Authors: Jason Kahn
Richie shuddered, but then closed his eyes, resigned. “What do you want, Frank?”
“Just a little information,” Frank said. “You must hear lots of useful tidbits in that watering hole you work at. I know Hector’s gang hangs out there.” Richie’s body went stiff and he struggled, but Frank bore down and twisted his arm even more.
Tears squeezed from Richie’s eyes. “Shit, Frank, you tryin’ to get me killed?” His voice broke as the words came out.
“I’m trying to do your brother a favor,” Frank said. “I know something big’s coming, I want to know what.” He added casually, “Of course, if you’d rather send your mom postcards from the cell you and Anton are going to be sharing…”
Defeated, Richie spoke in a soft whisper. “All right, Frank. There’s a huge shipment coming in, drugs, guns, enough to flood the city.”
“Where?”
“Behind the old Herald building, at the loading dock.” “When?”
“Tomorrow night, after midnight.”
“Who’s running the show?” Frank asked.
Richie paused, and Frank was about to apply more pressure, both figuratively and literally, when Richie spoke again.
“Arturo,” Richie said.
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Arturo Vega was Hector’s son-in-law. Rumor had it they had some kind of spat a few months ago and the two had been at odds ever since. Maybe Arturo was trying to make good with the head of the family, Frank thought.
He released Richie’s arm and made to help him up from the car when he heard the scuff of footsteps behind him. Frank whirled, surprised at the sight that greeted him. A short, fat, balding man in a grey, pinstripe suit walked slowly toward them. He was completely out of place carrying a leather briefcase in the now-deserted, run-down block. He stopped a few yards away.
The man’s expression was blank, and his eyes, eerily vacant, focused on Frank.
“Detective Frank Arnold,” the man said, as if in a trance. Not a question, but a confirmation.
The man’s other hand slowly emerged from his pocket, holding a gun. Frank dove as fast as he could, trying to shove Richie out of the way. Shots fired, somebody yelled, Frank hit the ground and rolled under the car, desperately fumbling for his gun. He heard the staccato sound of bullets ricocheting off metal. More shots rang out, followed by the soft thuds of bodies crumpling to the ground. Then silence.
“You can come out now, Frank,” Vera said.
Frank rolled out from under the car and got to his feet, surveying the area. Richie lay dead, shot several times, and there were bullet marks on the car where Frank had stood moments ago. Vera stood over the body of the guy in the suit, she put her gun back in its holster. Frank took a few breaths, waiting for his heart to stop jumping.
“Shame you had to kill him,” he said at length.
No one had ever managed to take a sleeper alive.
The MCPD lab guys said the only way to see how the drug worked was to study someone under its influence. But since they all killed themselves after their assignment, that had been impossible.
Vera looked at Frank. “You’re welcome.”
“Uh, yeah, thanks, Vera,” he said belatedly.
She ignored him as she called in the homicide on
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her comm.
Within ten minutes, the area was taped off, with uniformed officers and crime scene investigators inspecting every inch.
Vera and Frank drove back to the station, they had to see the lieutenant about this. In the car, Frank told Vera what happened, the information Richie gave up, the appearance of the man in the suit. A cursory inspection of his wallet revealed him to be an accountant for a firm in the financial district, wife, kids, house in the suburbs. Completely normal.
The whole ride back, Frank noticed Vera glancing at him, her expression troubled. She kept opening her mouth to speak, but each time stopped herself.
Frank guessed the reason. “Look, you had no choice. You had to take that guy out or there’d be three dead people kissing the pavement instead of two. So don’t beat yourself up about it.”
“Yeah, I know, Frank, thanks.” She seemed to calm down, but from the look in her eyes, Frank knew something was still eating at her.
Back at the twelfth precinct, Frank repeated the same details while he and Vera sat in Lieutenant Burke’s office. The lieutenant listened intently, leaning back in his chair as they finished. “So what do you make of all this?” he asked Frank.
“I think Hector knows I’ve been poking around in his business,” Frank said. “I think he’s worried I’m on to something, so he sent someone to take care of me before I got too close.”
“What about Richie?” Burke asked.
“Hard to say if he was a target or not. Most likely caught in the crossfire. But I’d bet my badge his information was on the money. It makes sense, what with all the other hits going on and the rumors from my other informants.”
Burke nodded. “All right, I’ll call Judge Browers’
office, get the task force on this.” That was just what Frank didn’t want to hear. He leaned forward, a fierce gleam in his eyes. “With all due respect, sir, screw the task force. Hector came after
me
.
Let me lead a team tomorrow night, let me bust this
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shipment.”
Burke’s eyes went hard. “I won’t have any grandstanding in this squad.”
“This is my case, I want this one,” Frank said.
“I really don’t care what you want, detective.” Burke’s voice betrayed a long-simmering irritation gained from years of butting heads with Frank. “This isn’t about you--”
“Sir, if I may,” Vera said, “The information came from Frank’s source, and it does look like Hector put out a hit specifically on him.”
Frank watched his partner. Her face was a mask of calm, but he could read the tension in her body.
She looked long and hard at the lieutenant, and some unspoken acknowledgment passed between them. The lieutenant looked down before returning his gaze to Frank. “All right, we’ll do it your way.” Burke glowered as he spat out the words, begrudging every one. “I’ll put the team together, and you can run the show.” Frank suppressed a grin. “No task force?”
“No, but understand, you screw this up, it’s your ass and probably your career.”
That didn’t bother Frank one bit. “Understood, and thank you, sir,” he said, rising.
The lieutenant grunted, and his voice sounded odd. “Thank me when it’s over, Frank. Vera, I need to speak with you.”
Frank left Burke’s office, closing the door behind him. He wondered what had changed the lieutenant’s mind, and why he wanted to talk to Vera. He was probably making sure she spoke to a department shrink. That was standard procedure after a shooting.
Frank spent the rest of his shift in a state of nervous excitement. Nothing upset him, not even Vera, who seemed to have her eyes on him whenever he turned around. Not even his ex’s lawyer bothered him when he called to tell Frank she was suing for full custody of their kids. Frank cheerfully told him where he could shove his lawsuit. He was finally getting his big chance, nothing was going to bring him down.
The next day, Frank met with the other
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detectives in the squad and the thirty uniformed officers Lieutenant Burke had secured. Frank went over the map of the old Herald building, where each team was going to be stationed, and reiterated their responsibilities. Everything was ready.
Later that evening, sunset found Frank and Vera in a shuttered boathouse by the docks of the North Metro Bay. Their binoculars were trained through a boarded up window at the back of the old City Herald building.
The uniformed officers shuffled and fidgeted in their assault gear, waiting until it was go time.
“Why’d the Herald go under, anyway?” one of them asked.
“Internet, probably,” Vera replied without turning. “Nobody reads papers anymore.” The last vestiges of sunlight stained the horizon deep crimson, though the detectives paid little notice.
In the encroaching darkness, the building looked abandoned. However, surveillance had detected movement inside throughout the day, and Frank felt certain it was the Ecuadorians.
Time crawled. Frank felt the usual butterflies before a dangerous job. Vera did, too. Her every movement screeched with tension, and she wouldn’t go more than a few feet away from Frank, which he found strange. He wondered if she still felt bad about the shooting the day before.
At quarter past midnight, Frank’s comm crackled.
It was the lieutenant. His team was watching the ships in the dock. “There’s activity aboard the tanker in slip number thirty-eight. Looks like several large crates are being offloaded.”
“Any indication where they’re headed?” Frank asked. “Negative, should have that shortly.” Minutes ticked agonizingly as everyone in the cramped boathouse waited.
Finally, Burke’s voice came again. “They’re headed right for the target area, I count twenty crates being moved by forklift from the pier, you’ve got about
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five minutes before they arrive. Time to get set.”
“Roger that,” Frank replied. Then to the officers around him, “Time to go, you all know what to do.” Frank and Vera took the lead, slipping out of the ramshackle building into the cool night air. Frank stayed low as the assault team, each of them carrying an M-16, followed close behind. They approached the loading area from the northeast, taking a position behind a line of old storage containers, the metal corroded with rust. Frank crouched on the ground and poked his head around a corner. It was about forty yards to the drop zone. The area was dimly lit, just a few lights from nearby buildings painting the ground a murky shade of grey.
Frank trained his binoculars on the far side, searching for approaching vehicles. He smiled grimly when they emerged from the night in a long line. Soon, their faint rumble could be heard.
“Here they come,” he whispered. Small figures began to separate from the gloom of the Herald building, waiving at the approaching forklifts. They all held semi-automatics.
“How do you feel, Frank?” Vera asked in a taut voice. Was she kidding? “Like a walk in the park, Vera,” he answered. That shooting must have really messed her up. He dismissed his concern, focusing on the scene before him. The forklifts were all in the loading area, each one lowering a crate as big as a small car. The approaching men spread out around the crates, waiting.
Frank spoke into his comm. “All units prepare to move on my signal.”
A man pointed his weapon at one of the forklift drivers, motioning him to open a crate. The driver pulled out a crowbar and pried open the lid. He reached in and pulled out a sack, which he threw down. The man waiting caught it neatly. He put down his weapon and pulled out a knife, slitting the bag and sticking in a finger. He licked it, and Frank could have sworn he saw a smile, even in the dark at this distance.“Frank, that’s it, let’s go,” Vera whispered.
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“Not yet,” Frank muttered.
Another man motioned at a different crate, which a driver opened before reaching inside. He pulled out a long box that he gently placed on the ground.
Then he opened it and removed an oblong metal tube that attached to a few other pieces. He held up the end result, a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.
Frank smiled. “There’s the money shot.” He spoke into the comm, “Everyone move in, now.” He motioned to his team and sprinted across the intervening space, both hands on his pistol, held low.
As planned, other teams approached from different directions. Flood lights turned night into day as police choppers descended below the clouds. A voice cried over a mega-phone, “This is the police, drop your weapons, and put your hands behind your head.” Chaos ensued. The Ecuadorians took about two seconds to start shooting. Gunfire cracked in all directions. Frank felt a sharp bite like a hornet sting in his arm, but he ignored it and returned fire. As men around the crates began falling, it became apparent that overwhelming numbers surrounded them. Those remaining threw down their weapons and surrendered.
Frank, Vera at his side, walked toward the center of the loading area. Officers were placing everyone in handcuffs, and there was one man lying on the ground who Frank recognized. He was bleeding badly from a gunshot wound in the thigh and only half conscious.
It was Arturo Vega. He kept muttering vehemently in Spanish.
“Vera, what the hell is he saying?” Frank asked.
“I’m not sure, something about paying Hector back for this, he’s not making a lot of sense.” Arturo lapsed into unconsciousness as paramedics carted him away on a stretcher. The lieutenant appeared next to Frank.
“Nice job, everyone,” he said, through pursed lips. He didn’t even look at Frank.
“I would’ve expected more men guarding an operation like this,” Frank commented.
Burke turned to him. “They probably weren’t expecting us to hit them, they got lazy.”
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“You should have that checked out,” Vera said.
She motioned and Frank looked at his arm. He was bleeding, and he suddenly remembered the sting he had felt earlier.
“Well how do you like that?” he said, to no one in particular.
Vera waved a paramedic over to bind Frank’s arm. She gave a crooked smile. “This will look great for the cameras, Frank.”
Frank smiled a silly grin.
She was right. The next day there was a big press conference and Frank was center stage. Lieutenant Burke could barely hide his distaste, but did nothing to stop it. The bust was huge news, millions of dollars worth of narcotics and serious firepower off the streets, and a real blow against the Ecuadorians. Frank acted gracious and humble, and his face was plastered all over the local newspapers. He was a hero.