by Ty Patterson
‘We are investigating white supremacists in various police forces in the country. NYPD is my focus.’
‘Not just that,’ the cop joined in. ‘Racial crimes as well. We have a broad remit.’
Cutter was still when his visitors outlined how the two threads they had been pursuing merged and became the task force.
‘We came across that tattoo in some earlier cases. All white men. Holdups, burglaries, assaults, a few killings as well. No links to any gangs, however.’
‘Not just that,’ the FBI agent said bitterly. ‘Many of them walked with very light sentences. Heck, some of them weren’t even arraigned.’
‘Dirty cops?’ He turned cold.
‘Dirty judges as well, we suspect, but there’s nothing we can prove. It’s too circumstantial.’
‘Can’t you question those perps?’
‘We would, if we could find them.’
‘Or if they were alive. Yeah,’ Difiore read his look. ‘Those who walked or served their sentences have dropped off the radar. Those who were in prison, died in fights.’
Cutter took their empty plates and cutlery, rinsed them and placed them in the dishwasher. He wiped the kitchen island and washed his hands. Enough time for him to get his thoughts in order.
There were always dirty cops, bad apples, who were dealt with harshly when they were discovered.
But what they are talking about is much more than a few individual cases.
‘Your turn,’ Quindica glowered at him. It looked like his lunch hadn’t mellowed his guests.
‘They’re called the Rising Lions,’ he briefed them. ‘A white supremacy group started in prison. That tattoo was their symbol. Its leader is dead. A ruthless killer. He served twenty-five years, and when he was released, was killed in Florida. Stabbed, decapitated, body burned. The gang died with him. There was no other leader to take over. The few you arrested, if they were all white, must have been part of the gang.’
‘Yeah,’ Difiore nodded. ‘They were all ex-cons. They served time in various prisons across the country.’
‘Who was the leader?’
‘Jeff Sheller. Gunner, that’s what they called him.’
‘Killed his stepfather when he was seventeen years old.’ Quindica looked up the name on her phone. ‘Assaulted a prison guard and got into several fights. Sentence got reduced when he turned snitch. He was released four years ago. His intel led to the arrest of a serial killer, brought down a drug gang and the release of a few wrongfully convicted innocents.’
‘Where was he in prison?’ the detective asked.
‘Colorado. ADX Florence.’
The federal supermax prison was the most secure in the country. Colloquially known as the Alcatraz of the Rockies, it was where the most notorious and dangerous convicts were sent to. The Unabomber, the Boston Marathon Bomber, and El Chapo were among its inmates. A hundred miles south of Denver. No prisoner had escaped from the facility in its twenty-six-year history.
‘How do you know all this?’ the FBI agent turned to Cutter.
‘I was an inmate there.’
20
Cutter couldn’t help grinning at their slack-jawed expressions.
‘You were in ADMAX?’ Difiore gasped.
United States Penitentiary, Florence Administrative Maximum Facility. The official name for USP Florence ADMAX, shortened to ADX because the formal name was a mouthful.
‘Two years.’
‘The missing two years,’ Quindica breathed.
Cutter cocked his head at them, wondering what she meant, and then nodded when he connected the dots. ‘You read my file.’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s classified. You’re not senior enough to have the clearances.’
‘The Director shared it with me.’
He eyed her and the detective thoughtfully. It looked like Difiore knew about his past, too, judging by the lack of surprise on her face.
‘Bart shared all of it?’
‘Your missions were redacted. Your return to civilian life, that’s all I could read.’
‘ARTEMIS?’
She nodded.
The program had been designed for just that purpose. To allow highly confidential intel to be shared between agencies even if the readers didn’t have the requisite clearances.
He felt reassured. His former boss hadn’t stepped out of line.
‘You know what’ll happen if you two spread it?’
‘All kinds of hell.’
How much do I tell them?
He weighed the pros and cons. He was fiercely protective of what had happened in the past and only a handful of civilians were aware of his full backstory. He had told the bodega owners because they had become part of his life. Bruce Rolando and Bart Jamison, Zeb and his crew, they knew as well. He didn’t regard them as civilians, however.
‘We get it.’ Difiore read his silence. ‘Most people won’t understand what you went though. They’ll show sympathy. You don’t want that.’ Her lips curled into a warm smile briefly. ‘You won’t get it from us. You know something that could help us. If those two years are relevant, we want to know.’
Cutter sized them up. They have been through a lot too. He could guess how it was for them. They’ve had to work twice as hard. Unwanted attention from men. Lewd humor. They’ve had to put up with all that.
‘This doesn’t go beyond you.’
‘We’re law enforcement, Grogan,’ Quindica replied flatly. ‘Not journalists.’
‘I was undercover in ADX. To get close to Mansoor and other terrorists there. We suspected there were several sleeper cells in our country, however we had found nothing.’
‘That’s true,’ the SAC told the detective. ‘I remember that hunt. We spent hundreds of man hours, kicked down so many doors, but got nothing. Zilch. But all the while, the chatter was strong. That these cells were planning an attack.’
‘Why you?’ Difiore wondered. ‘Mansoor would have recognized you and … I can’t even imagine the state you were in.’
‘They’—he didn’t clarify who that meant; they weren’t read into how the special operations world works and he wasn’t going to educate them—‘didn’t want a trail that would lead back to our military, or any agency. This was after my return to the States and leaving the military. I was a civilian, was highly motivated, and had the experience.’ He shrugged.
* * *
It hadn’t been that easy. There had been heated discussions with intelligence officers. Too personal had been tossed back at him several times. It is, he had shot back, but do you have anyone better? His linguistic skills and looks had been the clincher. He spoke not only Arabic but also several other Middle Eastern languages fluently and could easily pass for someone from the region.
An elaborate cover had been prepared for him. He was a Daesh terrorist captured in Syria who had been convicted in a closed-door trial and sent to ADX. The CIA, the Defense Intelligence Agency, and several other clandestine outfits flooded the dark net with mentions of him. Bots spread the message of his heroic attacks against the West. That embellished his legend.
There was no risk of Mansoor seeing him, because the terrorist was in solitary and was never in the presence of other prisoners.
* * *
‘As for being recognized,’ he gestured at himself, ‘I didn’t go looking like this. I had a burn scar on my face. A beard. No one could link who I was to Cutter Grogan.
‘I used to see Sheller in the yard. The workout space.’ He didn’t use the gangster’s more memorable nickname. That would have been normalizing who the criminal was. ‘We used to work out there. The only recreation we had. He was like a bull. Large, bald …’ he trailed off, remembering the man in the SUV. The one who handed Davis his stash. Nope. Can’t be him. He’s dead. ‘No one messed with him. It was when I was there that he started the Lions. He was recruiting. He wanted it to be a bigger gang than the Aryan Brotherhood. He was charismatic. Great speaker. Several cons joined. He made it lik
e an exclusive club. Not just everyone could join. They had to prove themselves, had to pass hazing rituals.’
His listeners didn’t move when he paused for breath. They were listening with rapt attention. ‘They tattooed themselves. What he was selling had appeal. Word spread to other prisons, and that’s how you saw those lions on those perps. There was a rigid code, however. No one was allowed to speak about the gang to the public. Enforced by death. Which is why there’s no coverage.’
‘How’s that possible? If the gang spread to other prisons, people would have known. There would be talk.’
‘There was, and those who were indiscreet were killed. That code—it was a blood oath. Anyone who violated any rule was killed. Viciously. No mercy. Sheller was one of the most dangerous men I came across. As ruthless as any terrorist.’
‘Did he approach you?’
‘Me? He hated me. I was Daesh. There was no love between us. We had a few words. That escalated over days. He threatened that he would saw my head off. He and his group attacked me and the other terrorists a few times. I saved them, that’s how I got close to them. Sheller didn’t like that. He ruled ADX, and here I was, challenging his authority. But the other terrorists were behind me, and he couldn’t do much, short of attitude, words, and random fights.’
Cutter’s visitors hung on to every word, taking everything in. His neighbors’ voices filtered from outside, a car honked loudly on the street, his fridge sighed in the kitchen, but they weren’t distracted.
‘There was another fight. A big one. Sheller and his men were attacking another inmate. Jake Horstman. Ripper, they called him. He had killed his girlfriend and her boyfriend for cheating on him. He had joined the gang initially but then backed out. He had found religion. Sheller didn’t like that. It went against his code. No one left his gang, and he decided to make an example of Jake. I intervened.’ Cutter rubbed his chest unconsciously, remembering the brutal showdown. ‘I saved Horstman and got him sent to solitary, where he would be safe. We became close. The one friend I made there. And Sheller’s hatred for me grew.’
He got to his feet and stretched. He brewed more coffee and brought their cups over.
‘Is that all?’ Difiore asked impatiently.
‘That’s all you’ll get from me.’
‘He left you alone after that?’
‘He didn’t.’
‘What happened?’
He shook his head.
He wasn’t going to tell them about the long nights when he forced himself to stay awake, listening keenly for the slightest movement. The hurried showers in the bathrooms. The cozying up to the terrorists. No, his time at ADX was a bleak, violent stretch of time. He wasn’t going to relive his memories for anyone.
The detective changed tack. ‘Why didn’t the Lions survive after him?’
‘Sheller was everything. He was the leader, the organization … he ran everything. The smuggling, the cell phones, the paid killings, the recruitment in other prisons, everything went through him. He was the sole decision-maker. Other gangs had a structure, an organization that wasn’t dependent just on their founders. The Lions had the same philosophy as other white-supremacist prison gangs, but without Sheller they were nothing.’
‘You’re sure he’s dead?’
‘He is.’ Quindica held up her phone. ‘I checked. Sheller was killed in Miami shortly after his release. A bar fight that escalated in the parking lot. Gruesome murder.’
‘The gang could still be around,’ Difiore mused.
‘They aren’t,’ Cutter insisted. ‘I followed up on Sheller’s death. Besides,’ he turned to the FBI agent, ‘they would have come up on your radar.’
‘Not if they were still operating to their code,’ the detective objected. ‘Don’t forget Boyce. He didn’t have a criminal record. He must have heard of the Lions somewhere.’
‘That’s a common tattoo. We don’t know if he was in the gang. Davis was a lead, but—’
‘Don’t go there,’ the detective warned.
‘The cops who shot him—’
‘You heard what I said.’
Cutter looked at her impassive face, flat eyes. Those officers are on her radar. She’ll check if they have lions on their necks. She’ll tear their lives apart, see if they’re dirty.
‘The NYPD, the Feds, you hadn’t heard of the Rising Lions before today. Why?’
Her scowl showed that the thought had struck her.
‘Is there anyone who could know about the Lions?’ Quindica broke the silence. ‘We’ll reach out to our informants.’ She looked at Difiore, who nodded. ‘But chances are they won’t know anything.’
There is someone, he thought, but he didn’t say anything.
‘Grogan,’ Difiore warned ominously. ‘You’re holding out on us again. I can feel it. No,’ she said when he made to protest. ‘Don’t lie.’
‘We’re on the same side,’ the SAC urged.
‘We are?’ He looked at them in mock surprise. ‘News to me.’
He raised his hands in surrender when the detective’s face darkened.
‘Jake might know.’
‘Jake?’ Quindica asked, confused.
‘That man he saved,’ the cop replied absently, ‘from Sheller in ADX. Why would he know?’
‘He became something like a priest to the inmates. They went to him, unburdened themselves. He gained their trust because he never snitched, and that helped him when I left. He became untouchable. Even from Sheller. Any inmate who raised a finger to him would get it from the other convicts.’
‘Let’s go ask him.’ Difiore slapped her palm on the island and got to her feet. ‘Where is he?’
Her face fell at Cutter’s reply. ‘In ADX. He’s serving life.’
Silence. The women looked at each other and then at him.
‘He won’t talk to us, will he?’ Quindica guessed.
‘Nope.’
‘He’ll talk to you, though.’
‘He might.’
Difiore sighed. ‘Will you go ask him?’
‘That’s missing the magic word.’
‘You were going to, weren’t you?’ the SAC cut in quickly before the cop exploded.
‘Yeah. I’ll let you know what I find out.’
He wondered who would ask him the question. Bet with himself that it would be Difiore. Not because Quindica was any less smart, but the cop knew him longer.
‘Did you get the intel from the terrorists?’ the detective asked.
Yep, her. He congratulated himself for guessing right.
‘Yeah. We shut down several cells. No,’ he clarified when the SAC’s brow wrinkled. ‘We made it look like intel from anonymous sources, concerned citizens. That’s how we hid the ADX connection from the Feds.’
‘What about Mansoor?’ Difiore again, persistent. He could see why she was a highly regarded cop.
‘I killed him.’
The detective sat down in her chair heavily. ‘But … I don’t understand. He’s still in ADX.’
‘That’s what the world thinks.’
‘At some point, there will be a small news item that he died of natural causes,’ Quindica guessed.
‘Something like that.’
‘So that he doesn’t become a martyr to his people.’
‘Was it worth—’ Difiore’s face flamed in embarrassment, and she waved her hand as if to retract her question.
‘Mansoor coming at us in Turkey was no accident. He was hunting me. I had wiped out several of his people. Had destroyed his camps. My name got leaked somehow. Terrorists knew who I was. I was on their kill list.’
‘That wasn’t in your file,’ Quindica frowned.
‘Nope. Not everything goes in there. It’s not like Hollywood shows it.’ He breathed deeply. ‘I can only guess that’s why Riley … did what she did. She wanted to take the act away from him.’
‘Closure?’ he smiled bitterly. ‘That’s what you were asking, right? That’s a selfish thought. It doesn’t bring the
victims back. Am I glad he’s dead? Heck, yeah!
‘So, now you know.’ He regarded them impassively.
‘But not everything. We don’t know how your prison record doesn’t show up in the system. I’m guessing ADX won’t have anything at its end, either. How did you get close to Mansoor? You said he was in solitary …’
‘No. You won’t get those details. Not from me. Ever.’ How it went down with the terrorist … no civilian would know that.
‘We both took an oath,’ Quindica nodded at her companion, ‘Gina and I. When we joined our organizations. You weren’t worried when you told us what you did?’
‘No.’
‘Because?’
‘It isn’t the first time you’ve looked the other way.’
‘How do you know that?’ Difiore fired at him.
‘I can see it in your eyes. Besides,’ he grinned, ‘you aren’t the only ones who have contacts.’
‘You met me for the first time today.’ Quindica narrowed her eyes.
‘You think I was only bathing when I went to take a shower? I know the kind of cops you are.’
‘What kind is that?’
‘My kind.’
‘We aren’t friends, Grogan,’ Difiore told him decisively. ‘We’ll never be. I still think you’re a vigilante.’
With that, she strode out of his apartment, along with Quindica.
21
Cutter was back at what was turning out to be his usual after Difiore and Quindica left.
Shadowing Darrell.
He was in the same big-nose disguise and in another rental car. The student came out when school finished for the day. He hung about with his friends and, when Manuel turned up, spoke briefly with him. Shook his head several times when the boy spoke and turned his back on him and walked away.
Is he quitting the gang?
His friend watched him uncertainly and then went the other way, toward Mother Gaston, while Darrell headed home.
Cutter followed him until the boy went inside his building. Four-thirty pm. His mother would have a pleasant surprise when she returned.
Unless he goes out again.
