by Ty Patterson
They waited for the Camry to make its deposit the next day and then made their move.
Chloe, a leather coat cinched at her waist and large shades covering her face, fluffed her blonde wig and rang a discreet buzzer on the front entrance. Lots of cleavage did the trick.
She heard rattling at the door, and it opened a sliver to allow suspicious eyes to peer out. ‘Yeah? We open later.’
She tossed a grenade through the crack. The suspicious eyes tracked her, then the object, grew wide, and the door slammed shut. From inside she heard a muffled shout, sudden voices, and the door was flung open.
The people rushing out reversed suddenly, and the door slammed shut even quicker when she fired just above their heads, pockmarking the door horizontally.
‘Back,’ someone screamed from inside.
The back had Roger and Bwana, in their trademark black and masked.
The rear entrance was shut when they approached it. Positioning themselves either side of the entrance, Bwana, on the left, knocked on the slat. It opened a few minutes later.
Roger wordlessly tossed three grenades inside and stepped back, away from the line of sight of the door. Bwana stayed where he was, hugging the wall.
There was deep silence for a second, and then they heard the first deep yell from inside, and others followed.
The double doors flew open, and the stampede began, all of them screaming and cursing. Bwana let the staff go, grabbed the first thug by his collar and rammed his face in the side of the building. The second thug turned around, startled, his mouth wide open in a silent shout, his eyes seeing but not comprehending, and he folded when Bwana’s Glock met his temple.
Roger joined him and pulled the other two bouncers from the fleeing crowd. The first one didn’t give him any trouble once his mouth had opened to receive Roger’s SIG; the other needed a little more persuasion, like a knee in the nuts.
Minutes later they had the four thugs lying on the concrete, plastic-tie cuffed. Bear and Chloe, having sent the staff home by pointedly waving their guns, joined them and wordlessly hauled the men up to sitting positions and looked at Bwana, giving him the cue. Bwana nodded at Roger, who disappeared inside, and minutes later they heard the sound of furniture crashing. He came back lugging a heavy plastic sack. ‘Stuffed with bills, mostly small notes. Emptied the till under the counter too. Retrieved all the grenades.’
They gave one last look at the four. One of them had his nose smashed and was bleeding heavily, another was looking at them with glazed eyes, and a third was doubled up and moaning softly.
The fourth glared at them balefully. ‘Feel like men, huh? Guns in your hand, bet you do?’ he sneered.
Roger tossed one of the grenades to Bwana, who held it up in the air for the four to see. ‘Feeling stupid that you didn’t notice its pin was still in? Bet you soiled your pants.’
They often used sudden, simultaneous attacks to create pressure-cooker environments that left no time for rational thought. Animal instincts, fight or flee, kicked in. Even battle-hardened soldiers lost the fighting instinct when they saw a grenade clattering in, and these were thugs. Former soldiers, but still thugs.
The man flushed angrily as Bwana’s words registered. ‘If I wasn’t–’
Bwana didn’t allow him to finish. Tossing the grenade back to Roger, he glided across, and hauling him up, he cut him loose.
He pushed the man forward. ‘Tell you what. Since you’re such a man, I’ll take you on. No guns, no knives, nothing. Just you and me.
‘You man enough for that? Or do you prefer fighting women?’ he goaded the heavy. ‘If you beat me, we’ll let you go free. Not only that, we’ll cut all of you free and walk away. Without all that money.’
The gangbanger was gym fit, his arms and legs heavily muscled, his shirt tight against his chest. He boxed and honed his skills whenever the gang needed to control a recalcitrant victim. He had a couple of inches over Bwana’s six-three, and he was confident. He bared his lips and feinted.
Bwana stood still, watching him through half-lidded eyes. A bee buzzed in front of him, decided it wanted no part of him, and flew off.
The man feinted again and swung a tentative left and, as Bwana ducked easily, snapped a wicked right… at the air.
‘What’s the matter, boy? You ever been in a real fight? A fight for your life?’ Bwana asked him softly.
Jab, hook, jab, feint, and still Bwana floated lazily, not even raising his hands. Through the corner of his eyes, he saw Chloe look at her wrist and drop it. The man advanced again.
And Bwana didn’t retreat.
Approaching the man swiftly, he dropped suddenly to his hands and executed a blurring, crouching spin kick, knocking the thug off his legs. Completing his kick in one smooth, round motion, back on his feet, he reached out and grabbed the falling man by his left hand, pulled him forward and, with his right hand, slapped him on his face, open palmed.
Two hundred pounds of Bwana, all loaded at the end of his arm, met his face, delivering the most humiliating blow a man experiences, rocking his head sideways, staggering him two, then three steps back.
He fell and lay there, offering no resistance as Bwana cuffed him again and dragged him back to the other captives. Roger, who’d been interrogating one of the heavies, looked up and nodded.
They met trouble as they were leaving.
Chapter 28
Bear was nosing their Yukon out of the alley, joining the street, when a tan Ford and a black Nissan surged from their right, the Ford edging ahead of them. Faces swiveled in their direction, eyes widened as they took in their masks, the driver gesticulating furiously at his companions.
Its rear window rolled down, and they could see hands reaching down or inside jackets and shirts.
Bear T-boned them.
Thousands of man-years of workmanship had gone in the Ford, but it crumpled like a crushed can against the Yukon, and shuddered again when the Nissan rammed it in the rear.
Bwana slipped out of the reversing Yukon and roared out loudly in a voice that could wake the dead, ‘NYPD. Stay down.’ Cops didn’t wear masks, but the more deception, the more distraction.
He reached back inside, tossed two of those mock grenades through the rear window of the Ford, and shot out its visible tires. The Glock in his right hand was steady and looked like a cannon to those in the Ford, but they weren’t offering resistance, the shock of the crash bleeding it away.
Roger was running to the Nissan, whose rear doors had opened, and two men were climbing out. Running and then flying as he launched in an aerial kick that took out the closest one to him, and landing on the roof of the Nissan, he slashed with his SIG at the second, and again, this time a reverse swipe.
Roger leapt back to the rear as the two in the front shot blindly through the roof of the car, and then the Nissan’s windshield shattered first and then its windows as Chloe fired, double and triple taps, extreme penetration, bonded bullets first punching holes in the windshield, spiderwebs around it, the other bullets following through, hours of practice of firing against different targets and combat experience coming together without conscious thought.
And then they were away, Bwana and Roger leaping to the running boards of the reversing and then surging Yukon, silhouetted for just a moment against the concrete and glass storefronts of the street, their forms slicing through the air, and then the Yukon disappeared in the traffic and they in it.
Tony removed his hand from his backpack, pulled his door shut, relaxed, and tasted his coffee. It had gone cold.
Broker had sent him as insurance, and he had watched the takedown from his anonymous van parked down the street. He’d parked early in the morning, his van bearing the signage of a utility company, his coverall bearing the same signage. He’d a work order clipped to a board in the passenger seat in case anyone was nosey enough to ask.
He wiped his palm against his coverall and let his backpack slip and fall to the floor of the van. It fell with a muted thud,
a Colt 45, spare magazines, stun grenades, a flashlight, blood pack and emergency kit weighing it down.
If the Yukon had been attacked, he would have let loose with his Colt, a gun not for stopping people, but disintegrating them. He thumbed a button on the steering wheel, and when the phone connected, he said simply, ‘All clear,’ and fired the van up.
‘Roger,’ Broker answered and smiled. The others didn’t need to know that Tony would have been their cavalry, if required.
On the other side of the street a tramp shuffled to his feet and staggered away. The street had thin traffic, which had further dispersed on Bwana’s warning. The drunk had lain against a storefront through all the action, heedless of uncaring bullets, gripping his half-empty bottle as he stared sightless.
He bounced against storefronts and half fell into an alley and straightened and dropped the bottle in the nearest trash can. The Watcher wiped his face and slipped on shades from deep inside the blanket over his body.
Tailing them was easy now, though not required. His bugs did that job, and even when they switched vehicles, he was onto them. He walked a couple of blocks to the nearest subway and smiled inwardly when he got a seat despite the rush hour. Funny how BO can clear space.
Broker had a bemused look and was putting down his phone when they went to his room.
‘What?’ Chloe asked him.
He shook his head and poured coffee for them, taking his time, allowing their adrenaline to subside, the sounds and smells of a crowded and hot city to calm them down.
‘Any problems?’
‘Nah.’ Bear took a long gulp of his drink, letting it burn his mouth. ‘Some gangbangers showed up as we were leaving. We read them the riot act, and they calmed down.’
Broker grinned. ‘And the take?’
‘About fifteen thousand dollars. Big Brothers Big Sisters will be happy tomorrow. So what happened here? Why that face?’
‘Got a message from Snarky.’ He explained who Snarky was. ‘He had info on the chapter and was getting to it when the call got cut. He did say he was running out of change. Guess I’ll have to go and meet him.’
‘Is that safe?’ Roger asked him doubtfully.
‘Safer than your walk in the park.’
Broker left their company after dinner and made his way to the same street and heard Snarky before he could see him. Snarky was slaughtering Nat King Cole’s ‘When I Fall in Love’ enthusiastically, yet his hat was gleaming with coins. Broker shook his head in disbelief and dropped his loose change in the hat.
He was well into his Newcastle Brown Ale by the time Snarky joined him, downed his beer in a smooth swallow, and pushed his glass toward the bartender for a refill. The balding bartender, a dirty towel across his shoulder, looked questioningly at Broker and filled one for Snarky at Broker’s nod.
‘Took you long enough to get here,’ Snarky accused Broker. ‘I called you, like, hours back.’
‘If you had some change with you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,’ Broker shot back.
‘Man, you know how I am with phones. They’re spying on us, besides if I used my change for calls, what would I use for drinks?’ Snarky fervently believed that THEY were spying on all of them and every phone in America was tapped. He went a bit vague when pressed about THEY.
‘Get to it,’ Broker reminded him.
‘Cruz comes around midnight, with about five guys, stays for a couple of hours, and then leaves. He’s with his enforcer always. The two are never seen alone. Man, they’re evil. The things they’ve done and will not stop at doing…’ His voice trailed away.
‘So why did they move there?’
‘A deal went wrong, cops came to the party. Hurt them a lot. Next day garage’s empty, laundry got new owners.’
It was good to have Broker’s jigsaw being corroborated.
The third beer flowed inside Snarky and so did the bills Broker slipped in his palm.
‘One other thing.’ His eyes cleared the way they did when they needed to. ‘They lost a strip club; some masked hoods came and took it apart. That you? If so, they’re madder than a hornet and are looking for you. Word’s out on the street. They know your name and are also looking for a black guy, a woman, and some others, along with you. Those with you?’
Broker was unperturbed. This was something they were expecting and, if anything, were expecting the gang to have discovered them earlier.
‘That’s all right, don’t answer. Wouldn’t be surprised if it’s not just you they’re looking for. They could have found I was asking… guess I’ll have to find another empty storefront to rest my ass against.’
Broker laughed incredulously. ‘Snarky, if they’re looking for you, you need to get the hell out of here. Leave town. Disappear.’
‘And what? Be a drunk in another town? I’ll take my chances here. Besides, if they’re looking for me, what do I know about you? Your description they already have. I guess I could give them that number you gave me. Much good it’ll do them.’
Broker persisted. ‘Your life won’t matter to them. Get out of town. Now.’
Snarky shrugged. ‘Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t. I’ve lived my life on the street and survived. Whatever kind of bad these guys are, I can handle it.’
He turned away and stopped short suddenly.
The bar had cleared out silently and in the dim light stood two men facing them. Both olive skinned, one short and stocky, and another bald and thin. Baldy was smiling thinly, knowing they had the advantage over a drunk and an older dude.
Broker followed Snarky’s gaze and then whipped back to the bartender. No one.
The two spread out, and Shorty signaled with his hand. ‘Come with us.’ He looked at Baldy. ‘Call the–’
Broker hurled his glass at Baldy, and Snarky rushed Shorty and tackled him. Broker was moving even as the glass hit Baldy over his right eye. Skin split and blood flowed freely over his face, and then Baldy doubled over as Broker’s knee sank into his belly. Broker followed it up with an uppercut, and Baldy was out of action.
Snarky’s initial advantage was long gone, and Shorty had gripped him by the throat and was squeezing the life out of him when a bar stool broke over his head. Broker smashed another bar stool over his head for good measure.
He looked down at the two. Not bad for an old guy and I’m not even panting. These are my bragging rights for a month.
He shoved a heaving and wheezing Snarky outside the door and fast-walked him a block away and stopped in the shadow of a poorly lit street.
‘Get out of here. Go someplace else and lie low. You might be a drunk in another city, but you’ll live to have more drinks.’ He shoved another roll of bills at Snarky, who had sobered by then. Snarky pocketed them and swayed for a moment.
He grinned. ‘Don’t you worry about me. I’ll surface somewhere like those Whac-A-Mole creatures. Maybe we’ll take down some gang somewhere else.’
Broker stood in the darkness, thinking back to the bar. Bartender must’ve called it in. I wasn’t followed… would have been difficult to shadow Snarky, given that he lay there most of the day.
He pulled out his phone. ‘Get outta there, now! Tony or I will call you with rendezvous details.’ He hung up on Chloe, knowing they would act. He dialed another number.
‘Tony–’
Tony interrupted him. ‘Boss, they’re looking for you. Chatter is high.’
‘They found me, got out with my skin intact. We need to move. Can you find us a place, a different one now, not the kind we’ve been staying in so far.’
‘Roger. You okay?’
Broker chuckled. ‘Never felt better. Kicking ass, kicking young ass, always feels good.’ He told Tony briefly what had gone down and took his time walking back to a subway station. At the subway, he caught trains randomly, switching them at whim and taking any line that caught his fancy. He was sure he hadn’t been followed, but precautions never hurt.
It was while riding the Red Line downtown that his thou
ghts turned to Zeb.
He liked riding the rails, especially at night. The play of light and dark as the train moved, the blur, the crowds and the space… he liked them. He used to say you were always alone in your bubble in the subway, no matter how crowded or empty it was. That was Zeb. He never spoke much, but when he did, there would be a universe of meaning.
The subway car was empty that night save for Broker at one end and a cuddling couple at the other. She noticed Broker, a bit older than them, but the strength in his body, his carriage, his hair, drew attention. She saw him faintly smiling at something, and her lips curved in a small smile involuntarily. They stepped out at the next stop, and she turned back to glance at him again.
She noticed his cheeks were wet.
Broker was wrong. He’d been shadowed.
The Watcher had followed him once he had left the others. The Watcher’s technique was simple and the most difficult to master. He kept his Ki, his life force, so low and muted that it merged in the Brownian motion of six million other people. The inner radar of those he was shadowing, so finely tuned, failed to spot the Watcher, and the only moments when they felt a twinge was when the Watcher had to come closer or when his Ki had risen.
The Watcher had spent a long time observing Snarky before concluding that he was just that, a drunk. And Broker’s snitch.
He had seen the gangbangers enter the bar. There weren’t two. There were three.
The last one was a couple of steps behind, and just as he was entering the bar, he had been grasped by the collar and sucked back, a giant vacuum pulling him. The Watcher rammed his face on the wall, glanced indifferently at a passerby who was standing shocked, and dragged the now unconscious man away. He found a trash can and heaved the man inside it. He had seen Broker dispatching the other two heavies and, seeing no other gang members nearby, had made himself invisible.
He lip-read Broker. Not the kind we’ve been staying in so far. The Watcher didn’t need to know where they would be staying.
