Certain Reprisal

by Kevin Macklin

  Keeping the stash off site was a procedure that should have been implemented long ago. Mike didn't think it necessary to keep everything in one place, making it easy for robbers or law enforcement to burst in and get everything in one fell swoop. The smart thing would be to keep only what was needed to last for short periods of time, then go re-up when that ran out.

  Minimizing risk.

  Anything else was laziness.

  The thought had crossed Mike's mind long ago, but this wasn't his operation, and he would do as told.

  He was the house manager and there were four guys working under him, split into two shifts. Two guys worked the days and two worked the nights. Mike worked both shifts, coming and going according to his own schedule. Certain times of the day were considered 'rush hours' and he made it a point to be around during those times.

  This happened to be one such time.

  Their current supply of product was running low, on the verge of selling out any minute, so he sent one of his young workers, Duke, to the stash to resupply.

  Duke walked out of the back door and was crossing the yard to the alley when two officers in tactical gear came rushing toward him. Never one to panic, he maintained his presence of mind and screamed, "Police!" before they had a chance to subdue him. The early warning was heard throughout the trap house, causing a rush of activity.

  Mike grabbed the remaining product and dashed to the bathroom, flushing the small amount down the toilet. The other young worker collected paraphernalia items, scales, baggies, razor blades, and playing cards used to separate small amounts of drugs, and ran down the hall to hide them beneath the bedroom floor.

  Both the front and back doors came crashing in as Mike returned to the living room. Four officers rushed in. They all carried assault rifles. All of the rifles were pointed at Mike. He immediately raised his hands and said, "Let me see the warrant."

  One of the officer's responded, "We're looking for Jon Dough. Tell us where we can find him and we go on about our business and leave you fine folks to yours."

  "Who?" Mike questioned.

  "Your fucking boss. Now, cut the shit. Where is he?"

  "I don't know who the fuck you're talking 'bout, so show me a warrant or get the fuck outta here."

  "Boys… Tear this shit hole of a place to pieces," the officer instructed his brethren in a menacingly chipper voice.

  The officer who spoke kept his gun trained on Mike as the others spread out. One went to the couch, pulled out a knife, and began slicing the cushions, before flipping the couch over onto its back. Then, he turned around and violently inverted the coffee table. The TV, hanging on the wall, was the next inanimate object to face the officer's wrath, and it came crashing to the floor.

  Mike stood silently, hands raised, as the officers went through the house, room by room, destroying everything in sight. The worker who had been in the bedroom trudged into the front room, closely followed by an officer who held an assault rifle to his spine.

  "Found this one in the bedroom," the officer reported, then went back to continue his chaos.

  A few minutes later, once the entire house had been turned into a disaster area, the three officers made their way back into the living room.

  "He's not here," one of them said.

  The leader of the raiding party said to Mike, "Now, you tell Jon Dough that we're going to get his ass, and we're going to get his ass good. He should have never come fucking with me. And, you'd do well to get the fuck out of dodge."

  The leader continued to keep his weapon pointed at the trap house crew as his cronies filed out of the front door. Then, he turned and disappeared.

  To the young worker, Mike said, "Go find Duke. He was on his way to the stash house. Y'all try and get this shit cleaned up as good as you can. I'm headed to the warehouse to tell CG what just happened."

  Chapter 13

  The GPS tag had been transmitting up until the moment Mahoney's truck began its tumble, during their pursuit. Back at my house, Lisa and I pulled up the app I used for monitoring the tag. The station and his house were apparent, but there were four other places the tag had recorded before it stopped transmission.

  The first place we would check out was a storage facility on the west side of town. I grabbed a pair of heavy duty bolt cutters before setting out, then Lisa drove my Tesla, so I could give her a crash course on how to operate it since she would be keeping it for the near future. I also replaced my license plate with one from a Tesla that had been totaled, courtesy of Dog.

  The storage facility was run of the mill, with an office up front and large, low buildings behind, all surrounded by a chain link fence.

  Lisa entered the office and strode to the counter, behind which stood a young man in his early twenties, wearing khakis and a company shirt.

  "How may I help you?" the young man asked.

  "My boss sent me to grab something from his storage unit, but it's been so long, and with everything going on, I forgot which unit is his. Do you mind looking it up for me, and I'll be on my way?"

  Lisa was wearing a dark skirt and blouse. She looked every bit the assistant of someone who would have an assistant. The guy behind the counter was still skeptical, though.

  "Can I see your ID, please?" the young man asked.

  "Look," she said. "My boss is in a meeting and I need to get this to him before the meeting is over. I'll tell you what... I'll give you a hundred dollars for your trouble, because I really don't feel like getting chewed out today."

  Still looking skeptical, he opened his hand to receive the money, then continued tapping on the keyboard.

  "Unit 12-C."

  Lisa went back to the car and drove through the gate, following the narrow alleys until she found the correct unit.

  Grabbing the bolt cutters, I got out of the car, and made short work of the lock that secured the door of the unit. Rolled the door up. The inside of the unit was nothing impressive. Basically, hunting and fishing equipment, with a few miscellaneous items scattered in the mix. There were tents, blinds, camo coveralls, fishing rods and reels, tackle, and a shovel caked with dirt.

  "Nothing here," I said. "On to the next place."

  Before leaving, I secured the door with my own lock. If Mahoney came to the storage unit, he wouldn't be able to get in. But, I couldn't leave the door unlocked. That may draw unwanted attention. With a lock, it would be indistinguishable from any other unit.

  The next place on the list turned it to be a body of water. Something between a pond and a lake, it was big enough to traverse in a motor boat, and could have possibly stretched across several properties.

  It was definitely secluded. The tree line was dense and began about six feet from the shore. I thought about the shovel back at the storage unit. Someone could be buried out here and never be stumbled upon.

  My eyes began scanning for recently disturbed soil.

  "Maybe, he just went fishing," Lisa commented.

  "Maybe," I replied. "Maybe, not. There's a lot of land out here. It would take forever to search without a large search party. We don't have the resources to do that."

  I looked around, scanning the terrain. If I were to bury a body I'd probably take off to the left. For no good reason, really. I'm right hand, so I'd probably carry the body on my right side. Moving to the left would just seem more comfortable.

  Lisa followed me as I walked left, a few feet inside the tree line. The dense undergrowth scraped at our legs. This definitely wouldn't be an easy trek if someone was carrying a body. Or, three.

  We walked along the shore, back to our starting point.

  Might as well go right. That direction gave us much of the same. The foliage wasn't quite as thick, but I still didn't see any places that looked right for a grave. No open spaces. No freshly disturbed dirt. No fresh footprints in the moist earth. Nothing.

  We went back to the car.

  The other two places didn't get my juices flowing either. One was a Mexican restaurant that turned out t
o have pretty good food. We hadn't eaten and figured it was as good a place as any. Wasn't much help with our mission, though.

  The final place was a house in a residential neighborhood. It was a two story with white paint, red trim, and a swing on the front porch. A white picket fence enclosed the front yard. It was that kind of neighborhood. Could have been a postcard picture of the 'American dream.'

  This wasn't the type or neighborhood in which strangers could sit in a car, on the street, and go unnoticed.

  We parked down the block and watched for any activity, but there wasn't much going on and we didn't want to sit out here all day, so we went to the door and knocked.

  Nobody answered. I didn't think it would be an ideal place for housing hostages or bodies, so we crossed it off the list.

  Much of Mahoney's patrol was in the territory of a guy called Big Duck. He'd climbed his way to the top of his organization and we'd worked together before on something. Kind of. But, he always kept his ear to the street.

  I needed any kind of information I could get on Mahoney, and fast. Every minute that passed caused the reduction of the probability that any of the missing women would be found alive.

  Chapter 14

  This Jon Dough was already beginning to be a thorn in his side. The raids on his drug houses had been a ploy to put him on the defensive and flush him out. The plan was to keep the pressure up, keep him thinking about his business and his own well being, instead of being able to pay attention to what Mahoney was doing.

  And right now, Mahoney was sitting in his cruiser, backed into a secluded spot used by police officers to catch traffic violators. This particular spot happened to be along a street frequently traveled by Denise, one of the prostitutes who had testified against Mahoney.

  The faster the other two remaining women disappeared, the better. They had no right, testifying against him. They had just done for him what they were doing for everyone else, yet they had tried to take him down! They'd tried to ruin his career, his life. Tried to send him to jail like he was some common criminal.

  Him. An officer of the law. The person who would answer the call when they needed help. The guy who put his ass on the line every single day to make sure people could sleep at night. The man who had allowed them to avoid jail and continue living their shitty little lives, when they were caught red handed, breaking the law.

  No good deed...

  They had no right.

  So, here he was, stalking his prey, duty to the public taking a backseat, because he did a whore a favor. They could have been sitting in jail right now, hungry, cold, crying their hearts out. But, no. His benevolence had allowed them to continue walking the streets, to continue filling their veins with the drugs that they so craved, to continue satisfying men's desires so that they could fulfill their own.

  But, he was the bad guy…

  Well, Mr. Benevolent wasn't in the house tonight.

  Movement on the dark street caught his eye and he turned on his spotlight. A woman. Not Denise Rankin, but it just as well could have been. Similar height, similar build. They were both bottle blondes. Both of the same profession, and probably for the same reasons.

  Not Denise, but might as well have been.

  The woman froze in the glare of the spotlight. Shielded her eyes.

  Mahoney stepped out of his car, called out to the woman, "Hands where I can see them! Walk toward my car."

  She took a couple tentative steps, then started walking full stride. Like she had a decision to make and was unsure at first, weighing her options, then, decision made, fully gave herself to that decision.

  Once she reached the car, Mahoney killed the spotlight and bent her over the car's hood to conduct a search of her person. She wore a short skirt, spaghetti strap top, and heels. Mahoney's search was thorough, invasive, inappropriate.

  He slid his hand beneath her shirt and over her braless breasts. Then he took his hands and raised her short skirt, revealing her complete lack of undergarments.

  "What are you doing?" she questioned, and tried to turn around.

  "You resisting arrest?" Mahoney countered, as he took the mound of her private into the palm of his hand.

  "Get off me! You can't do this!"

  "Who the fuck do you think I am? Mr. Nice Guy has left the building," Mahoney exclaimed, the sadistic carnie rising to the surface.

  He gripped the woman's throat with his other hand and slammed her to the ground. The woman's back met the concrete with enough force to knock the wind out of her. He climbed on top, straddling her, and wrapped both hands around her neck.

  Panic welled up in the woman's eyes. This was the end. She just knew it. She'd always understood that there was a possibility that she could go by the hands of a man. But, a police officer? Her deep rooted instinct for survival kicked in as the hands tightened around her neck. She bucked and thrashed. Rocks and gravel bit into the flesh of her back and legs. Her arms struck out at her attacker, to no avail. She scratched. She kicked.

  The thrashing and fighting fueled Mahoney's fire. These ungrateful little cunts didn't deserve to live, didn't deserve to breathe.

  "No more Mr. Nice Guy," Mahoney said as he raised the woman's head, then crashed it down onto the concrete. "Thought you were going to just use me, Denise? Huh? Then send me off to prison?"

  He brought the woman's head down into the concrete over, and over, and over.

  And, over. And, over.

  She'd stopped moving after the first impact. By the time Mahoney was finished, the back of her head was just a leaking, oozing, squishy mass. There was surprisingly little blood. Her brain had stopped functioning before it had a chance to tell her heart to start redirecting blood flow to the injury.

  Mahoney sat up, panting. Anger and madness drained, leaving exhaustion and fatigue in their place.

  He stood and looked around. Not a soul in sight. There were a few plastic shopping bags beneath the seat of his cruiser, so he grabbed one and went back to the woman's body. Covered her head with the bag and tied it around her neck to prevent leakage. Then he wrestled the body into the backseat. Dusted himself off and got in the driver's seat.

  Denise's day would soon come. Juicy as well. They were the final two on his list, and even though he couldn't get to either one of them tonight, it wasn't a total wash.

  He needed to get rid of the body, but he had a brilliant idea in mind. He smiled to himself as the cruiser pulled out onto the road. Careful to avoid well lighted areas and streets on which big trucks traveled, Mahoney navigated to his destination, then pulled into an alley and drove as close to the dumping ground as he could. The body was heavy as he muscled it out of the backseat and positioned it. Just so.

  Then he removed the plastic bag and drove off.

  Back to catching bad guys.

  Chapter 15

  It was the crack of dawn and my phone was ringing. I had tried to ignore it, but the relentless caller wouldn't let me. Groggily, I reached over and dragged the phone from my nightstand.

  Eight missed calls, all within the past few minutes. All had come from the same person.

  CG.

  The phone chirped, again, as I read the missed call log. This time I answered.

  "What happened?" I asked when I put the phone to my ear.

  There was no other reason CG would be blowing my phone up this early in the morning. Or, anytime. So, I knew something had to be wrong.

  "You need to get to Mike's spot. Now, bro. It's serious."

  It was obvious that he didn't want to say too much over the phone, and I was just fine with that. Phones are nothing but radios that send signals over frequencies, and I generally didn't trust them with sensitive information. I knew too many people in prison because of something they said over a phone.

  So, I performed my morning ablutions, then hopped on my bike. After visiting the sites from the GPS tag, Lisa dropped me off where I'd left my bike before getting captured. It was right where I'd left it, unharmed and fully functional.


  I arrived at Mike's trap house in record time and CG was in the front yard to greet me. He led me through the house and into the backyard, where I stopped dead in my tracks. Please forgive my use of the phrase, but it is what it is.

  A woman was lying in the middle of the yard, spread-eagle, with her skirt hiked up around her waist. She was completely exposed. Her spaghetti strap top barely covered her chest, but at least she was left some kind of dignity.

  I moved in closer. Something about her face was odd, and as I approached, I realized what it was. The back of her head had been bashed in, causing her head to rest at an awkward angle.

  "What the fuck?" I asked CG. "Who did this?"

  "One of Mike's guys was headed to the stash spot to re-up and damn near tripped over her. When have you ever seen anybody in the hood do some shit like this? This has to do with whatever you got going on. But, we need to figure out what to do about this. A couple of our spots got raided yesterday by some cops looking for you. They trashed the places, but we still got all of our product. If they come back and find this…" CG let his voice trail off.

  The thought crossed my mind that this was some kind of set up. But, the closer I looked…

  "There's not really any blood. I've seen people with bullshit injuries leave blood everywhere. There should be blood and brains all over the place," I stated.

  "Good luck explaining that at trial," CG responded.

  What we wouldn't do is call 911. She was beyond the help of even the most astute doctors in America. And, the police would waste their time arresting us, instead of trying to figure out what really happened to this woman.

  Around here, they arrested first and asked questions later.

  "Anybody know who she is?" I asked.

  A youngster spoke up. "Her name was Starr."

  "What can you tell me about her?"

  "Nothing, really," he replied. "Just see her around the block doing her thing. She a strawberry."

  A 'strawberry' was the term commonly used in the hood to describe a woman who would prostitute for drugs. They would cut out the John and trick directly with the hustlers. I could see many a young hustler going for her. It was obvious that she was attractive, even with the damage to her head.