Out of Exile: Hard Boiled: 2

by Jack Quaid

  ‘Have you got a problem, convict?’ Fisher asked.

  ‘Does anybody think discrediting Jones and returning his daughter safe and sound is Campbell’s endgame?’

  ‘Well, what is?’ Mackler asked.

  ‘I don’t know. But I think we should explore other possibilities.’

  ‘We don’t have the time, the manpower, or resources,’ Mackler said, ‘and frankly, I just don’t believe what you say.’ She shifted her attention back to Fisher. ‘Go on.’

  He smoothed his moustache and spoke with a lot of hand gestures. ‘These guys are cops, which means they know how we do what it is we do. What I suggest is we change the way we play the game. They’re going to expect us to have rolling surveillance and be on the chief like flies on shit. The location they send her to first won’t be the one she ends up at. It’ll be a tour of Detroit before she reaches her final destination.’

  Grey peeled his eyes from his iPad. ‘We can’t send her out there alone.’

  ‘She won’t be,’ Fisher said. ‘She’ll have three GPS trackers hidden on her body. One in her shoe, another in her watch, and another in her hair. She’ll also have an earpiece equipped with a microphone, so we can communicate at all times.’

  ‘What’s the range of that thing?’ O’Conner asked.

  ‘Three miles,’ Fisher said. ‘In the meantime, SWAT will be on standby. From here, we can get to anywhere in the CBD inside of three minutes. Once we have confirmation, we’ll take them by force.’ When Fisher finished, he was quite impressed with himself, judging by the grin on his face.

  ‘‘We’ll take them by force’? That’s your plan?’ Sullivan looked over the desk to Mackler. ‘You have more guts than I thought.’

  Sullivan poured a cup of piss-weak coffee, ate two more painkillers, and watched Fisher and his team hide GPS trackers on Mackler in the first places Campbell would look.

  Sarah Jones refused to go to the hospital and see a surgeon about her finger, so a paramedic changed the dressing. A DPD counselor talked to her in calm and reassuring tones, but they were laying it on too thick and the words came out hollow. Jones sat by himself at the far end of the room, with his police radio pushed into the side of his face. He was hoping to get the first news of anything, but nothing came through.

  Sullivan watched him for a long time before climbing to his feet and moving toward him. O’Conner saw what was happening and put an arm on him. ‘I wouldn’t, mate.’

  Sullivan shook him off and went and sat across from Jones.

  ‘I suggest you go and find another place to sit,’ Jones said.

  ‘I’m sorry about Sarah’s finger. If I didn’t cut it off, somebody else would have. We need to focus on getting Monique back, finding Campbell, and finding Hailstrum.’ He looked over his shoulder at Fisher, who was still securing the GPS trackers to the chief. ‘SWAT are not as good as they think they are. Fisher’s not thinking ahead; he’s just thinking about the who and the how, not the why. Why is Campbell doing this?’

  ‘He did it to ruin the DPD, to punish me. For hunting out all those crooked cops.’

  ‘He’s already done that,’ Sullivan said. ‘Why go through with this charade? Why not dump Monique out in a busy street, blindfolded? That would serve the same purpose.’

  ‘You want to find out who Hailstrum is, I understand that,’ Jones said. ‘But I’m trying to get Monique back alive. I don’t care anymore if Hailstrum is still out there or escapes. I just want my little girl back.’

  ‘I’m just trying to—’

  Jones stood and was about to walk off when his temper got the better of him. ‘You think you’re the good guy, and you’re not. You’re the bad guy! You will always be the bad guy. Now, just sit here, keep your mouth shut, and wait to go back to jail.’

  Sullivan stood, opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Jones’s phone rang.

  It was Campbell.

  The location of the meet: the GPO.

  The time: now.

  Chapter Fifty Three

  The smell of gasoline fumes lingered in the underground car park of Major Crimes, giving everything in the distance a slight blur. SWAT vans sat and idled with fully equipped members in the rear, ready to deploy as soon as the call was made and the driver hit the gas. Patrols filled with uniforms were ready to do the escort, and a paramedic van tailed, in case the worst happened.

  O’Conner had pulled rank at Internal Affairs and brought Sullivan along for the ride, ‘in case you still want to do some good,’ as he put it.

  They both stood by the communications van while Fisher checked and double-checked Mackler’s gear. If she had any fear, she didn’t show it. She was composed and focused, her face emotionless, and if she had any doubt, she’d buried it so deeply that it didn’t matter.

  Fisher gave the thumbs-up—she was good to go.

  Instead of heading straight to the car, Mackler went to Sarah and took her hand in her own. ‘It’s almost over,’ she said. ‘You just need to be strong for a little while longer. I’ll get Monique back. You can count on that.’

  Mackler was issued an unmarked. It had a full tank of gas, a backup weapon in the glove box, and a shotgun in the back seat. She walked to the vehicle alone, climbed inside it, and pulled out of the car park.

  With the chief gone, Fisher was in charge of the operation. He leaned into the van, pulled out a radio, and pushed it to his lips. His words crackled out of every radio in the car park. ‘The Detroit Police Chief has just left the garage; she’s alone, and we are all she has. So, don’t fuck up, people.’

  Sullivan turned to O’Conner. ‘He’s really quite inspiring.’

  ‘You should hear him do eulogies.’

  Jones, Fisher, and O’Conner crammed into the back of the communications van. Sullivan stood by the doors and listened to the run-around Campbell was giving Mackler. She got a scenic tour of the city.

  Her first stop was the courthouse on Madison. There was a trash bin by the stairs, where she fished out a mobile phone. When it rang, the voice on the other end sent her to the Family Dollar store on Joy Street, where, again, she fished a mobile phone from a trach can and received another set of instructions. From the Dollar Store, she was sent to another location where she was to pick out another phone from another trash can. And on and on it went. After ninety minutes and seven mobile phones, Chief Mackler was told to go to Oxford House at William Street and take the elevator to the fourth floor.

  Fisher slammed on the horn of the communications van, and half the cops who had dozed off snapped awake.

  ‘This is the last stop!’ he yelled into the radio. ‘Let’s hit the toe!’

  Chapter Fifty Four

  The convoy barreled through the city, two motorcycles leading the charge. When the traffic came to a halt, the convoy mounted the gutter and sped down the footpath. Lights flashed, sirens and horns blared while pedestrians jumped out of the way. Sullivan thought it was all too much. He shot a glance at O’Conner. O’Conner rolled his eyes.

  The convey cut the sirens, lights, and speed a block from Oxford House and broke apart, as planned, to surround the building. On the surface, the operation was covert. Patrols set a passive perimeter around a three-block radius of Oxford House. Casual—cool. Capable of locking the area down in thirty seconds. Two ambulances parked a block away on Layefette Street, their engines idling and ready to roll. SWAT had three units in the area. One was parked across the road disguised as an UPS van, set to attack from the front. Another unit was working their way in from behind, and a third was in the air, ready to abseil onto the roof of the building.

  Within minutes, the area was flooded with a police presence, even though an ordinary citizen on the street wouldn’t have noticed anything. A unit of rogue cops who had kidnapped the head of Internal Affairs’ daughter and were planning to exchange her for the police chief would. And that’s what worried Sullivan.

  Oxford House was a ten-floor office building in the heart of the legal district. Buil
t in the fifties, it had a large and narrow lobby with a skinny staircase and a small elevator. It was walking distance from the Appeals Court, with law firms housed in every other building between. The building sat discreetly among those around it, nothing about it out of the ordinary.

  The communications van reversed into a dead-end alley, with graffiti, rubbish skips, and an upturned shopping cart that somebody had dumped. The doors of the van popped open. Sullivan climbed out, stretched his legs, and cocked his head to see William Street between the alley wall and the van. There were lawyers wheeling files in luggage cases, and the occasional suited-up crim with a tie that was knotted wrong.

  ‘She’s on foot, two blocks away,’ Fisher called out. ‘Five minutes to showtime.’

  It was all too easy, Sullivan thought. Why go through with this charade? He leaned into the van. ‘Something isn’t right here, Fisher,’ he said. ‘You need to pull her out.’

  ‘Observer, Sullivan. That means, keep your mouth fucking shut.’ Then, catching himself, Fisher said, ‘Sorry about the language,’ to Sarah, who was too concerned about Monique to care about Fisher’s profanities.

  Fisher pulled his headphones off, pushed a radio to his lips, and over an open frequency, told everybody that the chief was half a block away. He flicked a switch on the console, and the audio chatter from the four units in the operation filtered out through the cheap speaker in the corner of the van. Besides reports of vaguely suspicious behavior that added up to nothing, the line was dead.

  The horror of the day had worn Jim Jones down. His color was grey and his mannerisms vague, but he paid attention to the radio like a cop thinking two steps ahead. He looked to Sullivan; neither of them liked what was happening. It was all too easy.

  ‘I’m coming up on Oxford House now,’ Mackler said through the radio.

  ‘Do you see anything out of the ordinary?’ Fisher asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I am approaching the building . . . I am entering the building.’

  Sullivan pushed away from the van and leaned against the alley wall. He had a good angle on Oxford House and could still hear the communications from the van.

  ‘What do you see?’ Fisher asked.

  ‘A lobby; small, empty. Two couches along the left wall, a directory on the right. An elevator at the rear of the lobby. I’m heading to it now . . . I’m pressing the button . . . I can hear it coming . . . It’s arrived . . . The doors are opening . . . I’m stepping inside.’

  Sullivan smirked at the running commentary.

  ‘The elevator is—’

  The audio faded, crackled, and was lost.

  Fisher turned to the others crammed into the van and shook his head. ‘Damn elevators.’

  Sullivan lit a cigarette, shot a glance toward Oxford House, looked down, and did a quick double take. His stomach dropped, and the cigarette slipped from his fingers. Con ‘Horse’ Gracie, ex-bomb squad and current Campbell crew, had just walked out of the lobby. Sullivan’s mind backpedaled over everything that had led to the current moment. It all came back to one image: Campbell’s empty-office-building safe house and Gracie building C4 charges.

  Sullivan lunged into the truck. ‘Abort!’ he yelled. ‘The building’s going to blow.’

  ‘Stay out of this operation, Sullivan!’ Fisher shouted.

  ‘You need to get the chief out of there now!’

  Fisher yanked his headphones off, pushed a radio to his lips. ‘I need two uniforms to my location, to put Angus Sullivan under arrest.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ Sullivan said.

  Fisher shifted his attention back to the radio chatter. ‘Enjoy prison, you prick.’

  Sullivan could hear footsteps rounding the van. He saw Jones, who, with a slight tilt of his head, nodded: Go.

  Sullivan shot his arm out past Lopez and O’Conner, wrapped his fingers around a radio, and was gone.

  The two uniforms who tried to apprehend him didn’t stand a chance. Sullivan left-hooked one to the ground and buried his knee in the other’s balls.

  He cleared the footpath. Fisher yelled into the radio, ‘If Angus Sullivan in any way impedes this operation, shoot him!’

  Sullivan cut across the road. The traffic was light. A cab almost clipped him, the driver hitting the horn and driving on by. A couple of passing lawyers gave him half a glance. Sullivan busted through the double glass doors of Oxford House and stumbled to a stop.

  It was quiet. There was an elevator and six columns holding up the lobby roof. He took a couple of steps. Confusion filled his face.

  ‘Sullivan!’ The radio in his hand crackled with Jones’s voice. ‘What do you see?’

  He turned and saw the reverse of the two columns he had just passed. Both were strapped with C4. He took a couple more steps. All six columns had the same set-up.

  He pushed the radio to his lips. ‘We’ve got a big problem.’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘There’s half-a-dozen charges in here, and they’re rigged with C4.’

  Silence.

  ‘Jones?’

  ‘Is there a timer?’

  Sullivan sidled up to one of the charges. A digital six-digit timer counted down.

  59

  58

  57

  ‘Clear the street,’ he said. ‘We’ve got less than a minute.’

  Fisher got on the radio. ‘I’m putting you through to Sam Marko, bomb squad tech.’

  ‘Fuck that,’ Sullivan said. ‘Send him in.’

  ‘He’s two blocks out.’

  Patrols came to sliding stops outside Oxford House, with sirens and lights and horns. Confused pedestrians were hurried away, and traffic was forced to a stop.

  The radio crackled to life. ‘This is Sam Marko; what are you looking at?’

  ‘A great big bomb.’

  ‘Describe it to me.’

  ‘It looks like two pounds of C4. A shitty digital timer and a fuck-load of green wires hanging out of it.’

  ‘Only green?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘I can talk you through disarming it. It’ll take about thirty seconds.’

  36

  35

  34

  Sullivan tilted his head to see the other five columns.

  ‘There’s six of them.’

  There was a long silence on the other end.

  Marko finally spoke. ‘Get out of there.’

  Sullivan stepped back from the explosives. He called Monique’s name.

  18

  17

  16

  ‘Get out of there, Sullivan!’ Lopez yelled through the radio.

  He again called for Monique, but it was pointless. She wasn’t in the lobby, and even if she could hear him, it was too late to get her out.

  9

  8

  7

  He ran through the lobby, busted out of the double doors and into the street.

  3

  2

  1

  Chapter Fifty Five

  When he woke ten minutes later, there was a ringing in his ears and a stinging in his eyes. Sullivan struggled to his feet. The extent of the hell going on around him came in fragments at first:

  A layer of dust hanging in the air.

  Paramedics frozen in shock.

  A woman, the side of her head caked in blood, stumbling across the road in one high heel.

  And when the ringing in his ears faded, he heard the screams. The wails of pain coming from disorientated and frightened office workers, with blood in their eyes and disbelief on their faces. Sullivan tripped over what was left of a photocopier and stepped into the street. The front of Oxford House had been blown off. Each floor was exposed, and at the right height and angle, you could see clear down to the rear wall. Filing cabinets, chairs, and carpets littered William Street. Debris fell from the crumbling structure and hit the road in god-awful thumps and crashes.

  A paramedic yelled for Sullivan to get out of the way. He stumbled as they rushed a trolley, its wheels buc
kled on a scorched refrigerator door, past him and into the scene. The men hiked it up and carried it over the rubble to a man in his late sixties who was in the midst of a heart attack.

  Sullivan’s shaky hand reached for a cigarette. He lit one and took a drag. Along the street, where pockets of the injured were dotted along, calls of pain filtered into the air, along with sobs. But none stood out more than the sobbing closest to him. Jim Jones held on tightly to Sarah as she cried into his chest, but she lost the strength in her legs and slipped to the ground.

  Chapter Fifty Six

  Minutes after the explosion, the media demanded answers; an hour after, they got them. Photos from what was already being called Ground Zero were uploaded via Twitter and videos posted on YouTube. They only told half the story. It wasn’t until Mayor Adams held a press conference that the media got the other half.

  Adams had arrived on the scene within ten minutes of the explosion and assumed control of the situation. Immediately, he dismissed Mackler’s Brat Pack senior staff, leaving no one but O’Conner, who he used as his liaison with the department in order to trickle orders down the ranks. There was no time for committee meetings about the best course of action or about what impact which words were going to have on public perception.

  The press conference was held at the edge of the cordoned-off area a block away on Grand Boulevard. There were two patrols in the background, and beyond them, a plume of smoke dissipating into the skyline.

  Adams navigated his round figure between the bumpers of vehicles and into position in front of the press. iPhones and microphones were shoved into his face, ready to capture and broadcast every snippet of news.

  Adams’s voice was calm and measured, exactly the tone the public needed to hear. ‘Less than an hour ago, a office building exploded on William Street, killing at least twelve people and injuring many more. We are conducting an extensive search and rescue exercise, and are expecting to find many people alive. The good news is that there will be many survivors. The bad news is that we are expecting fatalities. As of now, we have twelve confirmed deaths, among which is that of Chief Christine Mackler.’