by Dan O'Shea
Lynch grabbed Bernstein under the arms and dragged him away from the Crown Vic into the line of parked cars toward the inside wall. Bernstein grunted, his teeth clenched, clutching his chest, but as Lynch dragged him, he grabbed the pistol he’d dropped when the round hit him. Bernstein pushed with his feet, the two of them scrambling behind the engine block of an old Buick just as the first burst tore into the sheet metal.
The four gunmen were only fifteen yards back, and closing fast. Lynch had already punched out the clip he’d emptied into al Din, slammed in a new one. One more clip left after that. Couldn’t waste rounds, but he couldn’t let these guys just close on him, either. He reached up over the hood of the Buick, picking the line from his visual memory, squeezed off three quick shots.
Bernstein rolled to his stomach, fired a couple rounds from under the car, aimed at legs, clipped one guy on the calf, a shout in Spanish, the guy hopping into a line of cars toward the inside of the garage, another guy, the driver, bobbing into the same row. The two from the passenger side went right, toward the wall.
“We don’t get some backup, we’re fucked,” Lynch said.
“Called it in when we entered the garage, figure a couple minutes,” Bernstein said.
Another burst ripped into the Buick, closer this time, better angle.
“Be about a minute more than we got,” Lynch said.
Lynch hit the ground and rolled to the back of the Buick, watching the floor on that side, looking for legs, looking for the two guys who’d moved in toward the wall. Bernstein wedged himself as far under the front end as he could, watching the right for the other two shooters.
Another burst, from the left this time, glass from the windows dropping on Lynch.
Lynch saw a foot, aimed, fired. Someone screaming in Spanish.
Another burst, the bad guys learning their lesson, somebody on Lynch’s side had laid his gun flat on the floor and pulled the trigger, rounds zipping along the floor, popping noise and then a long, fading hiss from the rear tire on the other side of the car.
“Son of a bitch,” Lynch grunted. One round had skipped up, ripped a bloody line down the outside of his right thigh.
Hardin covered the stairway down to four while Wilson looked through the narrow, wire-meshed window out into the fifth floor of the garage.
“Got a couple cops pinned down by a Crown Vic in the middle lane. A guy named Lynch and another guy.”
“You know them?” Hardin asked.
“Know him a little,” she said. A pause. “We leave, they die.”
Hardin closed his eyes a minute, swallowed, then nodded. They were who they were and they had done what they’d done, but Wilson had been a cop for a decade now, a good one. Hardin knew she couldn’t walk away from this and live with it. Truth be told, neither could he.
“OK,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Wilson nodded, looked back out the window. “Crown Vic is the cops. Got a white sedan on the far side, four shooters, looks like three with subs and a handgun.”
A single shot from the cops’ position, one of the bad guys gave out a yell, hopped into the line of cars across the center aisle, another bad guy following him. The other two moved between the cars on the near side, toward Hardin and Wilson. One of them straightened up, put a burst on the Buick, then a single shot from the cops, more cursing in Spanish, on their side this time. Then a burst from across the aisle.
“We take the two on our side first,” Wilson said.
Hardin nodded.
“Ready?”
He nodded again.
Hardin grabbed the door handle. It would open from Wilson’s side. She stood back a step, her S&W steady, waiting for a line. Hardin pulled the door back slowly, felt a weight pushing it. Al Din’s body fell into the stairwell, shot to hell.
Wilson went through the door, hugging the wall, working for an angle. Hardin came out behind her.
One of the shooters on the far side shouted something in Spanish, turned toward Hardin and Wilson, fired a round that splattered into the concrete wall between them. Hardin knew better than to rush. You got shot, you didn’t get shot, not much you could do about that. But if you kept your shit together, aimed, you’d at least hit what you were shooting at. Nothing fancy, center mass. Hardin fired, drilling the guy just below the solar plexus, dropped him in his tracks.
A guy with an MP5 popped up two cars in front of them, firing wild, the first rounds hitting into the back quarter of a minivan, just right of Wilson, the guy trying to adjust, swinging the gun her way, his finger still locked on the trigger, the glass in the minivan busting out as the bullets tracked toward her. Wilson didn’t even flinch, just aimed and put her first shot into the middle of his face. Two down.
Lynch and Bernstein heard the new shooting on their left. Bernstein saw the shooter on the far side catch a round in the gut and go down.
“Cavalry’s here,” he said.
“But who are they?” answered Lynch.
“You care?”
“Nope.”
Lynch looked ahead under the car. “Can’t pick a target on this side. Let’s light up the other fucker over your way, at least keep him out of the game.”
Bernstein nodded; they both rose, squatting at the hood, firing right. Lynch’s leg tried to buckle on him, so he leaned into the car, keeping the weight on his good side.
The other shooter on Wilson’s side popped up, right along the wall, his short burst just missing her, slamming into the windshield of the minivan. Wilson hit the floor, spun, looking for his legs.
Hardin heard the burst, saw Wilson drop, didn’t know whether she’d been hit or not. Brought both guns to bear on the guy by the wall just as the guy saw Hardin. Hardin put six shots into the guy’s chest just as the guy pulled the trigger on him. The guy dropped, Hardin felt his left arm yank back, lost the pistol in that hand, then felt the burn. Caught at least one round high up, close to the shoulder.
“I’m OK,” Wilson called.
Hardin twisted, looked across the aisle. Should be one more shooter over there. He saw the first guy he’d hit, gut shot guy, rolling toward the aisle, reaching for his weapon. Hardin lined him up and put two in his brain pan, saw the last guy coming out. Hardin fired again, three rounds hitting the target high center mass before the slide locked back. Empty.
Hardin went to reach for his spare magazine with his left hand, but his left arm wasn’t working. Felt more pain then. Hardin dropped the empty pistol from his right, squatted down, picked up the one he’d lost when he got hit. Didn’t know what he had left in that one.
Nobody was shooting, nobody was moving.
Wilson was back up, gun out, swiveling. “That everybody?”
“Yeah.”
She saw his arm. “You OK?”
“Will be,” he said.
From below, they heard sirens, lots of them. Sounded like half the Chicago PD was pulling into the garage.
Behind them, the two cops stood up from behind the Buick, the short one’s left arm hanging, the bigger one hobbling around the front of the car, his right leg bloody.
“You’re Hardin and Wilson, right?” the tall guy said.
Hardin nodded.
Both cops raised their weapons. “Not that we don’t appreciate the help and all,” the tall guy said. “But you’re both under arrest.”
“And we’re really hoping you’ll put the guns down,” the short cop added. “Cause I think you’re better at this shit than we are.”
Hardin, shrugged, set the 9mm down on the roof of the car next to him. Wilson laid her S&W down next to it.
“Which one of you got al Din?” Hardin asked.
“Me,” said the tall guy.
“Then you’re pretty good yourself,” Hardin said.
CHAPTER 92
A couple of units reached five, lights going, sirens going, stopping at angles on either side of the Lexus that blocked the aisle. The cops leapt out, going to guns, but Lynch and Bernstein had moved to the center
of the aisle, holding their badges out, and everybody calmed down.
“Radio for some buses,” Lynch yelled to one of the uniforms. “Here and on six.”
“How many?”
“Lots,” Lynch said, “Hold on.”
He yelled over the sirens to Hardin.
“Anybody wounded upstairs?”
“Not unless I’m slipping,” Hardin answered.
“How many?”
“Four.”
“So four on six, at least six here,” Lynch said to the uniform, raising his voice over the commotion. “Gonna need crime scene, ME, fuck it, we’re gonna need everybody.”
Five minutes later, the first two ambulances arrived. The EMTs wanted to transport Hardin and Lynch, but Lynch told them to wait. He was on a gurney they’d pulled out, his right leg out straight, the pants leg cut off halfway up his thigh. One of the techs was cleaning the wound, shooting a local into the leg in a few spots. The back of the gurney was raised so Lynch could sit up. Hardin sat on the bumper of the second unit while a short woman cleaned and bandaged his arm. Another EMT was wrapping Bernstein’s ribs. When one of the techs tried to look at Wilson’s head, she told him to fuck off.
Hickman came out the door, holding up his creds, walked over to Lynch.
“I don’t know what happened here detective, but this whole crime scene is under federal jurisdiction.”
“Fuck you,” Lynch said.
A plainclothes car stopped, half on the ramp. Starshak got out. He walked over to the gurney, looked at Lynch.
“Get to a fucking hospital,” he said, turned toward Bernstein. “You too.”
“Just as soon as Hickman stops trying to Bogart my crime scene. He says this is a Fed deal.”
Hickman stepped between Lynch and Starshak. “Your people stumbled into and very nearly ruined a long-running and extremely sensitive federal investigation involving matters of national security that I am not at liberty to disclose at the moment. I might add, Captain, that you were told to stay away from this case, that it was a task force matter now.” Hickman was trying to be pedantic, but it wasn’t working because he was shivering. He was still in his shirtsleeves, and the temperature was in the fifties, a cold wind gusting into the garage from the east on and off.
“Membe Saturday,” Starshak said.
“What?” said Hickman.
“Refugee guy by the Stadium,” said Lynch. “We liked al Din for that, too. Nobody said anything about not clearing that case. Guess it wasn’t sexy enough for you Fed assholes to work it.”
Hickman shook his head, waved a hand. “Clearly that was connected. At any rate, I’m telling you now, this is a Federal matter. Transport your injured people, back your uniforms off to the street so they can control access to the garage, and get everybody else out of my crime scene.”
“Not gonna happen,” Starshak said. “Homicide is a state crime, not federal. And right now, all I’ve got is a multiple homicide. We haven’t even ID’d any of the victims yet, No way in hell I turn this over on your say so, especially since I got you on scene. Right now, you ain’t the US Attorney, Hickman. You’re a material witness. Maybe a suspect.”
Starshak turned to a nearby uniform. “Hardin, Wilson and Mr Expensive-tie, I-don’t-say-shit over there,” Starshak pointed at Lafitpour, who had come out the stairway door with Hickman and was standing by the wall, “link them up and process them.” Starshak poked a finger into Hickman’s chest. “And if this dick interferes, cuff his ass and run him in, too.”
“Cap,” Lynch said, “just so you know, Wilson and Hardin saved our asses.”
Starshak looked at Hardin, then at Wilson. “Well don’t this just get curiouser and curiouser.”
From above, Lynch heard the beat of a chopper getting louder, closer, then shutting down. Sounded like it landed on the roof. From below, the sound of more sirens, on the street, then some shouting. Starshak walked over to the wall, looked down at Washington Street.
“Mess of Feebs. Who called them?”
CHAPTER 93
Lynch watched a powerfully built older man walk down the ramp from six. One of the uniforms stopped him, but the guy just smiled handing the uniform a cell phone, the uniform listening for a second and then stepping aside, still holding the phone to his ear. The guy was at least sixty, probably more, looked like he could still throw a punch if the mood struck him. Expensive suit, spring weight camel hair coat. Guy looked like Brian Dennehy maybe ten or fifteen years back. He walked directly to Starshak.
“Captain Starshak, before you fuck things up to the point where I can’t unfuck them, perhaps you and I could have a word.”
Starshak ignored the guy and looked past him to the uniform who’d let him pass. The uniform looked back sheepishly, still holding the phone like he didn’t know what to do with it.
“Too busy playing Angry Birds to do your damn job?” Starshak barked. “Who is this hump and what is he doing in my crime scene?”
The cop opened his mouth and then closed it, didn’t know what to say. The Brian Dennehy guy took the phone from the cop’s hand.
“Actually, the phone’s mine,” the man said, handing the phone to Starshak. “And it’s for you.”
Starshak took it, listened, his face impassive. He listened for a long time. He never said anything. Then he handed the phone back to the big man and turned to address the cops.
“Listen up, people,” Starshak yelled. Everybody stopped, turned. Starshak pointed at the big man. “This guy’s name is Munroe. Don’t ask me who he works for, cause I don’t know. But I’ve heard from the chief, who’s heard from the mayor who, for all I know, has heard from the fucking President. Good work on al Din, that’s the word. Atta boys all around. Now we dumb-ass local yokels are supposed to step back and let the big boys do their jobs.”
“This is totally fucked,” said Lynch
“Tell me about it,” said Starshak.
“Will somebody get me a damn coat?” Hickman said, sounding whiny.
“Shut up,” said Munroe.
Lafitpour said nothing at all, standing to the side, not moving. He wasn’t asking anybody for a coat.
Bernstein walked over. The tech was done with him for now, ribs wrapped, left arm in a sling, bound tight to his chest, his ruined blazer and a raid jacket draped over his shoulders.
“What’s he doing here?” Bernstein asked, nodding toward Lafitpour.
“Don’t know,” Lynch said. “Hasn’t said a damn thing. No ID on him, don’t even have his name. And I get the feeling Joe Washington here likes it that way. But he’s awful damn quiet, that’s for sure. I guess the cat’s got his tongue.”
“Persian cat, I bet,” Bernstein said. He stepped up to Lafitpour, directly in front of him, got in his personal space, staring him down. “Bahram Lafitpour, Chicago’s mysterious wizard of Wall Street. What are you now? Second richest guy in town? Won’t do interviews, not even with the financial press, don’t like having your picture taken. And here you are, playing cops and robbers in your shirtsleeves.”
Lafitpour’s eyes flashed with anger, his jaw tightening.
“Careful, Slo-mo,” Starshak said. “I don’t think he’s used to the help talking to him that way.”
“Wait until I try it in Hebrew,” Bernstein said.
Lafitpour spat in Bernstein’s face. Starshak nudged Bernstein aside and drove a fist into Lafitpour’s gut, doubling him over for a second, but Lafitpour straightened quickly, glared at Starshak.
“I don’t give a shit what your connections in DC say,” Starshak said to Munroe. “A suspect spits on a cop, that’s assault. We don’t do assault.”
The Munroe guy chuckled a little shook his head. “You know what? You shut up too, Bernstein. Fucking Jews. Always too smart for your own good. You wonder why everybody’s pissed at you all the time.”
Bernstein turned toward Munroe. “Do I know you?”
“Nope,” said Munroe. “But I know everybody. Oh, and this guy?” He nodded toward Lafit
pour. “He’s not here anyway.”
CHAPTER 94
An hour later, Munroe slid the Do Not Disturb sign aside and stuck the key card into the door at the low-end motel out on North Avenue. Card had been in al Din’s wallet. He’d left Hickman to ride herd on the FBI team that was processing the garage in the Loop. Little worried about Hickman. He was getting scared and whiny now that they had a little excrement on the fan blades.
Starshak, Lynch’s boss, he didn’t roll easy, raised quite a stink, trying to get Chicago guys to process the scene, saying the shootings were homicides, and homicides weren’t federal. Munroe had to make some more calls, push the Chicago PD brass to get a better leash on their people. He needed the locals all the way outside the tent on this thing. Fuckers were smarter than he thought, Bernstein putting an ID on Lafitpour; that was a free radical he didn’t need.
And Lynch, Munroe knew about Lynch from the whole cluster fuck the year before. That guy was like Joe Frazier, punch him in the head all day long and he was just going to keep coming, next thing you know you’ve busted your hand on his skull and while he works your body, cracking your ribs one at a time. Had Chicago PD on ice for now, but he knew they be picking at whatever they could pick at. Just needed to box this mess up, get a bow on it, and blow town.
Munroe pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He’d check the room first; decide what he wanted going into the official paperwork. And what he didn’t.
Two beds, shitty desk and chair, cheap dresser, Laptop on the desk, laptop bag on the floor by the chair. He’d be taking that, send it east, let the tech weenies out at NSA see what they could wring out of it. Al Din had a phone in his pocket, which was in Munroe’s pocket now. Put that in the same pouch. Nothing in the drawers. Underwear, socks, some shirts all neatly folded in the suitcase that lay open on the second bed. Three more phones in there, all the same make and model. Throwaways, probably, picked up at a 7-Eleven somewhere. Munroe powered them up one at a time, checked. No call history, no messages, no texts. Leave those for the Feebs; give them something to play with.
