Break

by Ty Patterson

  ‘His file, the one I could hack into, was redacted.’

  ‘So? That’s common. They do that to hide the operations.’

  ‘I know that. But I got a trail of who else handled that file electronically. It was most recently looked at by the FBI Director. Just over two weeks ago.’

  Gunner stared at his man. ‘FBI?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why would they be interested in him?’

  ‘Beats me. I would have hacked into the FBI’s systems, but that takes time and it might set off alarms.’

  The Lions’ boss looked at the photographs absentmindedly as his mind raced. Crump had told him something about an FBI agent tagging along with the NYPD detective. What was her name? Some Italian … Difiore, that was it.

  ‘Give me ten,’ he ordered his man.

  He waited till Cray went outside and joined the ring of hitters, one of whom passed a joint.

  Gunner opened his mouth to yell at them. Everyone in his senior ranks was to stay clean. No drugs, no joints, no heavy drinking. He stopped himself from shouting. He had to cut his men some slack.

  He brought out his burner phone and called another number. Crump wasn’t the only senior cop he or Mease knew. There were several others.

  ‘Yeah,’ a deputy chief answered in a low voice, after both men had gone through the security protocol.

  ‘There’s this detective, Difiore, who’s investigating several cases. I heard there’s an FBI agent with her. What’s that about?’

  ‘Quindica, that’s her name. She isn’t an ordinary agent. She heads the New York office. Special Agent in Charge. She’s leading a joint task force, which Difiore is part of.’

  Gunner stilled. ‘Task force? What are they looking into?’

  ‘Cartels. The FBI thinks the Mexican gangs are muscling into every other gang’s activities. Even low-level ones, such as burglaries, holdups. As if they want to own the city.’

  ‘You’re sure? Crump didn’t mention this.’

  ‘Yeah. Commish called a meeting of all chiefs after his killing. Announced that the task force would no longer share information with all of us.’

  ‘Why’s Difiore still investigating those holdups? And why does she have the Martinelli and Crump cases?’

  ‘Possible cartel connection is what I’ve heard.’

  Gunner breathed easier at the news. Cops are going down a false trail.

  ‘What about Grogan, that dude who calls himself the Fixer? Is he involved in any way?’

  ‘Him? The task force looked into him because he was present at those holdups. But he’s clean.’

  That’s why the FBI requested his file.

  He thanked the cop and hung up. It made sense, but still, it didn’t hurt to confirm. He dialed a DC number and instructed an FBI contact to look into it.

  ‘Cray,’ he called out when he had finished.

  ‘That FBI woman got his file,’ he told the hacker, ‘to clear him off. Nothing more to it. I’ve got someone to double-check, however. You keep digging, see if you can get Grogan’s phone records.’

  ‘Will do, boss.’

  Gunner dismissed him and called Nails.

  ‘I’ve got a job for you. This one needs to be handled by your disposables.’

  It was time to test his enemy.

  61

  ‘Nothing on him?’ NYPD Commissioner Bruce Rolando looked piercingly at Difiore and Quindica.

  His office, late evening, the task force leaders briefing him and FBI Director Bart Jamison, who was on video.

  ‘No, sir,’ the detective confessed. ‘The few witnesses we have at Martinelli’s said he was tall, heavily built and had an SUV. No one saw his face.’

  ‘That description could fit a few million people, sir,’ Quindica offered.

  ‘What about the scene at Crump’s building?’

  ‘Our technicians pieced together the shooting, sir. Looks like several gunmen were hiding in his house. They fired on an unknown person, who escaped over the roof. We found several casings from different guns. Ballistics is trying to match those to previous shootings.’

  They looked at the TV screen as Jamison’s chair creaked. ‘I’ve looked at the photographs you shared. The side of the building is steep. Going up that way takes great skill. You think it was the same man who showed up at Martinelli’s?’

  ‘It feels logical, sir,’ the SAC admitted. ‘The cop told him about Crump. He went to question the assistant chief. There’s a layer of dust in that side alley. We have some shoeprints. We worked it out that he went to the side windows and looked inside. That’s when the shooters showed up.’

  ‘Crump was dirty?’

  She hesitated and glanced at Rolando, who nodded impassively.

  ‘Yes, sir. He and Martinelli. But we have no proof. We suspect there are many cops and FBI agents who are white nationalists. Which is why we requested for you and the commish to go public about what the task force was investigating. To throw a false scent.’

  Jamison waggled his fingers acknowledging the implied thanks in her words. ‘And all this ties back to this secretive gang, the Rising Lions?’

  Quindica didn’t show any irritation or impatience at covering the same ground. Her boss, as well as the commissioner, were clued in from day one of their task force. The director repeating the questions didn’t mean anything other than that he was thinking aloud.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She briefed them all over again and waited while two of the most powerful law enforcement chiefs in the country pondered silently.

  ‘You didn’t know of this gang before?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Difiore said, backing up her partner. ‘We still don’t. Cutter Grogan told us about it. Until then, all we had were the tattoos on several perps who had gang connections, but none of them bore that name.’

  ‘Was it Cutter at Martinelli’s and Crump’s places? He’s capable of escaping that way. He prefers a Glock.’

  ‘We checked his gun, sir, after the Brownsville shooting. We’ve checked his movements, too. He wasn’t near the cops’ houses.’

  ‘A man of his capabilities and connections,’ Rolando mused, ‘it wouldn’t be difficult to fake all that. What do you two think?’

  ‘I don’t like what he does, sir,’ Difiore admitted.

  ‘That’s no secret, Gina,’ the commissioner chuckled, momentarily lifting the tone of the meeting.

  ‘Yes, sir. Vigilante behavior and all that. But I don’t think he killed Martinelli or Crump. That’s not who he is.’

  ‘He’s helping you, isn’t he?’

  ‘Without him, we wouldn’t have known of Sheller, sir.’

  ‘There’s no proof. All this is speculation,’ Jamison reminded her.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She didn’t take it as a rebuke. The director was stating a fact. ‘It would help if one of you called Grogan and asked him outright. You have history with him. He wouldn’t lie to either of you. We could then eliminate him as a person of interest for good.’

  * * *

  Cutter was at the window, looking down at Lafayette, when the call came.

  ‘Sir?’ he asked, surprised that the caller was Jamison.

  ‘Cutter, you’ve been busy,’ his former CO said. ‘Going on a shooting spree.’

  ‘Yes, sir, at the range. Got to stay in practice.’

  A pause.

  ‘I’m on a conference call with Commissioner Rolando, Detective Gina Difiore, and my New York SAC, Peyton Quindica. You’ve met them.’

  ‘I’ve had the pleasure, yes, sir.’

  ‘Cutter, I’m going to ask you a question. You need to answer truthfully. Know that this is being recorded.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you kill Martinelli and Crump?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Were you at their residences?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Will you take a lie-detector test?’ Difiore fired.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Any time.’

  ‘Thank you, Cut
ter,’ Jamison said formally. ‘I don’t need to remind you of your security status—’

  ‘I’m aware, sir. This call, all my discussions with Detective Difiore and SAC Quindica will remain confidential.’

  ‘Have a good night, Cutter.’

  ‘To all of you, as well.’

  He grinned when he hung up. I bet Difiore instigated him to do that.

  He wasn’t worried about the lie-detector test. Controlling his mind and body had been an essential part of his training. A vital skill that had helped him survive in numerous missions as a covert operative.

  He would ace whatever test the FBI or the NYPD threw at him.

  62

  ‘You didn’t think of asking me or our friend before acting?’ Mease raged at Gunner.

  The Lions’ founder had finally responded to his calls and messages and had arrived at their rendezvous, the Melrose building parking lot.

  ‘There was no time. My men found Martinelli had mentioned Crump. I had to act.’

  ‘You could have told me,’ the strategist fumed.

  ‘Yeah? What would you have done?’

  ‘I would have spoken to him.’

  ‘Did your contacts in the NYPD tell you there was a stranger in Martinelli’s apartment? He got away. It’s likely he knows about Crump. Nope, I did the right thing.’

  ‘You can’t kill cops—’

  ‘He was a Lion. Both of them,’ Gunner replied fiercely. ‘They knew the risks they took when they signed up to the gang. They’re not like your white nationalist friends. We take our oaths seriously.’

  Mease jammed his hands in his pockets and kicked furiously at a nonexistent pebble on the concrete. ‘What’s the blowback?’ he growled. ‘Have you thought of that?’

  ‘There’s none. Cops are going around chasing false leads.’

  Mease brooded for a moment and then shrugged dismissively. ‘You heard about Tizzard? About his rally in the city? You set him up for that?’

  ‘Nope. You want us to get involved?’

  ‘I’ll come back to you on that. A repeat of Arizona may not help us much … but this will be too good to pass up.’

  ‘Let me know,’ Gunner replied and walked away.

  Mease thought of calling him back, of patting him on the shoulder, making friendly with him, but the Lions’ ride was disappearing before he could react.

  Let him go. The closer the elections get, the more frayed our nerves will be. Tempers flaring occasionally wasn’t something to be worried about.

  Will he go rogue?

  That was something he was worried about.

  Gunner going off-script could wreck the campaign.

  No, he decided. He’s got as much to lose as us. In any case, he did the right thing in killing Martinelli and Crump. And in not telling us. We have to keep our distance.

  He walked out of the parking lot and put the Lions out of his mind. He had a bigger problem to deal with.

  Could they carry off the campaign on their own? Did they need to have support from big hitters from either of the other parties, and if so, which one? If they went down that route, they would have to choose which party to court. That would be a difficult choice to make.

  Mease walked a long time in the night as his accountant brain coldly looked at the facts and weighed the pros and cons, unaware of what his Lions’ ally had started.

  63

  The alarm sounded at three am.

  In a Hollywood movie, it would have sounded a few times and Cutter would have thrown off his sheet to reveal a woman next to him. He would have rubbed his eyes and searched for his phone.

  He wasn’t in a movie.

  He woke, instantly alert, the animal inside him going into fight mode in a heartbeat. He thumbed his phone and brought up the camera feed he had set up in his apartment.

  Three hooded figures at his door, their bodies hiding what they were doing. No one else visible in the hallway or stairs.

  He moved quickly as he watched. Slipped into his combat trousers and strapped his armor over his vest. The Glock went into his shoulder holster, Benchmade into his thigh strap. A baton went into a sheath on his other leg.

  He slipped out of the apartment he was sleeping in, the one above his residence, just as the thugs picked the door to his home.

  He was impressed. That’s a high-security lock.

  He took the stairs carefully, encountering no one. No sentry on his floor. He went down one level to check. No watchers. One last check on his phone to see the thugs had spread out in his living room, holding dimmed flashlights, unaware of the infrared cameras capturing their every move.

  All of them with masks, gloves and guns, ten feet from the door.

  Cutter slid the phone into his pocket, unlocked his door and burst inside.

  His left hand reached out to flick on a switch that turned on intense halogen lights, as he let out a roar for added effect.

  Shock in their postures. The nearest man stiffened as he started turning. The others were slower to react.

  ‘WHO ARE YOU?’

  Two long strides to First Man, his baton coming up in a slashing blow to knock the man’s gun from his hand. A long sidestep to hit Second Man in the neck in the same motion and kick him in the groin. Third Man was quick. He leapt back and brought up his gun arm and triggered, but Cutter had dived low and, with a loud yell, bodyslammed and crashed him against the wall.

  Need them alive!

  He headbutted the man, felt the spray of blood on his face as the thug’s nose and lips split, felt a shout behind him, twisted desperately and sent the attacker heaving towards First Man, who was lunging toward them.

  The rushing man turned at the last second, but not before both the hoods crashed and were off-balance. He placed Second Man automatically, still out of commission, groaning, doubled up and clutching his groin. Cutter grabbed a chair and threw it at the other attackers, followed that up with a vase as the first missile struck and a thug yelped. He was reaching for another chair when someone staggered inside the apartment and yelled.

  ‘COPS!’

  That voice!

  He turned to the door, stunned to see Darrell, whose face twisted in shocked recognition.

  MOVE, the animal warned him, but he had given away his advantage with the split-second pause.

  A blow to his back sent him stumbling. Someone swore and a gun crashed into his temple. Cutter reeled and was clawing for his Glock when a shot punched into his belly. He fell to the floor, the world swimming around him, his vision dimming.

  ‘LET’S GO. THEY’RE HERE!’ Darrell screamed.

  Cutter thought he heard pounding footsteps and raised his head drunkenly; then a kick to the head knocked him out.

  * * *

  ‘You were out about fifteen minutes,’ the EMT nurse told him. ‘Maybe a few more, but there’s no way of knowing. Neighbor called the cops when she heard shouting.’

  Cutter peered over her shoulder and smiled tiredly at Ellen Konta, who lived in the other apartment on the floor.

  ‘Thank you,’ he mouthed and got a worried nod from her. He sagged back against the wall as the medic cleaned the cut on his temple and surveyed him critically. ‘You got lucky. No broken ribs. Limbs and joints seem to be intact. We’ll need to take you in for a checkup. You might have a concussion.’

  Her eyes lingered on his armor, but she didn’t comment. She and the cops had been surrounding him when he came back to consciousness. He was still groggy but cooperated with them as they removed his protective vest and cut his Tee.

  They had taken his statement when he regained his faculties. A sergeant arrived soon after and supervised grimly.

  ‘No hospital,’ he protested.

  ‘Mr. Grogan,’ DeSanto, the senior officer, growled as politely as he could. ‘That’s not an option. We haven’t finished with you, but you need to get attended to, first.’

  He jerked his head at the armor. ‘That’s different from what we have in the NYPD. Even our ESU teams don’
t have those.’

  ESU. Emergency Service Unit, which performed SWAT operations in addition to other duties.

  ‘I was in the military,’ Cutter said, gritting his teeth and fighting a wave of dizziness as he got to his feet. ‘A leftover from those times.’

  It took two more hours for Cutter to clear his hospital scans—no concussion—and finish the NYPD’s questioning. He produced his gun permit, gave them a copy of his camera footage and produced a copy of the rented apartment’s lease.

  ‘I’ve always had it,’ he told the skeptical cops. ‘The kind of work I do … I get a lot of threats. I moved to that apartment the day after I tangled with those thugs at the convenience store. The ones who escaped.’

  They probed and questioned, but he wasn’t giving anything more away. Finally, he put on an exasperated look. ‘I’m the injured party here. Shouldn’t you be focusing on my attackers?’

  * * *

  He dragged himself out of bed at eight am, and after freshening up and feeling human again, he went to Ellen and thanked her for her help.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do,’ she said, clutching his arm. ‘You lay still and there was blood on your face.’

  She was seventy years old and baked him a Christmas cake each year. Flippancy wasn’t the tone to take with her. He thanked her again.

  He was biting into his toast when there was a pounding at his door.

  ‘You’re alive,’ Difiore said, greeting him with her customary warmth and concern as she swept in, along with Quindica.

  Someday I’ll ask her who buzzes her in.

  He ignored them and finished his breakfast as they checked out his living room. He had cleaned up on his return from the hospital, but there were scuff marks on the wall, and the remains of the chair and the vase were still in a corner.

  ‘Show us the one above,’ she demanded when he was pouring coffee into three cups.

  He took them up wordlessly and stood aside while they inspected the rental apartment. Their eyes swept over its barren interior, skimmed over the mattress and the sheet. Quindica nodded imperceptibly at the detective, who led them out and back to his apartment.