by Ice-T
Fordham laughed manically. “Okay, gangsta, you wanna play it like that, I’m game. Give the phone back to Alek.”
Casey tossed the phone to Petrosian, who got up, confirmed everything, and hung up. Casey looked at his guys—all had their pistols drawn and had overheard enough of the conversation to know what was going down.
Petrosian smiled at Casey as he started walking to the cars. “The dope’s under the floorboards, in the trunks, and in front of the passenger seats.”
Casey looked at his guys and told them to start unloading the cars. The H was hidden under the carpet; whoever did the packing had done a excellent job of regluing the carpet so it wouldn’t be detected. The heroin was in plastic bags about two inches thick. After thirty minutes of going through all the cars, a three-foot-by-three-foot pile of heroin stood in the middle of the floor.
“Da-yamn, that’s worth twenty mil easy,” Mick said as he stood next to Casey. “If it’s cut correctly, maybe twice that.”
Casey nodded, his mind working overtime to get them all out of this alive. Fordham’s ass in the hot seat meant this haul was his last. If he had an ounce of brains, he was gonna cash out, get lost, and never be seen or heard from again.
Casey instructed the guys to load it all into Champa’s car. Once the drugs were secure, Casey told his crew to hold down the spot.
Then he turned to Champa. “Look, brotha, this ain’t your fight, so I can roll solo—”
“You carryin’ twenty mil wortha China White in my muthafuckin’ whip, and you even think I’m lettin’ you go alone—nigga, please, nobody drives my shit but me!” With that, Champa walked to his car. “You comin’?”
Petrosian’s S600 creeped out of the warehouse, with Casey and Champa following it. The Armenian had both of his guys hang back to make sure that they weren’t followed. Champa’s Aston Martin ran a little low to the ground ’cause of the weight they were carrying. When his muffler scraped the ground, Casey saw Champa grit his teeth at the sound. The Armenian was a slick muthafucka; he definitely had the upper hand.
They got on the freeway and drove for twenty minutes. Casey talked through all the potential scenarios, but none of them were foolproof or sounded great to him. Casey doubted that Fordham would allow him to walk, but Petrosian, on the other hand, knew that Casey had a lot of firepower that would come for retribution if shit went wrong. Being hunted by a crew as notorious as Casey’s would only end one way. And cop or no cop, Fordham would be on the top of their list. His mind went to Carla and what she must be goin’ through. If she was being beaten or, worse, raped, Casey knew he would lose his shit. If they were both lucky enough to survive this, she would most certainly never speak to him again. Champa and Casey agreed on a plan that seemed the least insane and left it at that.
Petrosian’s car pulled off the freeway and drove a few blocks past several single-level warehouses and then down a dead-end street for about three miles into the entrance of a junkyard.
“Turn around so you can make a fast exit. I gotta feeling this ain’t gonna go smooth.”
Champa whipped the car around and kept the engine running as Casey got out. With every step inside, he was flying by the seat of his pants. These sonsofbitches had already laid out a careful plan and lured his ass right into it.
He walked up to Petrosian and gave him a “what now, muthafucka?” look. Out of the shack of an office sitting behind him, Casey heard Carla’s voice call his name. He turned to see Carla traumatized and shaking. Her usually perfect makeup had run down her face, and her cream-colored pantsuit was torn and dirty. She was relieved to see him only because she was scared for her life. He didn’t say anything; he just walked up to her and held her tightly, then walked her to Champa’s car and put her in the front passenger seat.
He turned around to see Petrosian and Fordham standing next to each other, staring at him. All the men approached each other simultaneously.
Casey was the first to speak. “You know where it’s at—speak that gibberish to your guys to unload it.”
Petrosian put two fingers in his mouth and whistled for his three men to come over. He snapped something in Armenian, and as they went to the car, Champa hit the gas and sped off. Both Fordham and Petrosian freaked out and along with three goons started firing at the car as it snaked up the road, but it was no use. After emptying their guns, they turned to find Casey holding his P290 in one hand, aimed at them. And a live grenade in the other.
“You know, I didn’t think that shit was gonna work. I felt fucked up taking the risk, but Champa swore you guys couldn’t be trusted and called it exactly.”
Both Petrosian and Fordham fumed as they looked at Casey.
“Now, I know you recognize a 9 millimeter, but do you know a genuine U.S. Army timed-fuse hand grenade when you see it? Drop your shit on the ground and kick it all towards me.”
“You’re fucking with the wrong guys, Casey,” Petrosian said calmly.
“I agree one hundred percent, you’re bad news, but I’m no picnic, either. Now, Fordham, get in the trunk of the Benz.”
“Not on your fucking life. You’ll have to put a bullet in me if you want me in that fucking trunk!”
“Okay,” said Casey as he leveled his gun at Fordham’s foot and squeezed off a round.
Fordham’s foot exploded in a bright red mass of blood. He fell to the ground and howled in pain and then started cursing at Casey as he clutched what was left of his foot.
“Now, I know that has to hurt! I can shoot the other foot and work all the way up to your balls—I got plenty of ammo, so it’s your choice. Get in the trunk or get ready to feel some more heat.”
Fordham’s face twisted in pain as he hobbled to the trunk, leaving a bloody trail and running his mouth the whole time. For once, the muthafucka was feeling the other end of the punishment that he so often delivered. This was a small payback for his career of bullshit, intimidation, and torture that he’d laid out for years. The former chief detective finally got his ass in the trunk and stared defiantly up at Casey, still talking shit. Casey picked up one of the empty guns and checked it out to make sure it had no more rounds. He told the guys to toss their cell phones on the ground and stomp ’em. Then he shot out the tires on Fordham’s car and the other one.
“Alek, come here, I need you to do something for me.”
The Armenian looked at Casey with disdain and slowly walked over. “You’re making this real bad for yourself, Crush. You could have walked away with your lady and the cars, but now—”
“Save that shit, take this piece, and knock your buddy out,” Casey said as he tossed the empty pistol to Petrosian.
Upon hearing that, Fordham went ape shit and started yelling and screaming at Petrosian all sorts of threats, and that he had “better not do shit!”
Petrosian’s head sank and looked up at Casey and saw that there was no way of getting around it. He walked up to the trunk, and Fordham held his hands in the air and squirmed to get away from the beating that was coming.
“Put your hands down or get shot!” yelled Casey.
“You’re fucking dead, Casey!” Fordham screamed, his face beet red and the veins in his neck popping out.
Casey pointed his gun at Fordham’s balls.
“No, no, no, no, no! Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay,” Fordham said as he bounced around the back of the trunk like a Mexican jumping bean. Then he slowly lowered his hands and squeezed his eyes shut.
Lifting the piece high in the air, Petrosian quickly brought it down, giving Fordham a solid wallop. The other man let out a yelp as blood trickled from the crown of his head. The detective groaned in pain as he danced on the line of unconsciousness. Casey peered over while watching Petrosian’s squad to make sure they didn’t try shit.
He glanced at Alek and said, “Second time’s a charm?” Without hesitation, Petrosian thumped the chief detective twice with all his might.
“Yep, that did it. You mighta even have killed ’im. NYPD ain’t gonna appreci
ate that! Toss your gun in the trunk and close it.”
Petrosian obliged. Casey walked up to the driver’s door on the Benz and opened it. “Get in.”
“You’re really fucking this up, Casey. It’s not too late—”
“Yeah, well, I appreciate your concern—now, buckle up, I’m on a schedule,” Casey replied as he got in the backseat. After he shut the back door and put his gun up against Petrosian’s head, he reached forward and ripped the rearview mirror off the windshield.
“Now, let’s go back to the warehouse, and no peekin’ back here unless you wanna lose an ear.”
As the car pulled out, Casey settled in the backseat and placed his pistol on his lap. He carefully put the pin in the grenade, holding his breath until it was secure again. Then he pulled out his phone and dialed Champa. “Where are you?”
“Heading back your way.”
“What—? Why?” Casey asked. “Where’s Carla?”
“Shin met me. He’s got her and is taking her back to her place. I told him to stay with her until he hears different.”
“How’d he know where we were and how’d he get here so fast?”
“When all that shit was goin’ down at the warehouse, Al P. hijacked Petrosian’s phone, listened in, and knew exactly where we’d landed. After Petrosian’s men bounced, Shin and the other guys started heading to us.”
“Al fucking P. using his head, thinking on his feet. Goddamn, is the world coming to an end? How far away are you, and who’s watching the cars?”
“About two blocks. Mick’s boys are still in place, watching over everything.”
“Okay, well, we in route to the— Fuuuuck!”
In the second before the crash, Casey recognized the Hummer approaching. He felt the S600 accelerate and swerve toward the large SUV, and knew the impact was imminent.
As the two cars collided, Casey’s body hurled forward and hit the passenger backseat and he saw stars. He held on to his piece, even though it discharged, but the grenade fell out of his hand and bounced around the backseat.
When his vision returned, the Benz was up against the concrete divider, its rear end crushed and the driver’s-side windows broken. Casey tried to get his bearings as he frantically looked for the grenade. He found it on the floor and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. Stumbling out of the car, he fell to the ground. His ears were ringing, and a sharp pain shot up his right leg that almost made him pass out. His forehead was wet, and he wiped away the blood coming from it so it wouldn’t go in his eyes. He heard Petrosian yelling like a maniac in Armenian and his guys responding, but couldn’t see any of them. When he stood up, he felt like someone was putting an ice pick in his head, and he fell back to the ground, screaming, “Ah, shit!”
In the distance, he heard a car horn blaring, then skidding tires, and a flurry of gunshots. Casey slowly got up, his leg and head throbbing. His leg was badly bruised, but it wasn’t bleeding; he saw the Hummer had lost a chunk of its back end but other than that, it looked fine. The gunshots were from Champa, who was unloading at Petrosian and his men from behind the armored door of his ride. Behind him, Casey recognized the Garcia brothers’ car, which whizzed by him and fishtailed to a stop a few yards away. Mick and Big Rich jumped out of the backseat as the two brothers came out of the front, guns drawn and blazing.
Seeing he was outnumbered, and with Champa to the north and the others to the south, Petrosian bailed into the building with his crew right behind him.
Champa was the first to reach Casey. “Crush, you a’ight, man?”
“Yeah—just a little dizzy, my leg’s a bit fucked up, though.”
“You gotta cut and a helluva bump on your head, but the cut don’t look too bad,” Champa said as he gave him the once-over.
Casey’s other guys blew past him in hot pursuit of Petrosian and his crew. Casey’s head started to clear as he stood up just in time to see a car with a doughnut for a front wheel skid to a stop a few yards away. Three of Petrosian’s guys jumped out and started firing at them. Casey and Champa dived behind the Benz and returned fire. Casey’s P290 went dry and he tossed it aside and started firing the Glock. He tagged one of the guys in the neck, and blood came gushing out like he was a fire hydrant. Petrosian’s guys took cover after seeing that.
Champa crouch-walked to the front tire of the S600, looking for a shot before realizing he was empty. “Crush, I’m out!”
Casey popped his magazine out, freed nine shells from it, and gave them to Champa, who loaded his piece with military efficiency.
There was a loud crack behind them. Casey whirled to see one of Petrosian’s crew trying to flank them and raining lead down. Casey and Champa fell to their backs and returned fire, catching the gunman twice in the chest. The slide on Casey’s Glock locked back, and he cursed himself for not being more careful with his ammo. Checking on Champa, he saw his brotha sitting against the tire and grimacing as he clutched his shoulder while blood slowly oozed out. Casey tossed his empty piece aside and crawled next to him to inspect the damage.
“Jesus, you a’ight? Move your hand, lemme see.”
“Feels like—it went through,” Champa said, his face contorted in pain.
“Yeah, you right. How you feel?”
“It hurts like a muthafucka, but other’n that I’m good. How many are left?”
“Two more out there,” Casey said as he peered over the hood of the car. He spotted the other two guys talking as they prepared to attack. Glancing back at Champa, Casey saw he was close to passing out. “Hey, man, try and hold on,” Casey said as he grabbed Champa’s piece.
Champa mumbled something Casey couldn’t understand. He checked the piece for ammo: it had five rounds. Fuck! That was playing it too close. He still had the grenade, but hadn’t wanted to use it yet, but necessity made it his only option.
“Hold on, buddy, once I get this sorted, I’ma get you some help.” Casey pulled the pin on the grenade, let the spoon fly off, waited a second, and lobbed it World War II–style at the other guys and held his ears. Once it went off, he would charge the vehicle and cap any survivors. He could hear the other guys freak out when they saw it coming at them and waited for the blast.
But nothing happened. After five seconds passed, he knew it wasn’t gonna go off. A fuckin’ dud! I don’t believe this shit!
Casey checked on Champa again and saw his eyes rolling back in his head as he slumped against the tire. He checked the man’s jacket and pockets, hoping he might have an extra piece, but no dice. Shit, we’re both fucked—wait a minute—Champa’s whip! The piece Hans had rigged in his ride!
Casey glanced out quickly, locating Champa’s Aston Martin about twenty feet away. He knew he couldn’t think about what he was about to do; he just had to do it. He scrambled to the back of the Benz and sprinted for Champa’s ride. With every step, pain shot up his leg like he was running on a knife point.
Both guys opened fire as soon as he came out, peppering the road and cars with bullets. Casey turned and squeezed off three rounds as he stumbled backwards. One of his rounds tagged a guy in the head, making him disappear behind the car. Casey lurched into the Aston Martin, falling across the driver’s seat as multiple shots hit the bulletproof glass.
Casey reached over, turned the ignition key one click, and said “Düsseldorf,” expecting Champa’s gun to pop out of the dash. Nothing happened. He cleared his throat and very clearly and loudly said it three more times, but nothing happened. What the fuck! Casey hit the dash like a maniac and tried to pry it open, but it was impossible. Champa must have changed the muthafuckin’ password!
“Sonofabitch!” he screamed. He dragged himself out of the car and looked over the hood. His leg hurt, but he was so amped up—his heart felt like it was beatin’ a million times a minute—that it didn’t matter; he was in survival mode. He could tell his opponent was behind the front passenger tire, about thirty-five feet away.
Casey slowly got up, feeling his best chance was to draw the man out and ta
g him, but the dude wasn’t goin’ for it. Maybe he’s low on shells, too? Casey looked at Champa, whose eyes were closed, but he could see his chest move, so he knew he wasn’t dead.
Petrosian’s man wasn’t gonna be drawn out, so Casey lay on the ground and watched under the car, waiting for an opportunity to wing him. It’d be a tough shot to make, and he’d only have one chance at it. He knew the tension would get to the dude, and it would only be a matter of time until he changed position. A few moments later, the guy shifted his stance, and a foot moved into view. Casey carefully aimed at his ankle and gently squeezed off a round. The man howled in pain, and Casey took off for Champa. At his side, he tried to bring him back around.
“Champa, Champa, wake the fuck up! I need the password! ‘Düsseldorf’ ain’t workin’, man! Goddamnit, Champa, help me out!”
Casey looked over the hood and saw the last dude was still sufferin’, but was keepin’ a keen eye on him, as evidenced by the three shots that buzzed by his head. Casey shook Champa, who was drifting in and out; his eyes were rolling back in his head as he moaned in pain.
“Champa, come on, buddy!” Casey shouted as he shook him.
Finally Champa mumbled something. “Rat … Ratti…”
“Rat? Is that it? Come on, don’t give up on me now, man! Is it rat? What the fuck is it!”
Champa’s eyes looked crazy, like he was stoned or something, and he was starting to drool. It didn’t look like he was gonna last much longer. He needed a doctor pronto, but Casey needed that goddamn password. In the distance, he heard the pounding of gunfire in the building behind him between Petrosian and his guys.
“… Rat … Ratouie … Ratatouille…”
“Ratatouille! Is that it? Jesus muthafuckin’ Christ, Champa?” Casey screamed. He shoulda known it’d be some crazy shit like that.
Casey got up and did his suicide run one last time and heard more shots; he felt one of the shots close enough to tug his coat. He blindly shot his last round in the direction of the shooter, then tossed the gun aside. He slid next to the car like a baseball player, and searing pain went through his whole body. It was so bad, he wanted to puke and he felt light-headed, a hot flash flooding over his whole body as he started to shake. He pulled his head together and crawled into the car and uttered the password.
