in full tactical gear fanning out. Garza held out her credentials, worried they would not be respected by this fast-moving rapid-entry unit. She was approaching them from the side when she passed the space between the warehouse and the building to its immediate left.

A man wielding a shotgun turned on her from twenty yards away, almost firing. He pulled off his aim . . . and it was Fisk.

There was a bright fire in his eyes. He took his hand off the pump of the shotgun just long enough to point her hard around the other side of the building next to the warehouse. Then Garza watched him run up the stairs, throw open a side door, and enter.

Garza spun away, pulled her Beretta, and started off at a sprint around the other side of the building, looking for a way in.

CHAPTER 70

A sustained burst from the MP5 went barely wide as Fisk slapped the trigger of the 870.

Another deafening roar. Buckshot spraying the wall.

Yelling. Spanish. Fisk could not make it out.

His ears were screaming. His chest was aching. He was running.

His mind told him to keep moving, to count his shots.

He slid out into the open, seeing an iron spiral staircase in the middle of the building, leading up to the second floor. The ceiling in the old industrial building was twenty feet high, so the staircase twisted twice, making anybody who ascended it visible from all parts of the warehouse floor for several seconds. To clatter up the stairs in the presence of two well-armed shooters was to invite death. To retreat was to trap himself like a rat.

He ignored the tempting stairs, continuing room by room. He peeped around a corner, saw movement.

The shooter raised his MP5, firing already, rounds biting into the floor on their way toward Fisk.

Fisk pumped, aimed, and fired the shotgun.

The shooter’s head erupted in an explosion of red.

The man crumpled on the spot.

Fisk did not slow down for a moment. He ran past the twitching body to the next doorway. He peeked around the corner. Looked clear.

He ducked back, plucking a couple of cartridges from the rack along the gunstock, loading them in. He was feeding in a third when a burst of gunfire sounded and a needle of fire went through his forearm.

He dropped the shotgun. His left hand opened spasmodically, and he gripped it with his right, getting blood on his palm.

He reached for the shotgun, pulling it to him. He pumped it one-handed and fumbled for the trigger, backing away from the holes in the wall where he had just been standing.

Yelling outside. Cop sounds. They were close.

More shouting. Thumping of feet. Directionless.

Suddenly everything went quiet.

Fisk had a premonition.

“Comandante?” he called out.

No answer. More footsteps.

“Stop, NYPD!” said Fisk, his left arm jerking, right hand aiming the shotgun.

Footsteps. Fisk fired at the doorway, a warning shot.

The buckshot tore into and through the wall to the left of the frame, going wide.

His hearing was gone again. Fisk set down the shotgun quickly in order to grasp the pump, trying to reload one-handed.

He jerked it, but the rack did not catch. The cartridge had misloaded.

He was jammed.

A man swung into view in the doorway. The lower left side of his white shirt was red with blood, but he held his weapon firmly.

Fisk recognized the face. The expression.

The Hummingbird looked at Fisk sitting on the floor with the shotgun. His lower lip curled into a sneer.

“You are not the comandante,” he said.

Then suddenly he looked up, raising his aim.

Too slow. Crack-crack-crack from behind Fisk.

Chuparosa’s head flew back. His torso twisted, his free hand going to his neck, out of which pulsed blood.

He fell to the side and began kicking, trying to crawl away.

Fisk turned. Garza stood in the doorway in a balanced shooter’s stance. Her cheekbones were flushed and her black eyes were wide and intent, glazed with adrenaline. A goddess of wrath.

She walked past him, Beretta on Chuparosa. He was still kicking, trying to get away.

She came up behind him, ready to shoot. Wanting to shoot.

She never got the chance. The kicking stopped, and the assassin’s body lay still. He was dead.

CHAPTER 71

Fisk heard about the aftermath from the emergency room at Beth Israel Medical Center in Brooklyn.

Eleven girls. Eleven young Mexican women, ages fifteen to twenty, had been locked in the basement of the warehouse.

Eleven young women had been saved.

The man Fisk had wounded and Garza had killed was all but confirmed to be Chuparosa. Learning his real name would take time. No matter what they might learn about the man, the killer known as the Hummingbird had been stopped forever.

The Teixeira Brothers truck was discovered in the garage. A remote control robot was sent in to open the cartons of oysters safely.

The disassembled gun parts were discovered packed inside.

Forged security passes were found near a laptop computer paused in the seventh inning of a three-week-old broadcast of a Yankees–Braves game. The issuing name was traced to an apartment in Bensonhurst, where a young caterer’s assistant named Elian Martinez and his wife, Kelli, were found murdered.

FISK SUFFERED A LEFT ULNA FRACTURE. Damage to his ulnar nerve, the largest unprotected nerve in the human body—when bumped, it is often referred to as the funny bone—was negligible. He was fortunate in that the round had passed through a wall before striking him, lowering its velocity. The attending physician, knowing Fisk was a cop, informed him that he came just millimeters from retirement.

He was to remain in the hospital for observation for twenty-four hours, the standard window of time when “compartment syndrome” could occur. Restricted blood flow to muscles and nerves due to pressure from an injury could lead to loss of the limb.

Fisk’s left forearm would be set in a hard cast in the morning. In sixteen weeks, the fracture would be repaired.

“Sixteen weeks of desk duty,” said the attending physician with a smile, thinking he was being funny.

CHAPTER 72

Cecilia Garza visited Fisk sometime before six o’clock.

Fisk said, “Don’t you have the dinner soon?”

Garza shook her head. “Called off. Everything has changed.”

“Of course,” said Fisk.

“I tried to call you,” said Garza.

“My phone . . . I must have lost it during the shootout. Maybe near that elevator.”

Garza nodded absently. “They will find it.”

“Sure.”

He watched her. There was something odd about her manner.

He reached for her arm with his good hand. “Where are you?” he asked.

“Right here,” she said.

“Adrenaline hangover,” he said. “I’ve been there. They gave me some painkillers, so I think I’m missing out.”

She looked at his arm again, wrapped in thick gauze. “You were lucky.”

“I was. We were.”

Garza smiled, but there was nothing behind it.

She spoke before he could ask her what was wrong again. “The dinner is essentially canceled. I suggested we move it to our consulate, where proper security can be guaranteed and the treaty can be signed in relative seclusion.”

“Obama isn’t still going?” said Fisk.

“No. Vice President Biden will be on hand for the signing, but will not stay for dinner.”

Fisk nodded. “Hey,” he said, reaching for her hand. “You got him. The man you came here for.”

Garza looked at his hand in hers, but her grip was slight. “That part does not seem real.”

“Is Señor León going to attend the dinner? Now that the bad guy has been killed?”

Garza squeezed Fisk’s hand once before letting go. “I made sure to extend President Vargas’s personal invitation.” She smoothed out a fold in the bedsheet near her side. “After the affair, we are returning home. Tonight. It’s been arranged.”

“Tonight?” said Fisk.

“President Vargas feels the need to get home. To be visible in the wake of this threat. And, I am sure, to be seen as victorious.”

Fisk studied her face. There was no victory in it. “Letdown, right?” he said. “It’s understandable. You’ve been searching for this guy for . . . how long?”

“Long time,” she said.

“It never feels like you think it will,” said Fisk. “Does it?”

“No.”

Her eyes dampened, and Fisk grew concerned. This was not like the Ice Queen at all. She had won. She had protected her president and triumphed over this killer without a face, this agent of terror.

Garza turned away, aware that Fisk was watching her eyes.

“Hey,” said Fisk. “Don’t make me worry about you, now. Take some time to process this.”

And then he realized what it must be. He was shocked he hadn’t thought of it before.

“The girls,” he said. “The kidnapped girls. You saw them?”

Garza nodded. “I saw them.”

“I understand. You’re thinking of your mother and your sister.”

She was still turned away from him. Fisk watched her hands ball into fists . . . and then release.

When she turned to him, he expected to see tears—but there were none.

“What was it you were telling me last night?” she asked. “At the hotel lounge. About catching Magnus Jenssen?”

Fisk swallowed, not expecting to go there. “I think I said that it is never the victory you think it will be.”

Garza nodded. “We have to be better than those we hunt. That’s what you said. That this is what defines us. People like you and me.”

Fisk nodded.

She went on. “You said that this cycle of murder and retribution, of terror and fighting terror . . . it sickens us all. Like radiation poisoning, just being near evil.”

Fisk nodded again. The last thing he had expected was to hear his wine-soaked words read back to him. He had a very bad taste in his mouth, and it was not from the painkillers.

“Time,” he said. “That is all you can hope for. That in time everything will be clear to you, and you can move on.”

“I have given it time,” she said. “So much time.”

Fisk was about to correct her, in that it had only been a few hours. But in the next moment he had forgotten all about that, as Garza leaned down and kissed him on the lips, softly but lingeringly, her hand caressing the side of his face.

She pulled away, their faces parting. Fisk was smiling, but in her eyes was a less certain expression. He waited for her to speak, but she never did. Abruptly she turned and pushed through the bay curtain, walking away.

CHAPTER 73

Intel chief Barry Dubin poked his bald head inside the curtain, eyes widening in relief. “Just walked in on some old woman by mistake.”

Fisk said, “What’s in the bag?”

Dubin was carrying a paper bag in the same hand that held his iPad. Dubin unfurled the top of the bag and reached inside. “Nicole said I should bring one of these for you.”

It was a sandwich inside a clear plastic triangle from the vending machine in the Intel break room. “Chicken salad.”

Fisk closed his eyes drowsily. “You’re taking that with you when you leave.”

Dubin dropped the gag sandwich back in the bag. “How’s the wing?”

“I’m going to make a full recovery.”

“Good. You want to sleep?”

“No.” Fisk opened his eyes.

“Hey, I’m glad you’re okay.”

Fisk said, “That’s not an apology.”

Dubin smiled, his gray goatee smiling with him. “Let’s see how all the evidence shakes out before we see who needs to apologize to whom.”

Fisk remembered something. “My phone. Lost it at the scene. Can you get someone to get it?”

“Sure. How many painkillers did they give you?”

“Not nearly enough,” said Fisk.

“I have some photos from the warehouse. From Chupa . . . the Hummingbird, however you pronounce it. His workshop apartment there. You want to see them, or wait?”

“Gimme.”

Dubin flipped open his iPad cover and turned it over to Fisk. “There’s a couple of short videos and high-resolution photos.”

Fisk looked at the oysters taken from their cartons, the hidden gun pieces. “Oysters, huh?”

“And guess what?” said Dubin. “The Mexican president has a shellfish allergy.”

Fisk looked at images of the two corpses, Chuparosa and the other man. Then the bloodied wall and floor, the site of the decapitations.

“I don’t get it,” said Fisk.

“What?” said Dubin.

“This plan was destined to fail. Assembling a gun inside the perimeter? Okay, points for that. Assuming he got it inside past the Secret Service’s millimeter wave scanner. But those agents around the president—either president—would have seen a gunman coming from twenty feet away.”

Dubin stroked his goatee. “You’re not wrong.”

Fisk shook his head, his mind a little muddled from the medication. “He was too smart for that. Unless there’s something else we’re missing.”

Dubin’s hand came away from his beard, his finger swiping the screen back to the thumbnails. “The guy made a video. Like a suicide bomber, I guess. To be viewed after he died.”

Fisk was surprised. “Really? Anything to it?”

“It’s tough to watch. He recorded it during the beheadings.”

Fisk hissed out a breath between his numb teeth. “Jesus. What’s he say?”

Dubin said, “No idea. It’s in Spanish.”

Fisk looked at Dubin, a former spy. “No Spanish?”

Dubin shook his head. “Korean and Thai. A little German.”

Fisk sniffed. This didn’t seem the time to brag about his five languages. “At least you can order takeout well.”

Dubin frowned. “I like you better sober.”

Fisk looked at the video icon, debating. Some things you cannot un-see. That, in essence, was his job.

“Did Garza see this?”

“I’m sure she did.”

Fisk nodded. “Fine,” he said, and tapped the icon, and the video began.