FireWatch: A Jack Widow Thriller

by Scott Blade

  Widow saw nothing had gone a step too far. Not yet. At that moment, the gangster wannabes were poking and prodding at Chung for the money that they felt was due them. But they hadn’t gone far enough as to shoot anyone. Not yet.

  Widow figured that Su-Jin was in there. Hiding back in the stockroom or the office or the lady’s bathroom. Or maybe she had wised up and ran out the backdoor. It wasn’t optimal to take the fight inside. Not with guns involved.

  Widow walked back to the Monte Carlo. He knotted around the rear and scooped up the driver by bunching up his collar. He dragged the guy back to the open driver’s door, hauled him up, and dumped him down on the seat.

  Blood trickled out of his mouth and down his chin.

  First, Widow pulled the gear into neutral and popped the parking brake. Then he thumped the driver forward. The guy’s head flopped forward, honking the horn. A loud, obnoxious sound blared out from under the hood. He let it continue.

  Widow grabbed the top half of the door and put one hand on the roof of the car. He heaved and pushed and rolled the car forward. He reached in and turned the wheel. He ran with the car for a moment, and then backed off, letting the car roll on its own. The car rolled and turned to the right. He backed away and let it roll off the street, over the curb. It rammed a fire hydrant. It ruptured and water rushed out of one of the nozzles. Slow at first, and then it burst into an explosion of spray.

  The hydrant stopped the car from rolling forward.

  Widow stepped back to the sidewalk, backing away toward the wall, out of sight.

  A moment later, all three gangster wannabes came swarming out. All three faced the car. All three ran up to it. Exactly, where Widow wanted them to be.

  “What the hell, man!” one called out.

  The second guy called out the driver’s name.

  “Carlos!”

  Widow waited for the black guy, who was the last to run out. Then he sprinted after them, staying low, staying as close to a crouch as he could. Which turned out to be easy. The blaring horn covered the sound of his steps. Plus, these guys were dumber than the actual dummies he used to shoot at on Seal Beach.

  He came up behind them and stopped. He was close enough to where he didn’t need to use the commandeered Glock. Probably.

  The three gangsta wannabes looked at the car, shock on their faces. The first one ran to the passenger side door. He jerked it open and slid in. He reached over and shook the driver. Pulled him up and back from the steering wheel. The horn stopped. The driver’s head flopped back like a ragdoll onto the headrest.

  The guy called back out.

  “Carlos was attacked! His teeth are gone.”

  But the warning was too late.

  The black guy spun around, his Glock in hand, but it was still pointed back at the Monte Carlo.

  Amateur, Widow thought. And he let the guy know by clamping down on it with one hand. Squeezing and locking it down. Making it impossible for the guy to shoot it.

  With a massive right jab, he punched the guy right in the jaw. Widow heard cheekbones cracking and bones shattering and teeth rattling. The guy flew off his feet, slumped forward, and tripped off the curb.

  He released the Glock. Widow took it.

  He pointed it at the other two guys. And right there two things were confirmed. First, these guys were unarmed. No doubt about it. Neither of them went to grab any weapons of any kind. And second, they were amateurs.

  “Hey, man!” one said.

  The other said, “Take it easy!”

  “Who the hell are you, man?”

  “What are you, a cop or something?”

  Widow stepped forward. Closing the gap between them. Keeping the black guy on the ground in front of him.

  He said, “I’m the guarantor.” He couldn’t help himself.

  One said, “The what?”

  “The underwriter.”

  “The who?”

  “The minder.”

  “The what, man?”

  “I’m the guardian. The bouncer. Like in an exclusive, nice club. You boys ever been to a nice club?”

  Silence.

  “Sure we have,” the second one said.

  “This is kinda like that. See this grocery,” he asked and pointed back at it with his free hand.

  “This place is off limits to you boys now. I’m the bouncer. To enter this place, you boys need a membership. If you don’t got a membership, then you don’t get in. And Chung here says you boys ain’t got a membership. Got it?”

  They were silent for a beat. Widow moved the Glock up to the first one’s center mass. He asked, “Got it?”

  The guy said, “It’s not up to us, man!”

  The other said, “We’re just doing our jobs.”

  Widow saw that the second one had needle holes all over his inner forearms. Heroin would have been Widow’s guess. But these days, who knew? Junkies shoot up anything.

  “So who’s your boss? Capone?”

  They looked at each other, and the first one said, “Of course.”

  The second said, “He runs everything in this neighborhood. Everybody knows that, man.”

  “And he’s at the church?” Widow asked.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Where else would he be?”

  “He’s always at the church.”

  Widow said, “Take me to him.”

  They looked at each other.

  Widow asked, “You both know where the church is? Right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Then I only need one of you,” he said, and he pointed the Glock at the second one. Next, he went the black guy. Then back to the first one. And round and round again. He mumbled the words, “Eeny, meeny, miny, mo…”

  The first one said, “Wait, man!”

  “We’ll take you.”

  “I don’t have to shoot you?”

  “No way!”

  Widow said, “Oh good. Saves me some bullets.”

  Then he took a moment and looked at the trunk. He thought about the poor bastard who had shot out of it. He wondered if the guy got out. He hoped so. Then he looked back at all three gangster wannabes and smiled.

  “How many bodies does that trunk hold?”

  CHAPTER 8

  THE TRUCKS WAITED IN THE WOODS, parked in a circle in Portman’s county. They were parked less than a football field away from his stationhouse. They kept out of sight and quiet until they were sure the coast was clear. Seven men congregated in a single, uneven semicircle. Some stared over shoulders. Others were right in front and could see the leader’s iPad that he held over the hood of his truck. He used it to guide them. To discuss tactics. To plot out the plan of attack.

  On the screen was real-time video, taken from a small, tactical spy drone. Which was being held in a holding pattern, circling around the target area until one of them, piloting it, used the app on his smartphone to return it to where they were.

  “It’s all straightforward. There’s two armed cops inside. Maybe three,” the leader said.

  “Maybe there’s an office worker or two. But maybe not. This place has no funding.”

  He showed a satellite photo of Portman’s stationhouse.

  “Looks like overkill to me,” one guy said.

  “Better we do it like that then one guy going in alone,” said the leader.

  “I can just go down there. Take them out alone,” said another, zealously. Perhaps overconfidently.

  “I told you. Better this way,” said the leader.

  One of the guys said, without thinking, “I don’t know. Why make all this fuss over one woman?”

  The leader stepped back away from the hood of his truck. He set the iPad down on the hood. And he turned to face the insubordinate member of his team.

  “What?”

  The guy realized his mistake, and said, “Nothing.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. Sorry. I didn’t mean nothing.”

  The leader, like the rest of
his men, had a LAR-15 assault rifle strapped to his chest. But he ignored it and drew a Glock 19 with a tactical light. No suppressor. Not yet.

  He started to walk over to the insubordinate guy. The other five men stepped back and away. They knew better than to cross him. They had worked with him before. Not the insubordinate guy. He had been pulled from another department and added to the team, kind of like a promotion. Which meant that it was a trial thing. Like all promotions, it comes with an understood probationary period. In that period, if he crossed the line, there would be a penalty. In some trades, that only meant a verbal warning. In others, it could mean termination. In his trade, it could mean a bullet, unless you were related to someone important, like a powerful family.

  The new, insubordinate guy was related to no one. But the leader was. He was related to the only one who mattered, his boss.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it,” the insubordinate guy said. He backed away. Slowly. There was nowhere to run.

  The leader stayed quiet. And then quickly, he pulled out a weapon suppressor and screwed it into his Glock. He racked the action. And chambered a bullet.

  “You know what I hate more than anything?” he asked.

  “I didn’t mean it! Come on, man!” the insubordinate guy said, and reached for his Glock, which was stuffed into a pancake holster at his hip. He touched the butt. That was as far as he got.

  The leader said, “I hate disloyalty! I hate traitors! Are you a traitor?”

  He raised the suppressed Glock and pointed it at the insubordinate guy’s center mass. Then he slowly raised it to the guy’s neck. A target that would bleed—a lot. And it would be very, very painful. The insubordinate guy knew that.

  “I’m no traitor!”

  “Are you questioning my directive?”

  “No! Of course not!”

  “Are you questioning my plan?”

  “No!”

  “Are you questioning my leadership?”

  “No!”

  The leader got that look in his eye. A look that all the guys, except for the insubordinate guy, had seen many times before.

  The insubordinate guy had only seen it once before. Recently. A look like a primal animal. Like ancient meat-eating creatures had. A reptile look.

  One of the other men stepped up and put his hand on the leader’s shoulder and said, “He’s just tired, sir. He’s with us.”

  Then he looked at the insubordinate guy and asked, “Right?”

  “Yes! Of course! I’m not a traitor! Not like Mike Lee!”

  The leader lowered his Glock and started chuckling. Like the whole thing had been one big joke, a hazing.

  “I’m just kidding with you!”

  Sweat beaded off the guy’s brow. He said, “Of course! I knew that!”

  The leader said, “I wouldn’t shoot you like this.”

  “I knew it was a joke,” the guy said, nervously.

  “Nah, it’d be better if you got shot out there,” the leader said and he pointed the Glock south, in the direction of Mexico.

  “One day,” he continued, “we might be out on a mission. Maybe, you get shot by one of those bangers. Or maybe friendly fire. Happens all the time.”

  The insubordinate guy said nothing.

  “You gotta watch your own back. You know? Amigo?”

  The leader reached out with a big, gloved hand and patted the insubordinate guy on the shoulder. He smiled and backed away, letting go of the insubordinate guy’s shoulder. He holstered his weapon, which took an extra second because of the suppressor. Then he motioned for the other six to fall back in line.

  THE SEVEN ARMED MEN watched the visitor parking lot. The sun had started its nightly descent to the west but hadn’t gone all the way down. The last wisps of light spilled out over the distant waterscapes and thickset, green treetops. They hadn’t seen a vehicle come by the stationhouse in over thirty minutes. Not one. Not one passed by on the street.

  They counted the vehicles in the rear lot. It seemed that the deputy had gone. He had not returned. Not yet.

  The leader clicked his earpiece, switching it on. He said, “Check. Everyone. Check. Respond.”

  He waited and heard affirmatives from all six men. They were split into two teams. A normal formation they had practiced and implemented in real scenarios before. Keep it simple was the way the leader ran his team.

  Both teams were split up three men each, including the leader. One man stayed behind, controlling the spy drone.

  The leader said, “Eagle Eye, confirm the layout.”

  The man controlling the spy drone looked down at the screen on his smartphone. He saw a clear picture of what the drone’s camera picked up. The ground, the parking lots, the roof, the exterior of the stationhouse, and the woods surrounding it were all illuminated in heavy-duty greens—night vision.

  “Eagle Eye here. All is clear.”

  The leader said, “Affirmative. Team Two, are you ready?”

  “Team Two. Ready.”

  “Okay, guys. Stay frosty. On my mark. Go!” the leader ordered. Less than thirty-five seconds later, the teams were posted at their designated breaching positions on either end of the stationhouse.

  The stationhouse was a normal setup. It had a front door for walk-ins from the public. And a rear door for just the cops and cuffed prisoners.

  The leader waited behind his team’s breacher, who had an easy job because they were at the front of the stationhouse. Not much chance of being shot breaching the front. The sheriff would expect people to walk in from the front. No surprises there. No reason to open fire on three guys coming in through the front doors.

  Team One’s breacher did not have to set up breaching charges or use a battering ram or shot gun to blow out the hinges on the front door. It was already opened, naturally. Instead, he jerked the door open and backed away.

  The point man took over and rushed inside. The leader followed.

  They fell in line, one after the other, right into a tiled area with a long reception counter and corkboard signs posted to the back wall. Everything that a receptionist needed was there: office machines, faxes, two telephones, a computer, and an office chair. It was all empty. No one was there.

  The leader took point, his LAR-15 out in front, his finger in the trigger housing, ready to fire. He stopped and covered an open area to the right that led behind the counter and beyond a full-length wall of concrete.

  The point man crouched low, swung around the counter, and entered the bullpen beyond. The breacher came up on the leader’s back and pinched his shoulder, giving him the ready signal.

  The leader moved forward, following tight to the point man. Within minutes they covered the entire bullpen and came face to face with Team Two.

  To the back of the stationhouse was a row of cells, only three. Inside there was only one prisoner. A drunk. A man. He was fast asleep. Snoring loudly.

  “What the hell is this!” Portman said. He stood in the doorway of his office, a coffee mug in his hand.

  “Freeze!” the point man of Team Two called out.

  Portman stood there, frozen. The last thing he expected was to see six armed men with black ski masks pulled over their faces storming into his stationhouse. He inadvertently dropped the coffee mug. It crashed on the floor, shattering. Hot coffee spilled over his shoes and the bottoms of his pants. Instinctively, he backed away.

  “Stay right there, amigo!” one of the masked men commanded.

  The leader lowered his LAR-15 and stepped past his guys. The other five men had Portman dead to rights in their sights.

  “Sheriff Portman, you’ve got a prisoner that we’d like a word with.”

  Portman had his hand near his gun. Another thing that was instinctive. But it was too late. And he knew it.

  PORTMAN’S DEPUTY came back from his meal break a little late and a little fuller than what he was comfortable with. He squared his car into the back-security lot. He switched off the music player on his phone. He listen
ed to it at full volume when he drove because the radio in the patrol car had been busted since the atom bomb was dropped, he figured. No way was Portman ever going to shill out taxpayer dollars for a new one or to repair this one. He knew that. Portman was a good, solid cop. But he was a cheap bastard.

  The deputy throttled the gear into park, switched off the vehicle and climbed out. He left two fast food bags on the seat. The second one still had a half-eaten sandwich inside. He would save it for a snack. In case he got hungry later. All he had to do was tell Portman that he was running out to his car to grab something. Then he could eat the rest or smoke a cigarette or both. Which he knew would happen.

  That wife who burned her husband alive was locked up in Portman’s office. So, the sheriff wasn’t going anywhere. Not tonight. He’d stick around all night. He had some kind of special relationship with her daddy or something. None of that mattered to the deputy. The only thing that concerned him was that it meant that he’d need a midnight snack and a midnight smoke.

  The deputy swirled his keys around his index finger, letting the key ring twirl and hit his knuckles on the way down. He sauntered to the backdoor, passing Portman’s car. Passing their dumpster, which smelled like it needed to be picked up soon.

  In the distance, he heard wind whooshing over the hills and through the trees above the stationhouse. Then he stopped a few paces from the backdoor. He heard a stranger sound. It was faint, but not too distant. It wasn’t like just the sounds of wind. This was more like helicopter blades, only softer. Like amplified butterfly wings. Like a hummingbird on steroids.

  He looked around. Checked the lot. Checked back up to the trees. He looked in all directions at eyelevel. He saw nothing. Then he gazed up toward the sky, above him. He saw something black and mechanical hovering over the roof of the stationhouse.

  “What the hell?” he said to himself.

  It was some kind of drone with a pair of dual rotor blades. They looked serious. It had no lights on. He couldn’t tell the size of the thing. But it looked military grade. No question about it. Like it was for local tactical reconnaissance. It looked like the kind of thing he had seen in Call of Duty, his teenage son’s favorite video game.

  The deputy slowly gazed forward. He looked at the backdoor again. Only this time, he saw something was off kilter about it. Something was different. He hadn’t noticed it before. The door was ajar. But it was more than that. It was swinging open.