All The Big Ones Are Dead

by Christopher A. Gray

  Bishop flipped Trask onto his back. The broken left arm sprawling at an impossible angle on the living room floor. Trask’s eyes were darting side to side, wide with shock and pain. He was gasping desperately for air, unable to speak.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” Bishop said as he turned away and walked into the kitchen. He could be heard opening and closing drawers. He returned with a long, thin steak knife, and knelt down with it held in front of Trask’s eyes. He then slowly moved it, dragging the tip gently down Trask’s right rib cage until he got to the fifth rib.

  “This,” Bishop said looking directly into the psychopath’s eyes, “is for a friend of mine.” He clenched his powerful hand around the handle and in a convulsive thrust drove the sharp, serrated blade up and in, precisely between the fifth and sixth ribs. He then ripped sideways as hard as he could until the knife ground upward into the sternum.

  Bishop stood up and checked himself for wounds. Once he was sure that he was unhurt, he returned to the kitchen for some cleaning spray and a cloth. He used them to wipe down every object and surface he’d touched, including the knife handle still embedded in Trask’s body. When he was sure that there were no traces of him of any kind, he made his way to the back of the house and up the stairs. He found the digital surveillance for the house in a closet, and pulled the two hard drives. It took another couple of minutes to permanently delete the surveillance files on the local drive, and then he was done. No evidence again him was left behind. Savitch might hang them all out to dry over a badly blown op, but a domestic murder charge would not be part of the package.

  He’d noticed some shopping bags stored under the kitchen sink. He found a reusable, canvas one and used it to stow the hard drives and the laptop that had been sitting on the desk. He visited the bathroom, checked his appearance, cleaned off some spattered blood, put his jacket back on at the front closet and left the house being careful to turn on the alarm system and lock the front door.

  ***

  “You catch all of that?”

  “Ringside seat,” Rector replied. “Confirm the target is down.”

  “Confirmed. No pulse. No heartbeat.”

  “That will do it. A small bit of redemption in the midst of a blown op. A team is on the way.”

  “Tell them that I apologize for the mess.”

  “That’s the least of our worries. Anything else?”

  Bishop was aware of a growing tension.

  “For the first time in the last couple of weeks,” he said frankly, “I’m not sure of my next move.”

  “Still uptown for you,” Rector said. “Tudor, Linders. Continue the op until we get yanked. We’re blown. It’s just not official yet. Until somebody makes it official, we keep going.”

  “I’m on my way,” Bishop replied. “But I’d rather let Tudor go and see what happens. Tag him and track him looking for another opportunity.”

  “That’s not in the mission brief,” Rector said quickly. “We stay on-mission until we hear otherwise. Are we good?”

  “We’re good,” Bishop replied, but he didn’t feel good at all.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Heading for 804 5th Avenue, apartment 1102, Diane Linders was riding shotgun in the primary tail car following Jorge Tudor’s delivery van. They were making decent time heading north on Madison Avenue. The address they were heading for was about as wealthy as it got in midtown Manhattan. The Pierre close by, some of the most expensive restaurants in the city, ten thousand square foot apartments, billionaires, the most upscale condominiums in the country, the most exclusive locations in the city. Power, money, influence and opulent excess all rolled into one. Liveried doormen who were ex-military and armed, alert for anything unusual, yet solicitous of their charges. Internal building security identical or better even than that reserved for presidents and kings and only the wealthiest who could afford it. Children and grandchildren of all ages securely escorted to and from school. Delivery men had to pass through the latest scanners. Trades and technicians were subject to background checks, personal searches, toolbox and vehicle searches. Of all the astonishingly expense and exclusive 5th Avenue addresses, 804 was the place to be. If you could afford it. If you had the power and authority to influence the other owners to allow you to buy one of the apartments.

  A block before the building at East 62nd St., Tudor’s van made the turn to get around the block to pull up to the building’s loading bay off the wide rear laneway. One of the tail cars running with the group peeled off to ensure that Tudor followed the planned route and didn’t try to bolt at the last minute. As Diane checked the mirrors and confirmed the text from the other tail car, another text came in. It was Bishop.

  ‘Sorry that we’re blown’

  She smiled as she texted back.

  ‘We’re not blown.’

  ‘Alexei should have txt’d you 20 mins ago!! Trask had nothing.’

  ‘We’re NOT blown. What’s your 20?’

  ‘3 minutes out, still on sched. Orders to continue came thru Alexei. He says the ‘help’ has control of the bldg security.’

  ‘Tx. We’re on time. Tudor will be in apt in 5 or less, crate will be in shipping elevator any moment. Best info is that Dominican not there yet.’

  ‘He’s still mine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘K, keep your people away from the bldg ent and lobby. Keep two across street only. Dominican will have security. Might need help if they make a fuss in public. Got to wrap Dominican fast enough to avoid smartphone citizen recordings.’

  ‘NP, two across the street, the rest will stage on 10th flr. Are your people en route?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gr8. New info for you. Call me now.’

  Bishop re-read the last text, then keyed the speed dial to reach Linders.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Salim Abood.”

  “What about him, aside from the fact that he’s dead.”

  “He left us a present.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Seems he made a backup of all his work for Dominican. Seems that Abood’s late father taught his son well. Abood’s father had a lawyer in New York who did associate work for a couple of law firms in Tanzania, Kenya and Zimbabwe and several other places in East Africa. Salim gave a copy of his backup to the lawyer here, to be sent to the FBI in the event of Salim’s death or incapacitation. Max Gauss got a call from his main FBI contact. NSA cooperated with one of their supercomputers and cracked the sample file that the FBI had sent over. NSA cracked the file in about six hours. Happened yesterday or the day before. Max got the details and passed them to me immediately.”

  “What was in the backup?”

  “Everything we need. Hard evidence. The cracked file is a list of what’s contained in the other files in the backup. According to the list, there’s private surveillance footage and some startling names involved. Names, dates, activities. Hard evidence. Looks like it contains the key to my guy’s problems too.” Linders was referring to John Logan of course, and the current mess at Columbia.

  “Lucky break,” Bishop replied. The two words were likely the understatement of the decade. Bishop suddenly felt lightheaded, and it had nothing to do with his head injury.

  “Very lucky,” Linders said. When Bishop didn’t immediately reply, she spoke up again. “You all right?”

  “I will be,” Bishop replied softly, watching the world race by outside the cab window. “I will be.”

  “We get to go in heavy, now,” Diane said.

  “We do. See you shortly.”

  ***

  After crossing Netherlands Avenue near Trask’s house, Bishop had hailed a cab and then ended up on a forced tour of South Bronx because of car accidents and some sort of fuss on the Broadway Bridge. The driver was close to end of a long shift and begged for mercy, but Bishop had forty minutes to get to 804 5th Avenue and wouldn’t let him go. He was regretting getting rid of the FBI driver, but it was too late for that now. His headache was b
ack, and he was in a foul mood. Trask had been evil. The action in the house had aggravated the bruising and brought back the headache.

  Bishop had to flash his fake CBP ID to get the cab driver to step on it. So they ended up cutting east, then south, speeding down the Deegan Expressway. They took the ramp for the 3rd Avenue Bridge and crossed into Manhattan taking Lexington Avenue south to 63th then west to 5th Avenue. Bishop had known it was going to be stop and go on Lexington, so he had called Alexei. The taxi had been met by two FBI cars with lights and sirens blazing who helped clear a ten minute escort down Lexington all the way to 65th. The FBI agents had peeled off then, shutting down lights and sirens, leaving the cab to make its way unescorted the last two blocks.

  Bishop slid cash to the cab driver, and was saying thanks just as Marc Dominican’s blacked out Escalade pulled up to the curb in front of the gorgeous old apartment house. Bishop had time for only the quickest visual scan of the immediate area to confirm that Diane’s team were in fact nowhere in sight, before he engaged.

  “Mr. Dominican,” Bishop called, his hand extended in greeting, hurrying over to Dominican as the man warily exited the huge SUV.

  There were two bodyguards already in position, one having unfolded from the front passenger seat and the other from the street side of the back seat. Bishop spotted the usual shoulder holster bulges and made note of the thick necks, loose-limbed readiness and the laser focus on him by the nearest bodyguard. They were experienced. One bodyguard had closed with Dominican to do close-quarters protection and was scanning the surrounding area while his partner quartered with Bishop. No hesitation, Bishop noted, so they’ve done this before. The bodyguards knew their jobs.

  “Sorry,” Dominican said after briefly looking in Bishop’s direction, “but I don’t know you.”

  That was all the approaching bodyguard needed to firm up his step and confront Bishop.

  “Sorry, sir,” the bodyguard said, looking more like a wall than a man. “You have no business here. Please be on your way.”

  The bodyguard confronting Bishop was big and moved with athletic grace. He was in good shape and looked fast. He was following Bishop’s movements very carefully, not wasting time looking at Bishop’s eyes.

  Definitely experienced, Bishop thought, so this will have to be done the hard way.

  “I understand, sir,” Bishop said, feigning some annoyance, “but I do have some business with Mr. Dominican.” Bishop stopped, let the bodyguard see him forcing a calmness and pleasant smile. The tactic might have worked had the bodyguard not spotted a streak of blood on Bishop’s forehead, right at his hairline. Bishop had missed it during his quick self-examination at Trask’s.

  “Sir!” the bodyguard shouted. He startled a couple of passersby, whom Bishop smiled at and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Keep your distance. Stop where you are!” the bodyguard said, lowering his voice slightly. He’d seen the passersby too. He’d been readying himself for the appearance of a weapon or legal papers or something of the sort from Bishop. The blood streak, darkening and almost black under the streetlights, was unexpected. The guard extended his hand, palm outward, in the classic stop gesture.

  Bishop raised his hands in mock surprise and stood stock still.

  “I’m not moving,” Bishop replied immediately, closing his eyes. He wanted the bodyguard in close and thinking that Bishop was just a guy. Big and possibly not executive material, but just a guy.

  “Move along, sir,” the guard intoned much more quietly, keenly aware that this was all taking place on the Park Avenue sidewalk, “and please lower your hands. There’s no need to make a scene, and I’m not a cop.”

  “I just need a word—a business word—with Marc Dominican,” Bishop said, feigning a bit of irritation as he took a very small step toward the bodyguard.

  The man reacted by keeping his hand outstretched and walking to within a meter of Bishop. It was a mistake, and exactly what Bishop was hoping he’d do.

  “No, sir!” the bodyguard exclaimed. But he had moved in too close and for no good reason. Bishop had watched as the other bodyguard basically froze Dominican in position about two meters from the vehicle, while his partner confronted Bishop. Another mistake, Bishop thought. You should have shoved your client into to SUV and locked down or left the area.

  Bishop leaned back slightly, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows as though he was frightened of the bodyguard’s approach. Then Bishop did what he’d planned to do all along and threw a classic, straight front kick at the guards exposed groin. The kick caught the guard squarely and shockingly. His left hand moved automatically to protect the injured area while trying to shift his already extended right arm to fend off the possibility of another kick or a punch. Bishop grabbed the bodyguard’s right wrist before it moved, shifted his grip to the bodyguard’s hand, and in a swift a brutal backward motion locked the bodyguard’s wrist and elbow. As the guard bent forward from the force of the move, Bishop reversed his grip and hyperextended the guard’s arm, then pulled hard as he kicked sideways at the bodyguard’s right knee. The man fell toward Bishop at a difficult angle, and Bishop guided him hard down to the cement sidewalk. Bishop brought his knee down and snapped the guard’s elbow. Five seconds elapsed time.

  Anticipating the second bodyguard’s obvious next move. Bishop extended both arms to his sides and covered four quick strides to put himself exactly halfway between the car and Dominican. The second guard had his weapon out by that time. Bishop spared a glance at the Escalade’s driver. The man had been watching the action, and had the barrel of his own Glock resting on the vehicle’s passenger window sill, pointed at Bishop. The driver would likely stay in the car, Bishop knew, in case his boss needed a quick getaway.

  “Stop,” Bishop yelled to the bodyguard, deliberately holding his right arm out in the same way as the first bodyguard. “I’m Customs & Border Protection. Here’s my ID. You can check it now. From your car. You’ve got comms. Do not assault an unarmed CBP agent here on the street. That would be a really bad move.” Bishop just stared at the guard, daring him to do something stupid.

  The bodyguard remained frozen, looking sidelong at his boss for some direction.

  “Mr. Dominican,” Bishop said at a normal pitch. “I am sorry about your man. Have your other employee call the ambulance while we get this sorted out. I won’t press charges. If we can just sit and talk for a moment, perhaps in the lobby or in your car? I have some information that I think you’ll find important.”

  This sort of bullshit sometimes worked. Bishop had no doubt that Dominican would do two things: not believe him, and try to get back into his Escalade and disappear. As long as Bishop kept his body between Dominican and the car, Dominican would have to remain focused on the car because he sure enough did not want to enter 804 5th Avenue at that moment, not with a purported CBP agent confronting him. Either way, he was sure that Dominican would realize that he’d have to deal with Bishop.

  “Are you armed, Agent?” Marc asked, waving off the other bodyguard.

  “No, I am not, sir,” Bishop replied, patting his pockets then spreading his jacket. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  “Tell that to the personal protection you just put on the ground.”

  “I apologize for that, again, sir,” Bishop intoned. “I do have some important information to relay. We should talk in your car. We’re drawing a crowd.”

  The words “relay”, “information” and “crowd” made Dominican snap to attention and start believing. Keywords are everything to people who are perpetually paranoid. To Dominican, relay meant pass along. Something coming up the chain or down the chain. The word “important” is another trigger. But the word “information” is the king of them all. Put them together, along with the deliberately beseeching tone in Bishop’s voice, and Dominican was no longer startled at the scary look he’d seen on Bishop’s face a moment earlier.

  “George,” Marc said, gesturing at the badly injured bodyguard, “get h
im off the sidewalk right now and into a taxi. Get him straight to the hospital. He injured himself sparring, do you understand?”

  The guard nodded, spared a momentary look at Bishop, then immediately started waving at the taxi rank only a few meters away, behind the Escalade. Half the cab drivers were out of their vehicles, watching the commotion.

  “Get back here as fast as possible, George.” Then he turned back to Bishop. “We can talk in the Caddy right here,” and walked straight into the back seat through the still open door. The driver relaxed and holstered his weapon.

  As Bishop got into the vehicle’s rear seat next to Dominican, he made two simultaneous moves. He braced his left foot on the rocker panel and drove a stunning straight right fist over the front seat into the driver’s right sphenoid and temporal artery area. At the last possible moment he pulled the punch just enough to deliver a concussive strike. He only wanted the driver out of the game, not dead.

  Bishop then immediately swept his left arm and fist sideways toward Dominican’s upper chest area, but Dominican reflexively curled suddenly, startled at Bishop’s frightening lunge, so Bishop’s fist connected with the bridge of Marc’s nose instead of hitting him in the chest and just winding him.

  Dominican was sputtering in sudden pain and a flood of tearing from his eyes. His nose started bleeding almost instantly.

  “Mr. Dominican,” Bishop said immediately. “Calm yourself. Breathe through your mouth. You are being detained by agencies of the U.S. government, cooperating international agencies, and by me, personally.” Dominican was barely listening and he was starting to look slightly shocky.

  Bishop looked around for a bar fridge, found the thing, pulled out a soft drink and opened it.