by Roger Weston
Walking under the glass ceiling, along a grated catwalk up in the treetops, Chuck followed the shifting course around the perimeter of the conservatory. Then he saw the very figure of the bodyguard described to him by the gangster he’d taken down in the street near Foggy Bottom.
“Stay away from him if you know what’s good for ya,” the gangster had warned. “The lawyer has bodyguards, including a three-hundred pound meat hammer with knit gloves.”
Chuck doubted if he was three hundred pounds, but he was close to it. He was also alone.
Chuck walked right up to the big guy. “I’m supposed to meet Hurst Martin Hurst here. You know where he is?”
“Who are you?”
“A friend. Where is he?”
“You ain’t no friend. You’re a cop, aren’t you?”
“I’m an old acquaintance of Hurst. Got it? Now listen, you murdering scum. Answer the questions straight.”
The big brute came after him like a raging bull, but this bull was on a fifty-foot high platform.”
The big man threw a haymaker punch, but Chuck ducked. Then he lunged in and delivered a vicious elbow to the fighter’s back, causing him to stumble. Chuck spun and kicked him in the back. The thug’s tremendous upper body weight caused him to fall over the rail. By some miracle, he managed to grab the rail and hold on despite his knit gloves, but he was a very big, heavy man. He was now hanging there above a fifty-foot drop into a steaming indoor creek. The burly, heavy criminal grimaced with his scarred lip and said, “Help me.”
His fingers clung to the metal railing, but his knit gloves were making it hard for him to keep his grip. Chuck figured they would make it harder to hold on.
“Where’s Hurst?” Chuck said.
The thug made a panicked whining sound then. “He’s going to a condemned building on Mulray Street in Baltimore.”
“Where’s the kid?”
“Help me.”
“Answer the question!”
“He’s there too. They’re gonna bury him. I can’t hold. Oh, no. Oh, no!”
Chuck knew he was going to be lucky to lift a 300-pound man, particularly in an awkward position like this where he could only reach his hands and arms.
“Grab my wrist,” Chuck said, “and I’ll grab yours.”
“I can’t do it,” the man yelled, but he panicked and tried to grab Chuck’s arm with both hands. He dropped like a rock, splashing into the manmade creek far below. A woman screamed. Three tourists looked up at Chuck.
“Call an ambulance,” Chuck said.
A fourth man rushed into view, who looked like another tough guy. Looking up at Chuck with acidic eyes, he reached for his gun.
Chuck ran back the way he came, descending the grated stairs. As he hurried toward the exit, a security guard was running toward him.
“A man fell,” Chuck said, pointing. “He’s over that way.”
The security guard rushed past. Chuck left through the front door. He didn’t see the other thug anywhere. As Chuck started down the National Mall, he watched his back, but still didn’t see any sign of the killer.
Chuck was just starting to think maybe he’d gotten away when he heard the pounding of helicopter rotors.
A helicopter swooped into view. It was hovering over the mall. A side door opened up, and a sniper appeared in the open doorway. Chuck saw the lawyer sitting in the shadows behind the sniper. For just a moment, Chuck made eye contact with the shooter, who then flipped up his scope covers. Chuck saw that it was not the police.
He ran for cover behind some trees by a museum. The sniper began firing short bursts. People screamed and scattered. Chuck fired back, so the helicopter rose. He realized that they were going to try and get a better angle on him. Then a second helicopter roared in—a police helicopter.
A voice boomed out of a loudspeaker: “Land right where you are. Set down right there.”
The tale of the first helicopter swung around until the open door was facing the police chopper. Suddenly an RPG from the sniper smashed into the police chopper, which burst into a fireball and began to twirl. The police helicopter crashed into the National Art Museum and exploded as tourists fled.
The first helicopter circled a couple of times then rocketed away from the mall, pounding the air at high speed.
Chuck rushed over to the police helicopter and pulled three wounded men from the burning wreckage. Two were still alive. Then an explosion ripped the police helicopter to shreds.
A few tourists emerged from cover behind bushes to see the spectacle. Chuck called 911 and reported the incident. Then he left the area.
He had to get to Baltimore quickly, or JJ’s kid was going to fall victim to killers.
CHAPTER 37
The old building on Mulray Street in Baltimore bordered a number of vacant lots in a run-down part of town. It was a seven-story brick building with many boarded up windows. Two adjacent buildings on that block were now piles of rubble. The whole block was surrounded by chain-link fencing with plywood backing that blocked the views of any pedestrians, of which there were very few. It was not a great area to be walking around. The gate was closed, but Chuck came prepared. Tossing the bolt cutters on the ground, he ran across the dirt clearing, past a couple of pickup trucks, and entered the building’s first floor through an old yellow door covered with graffiti.
The building’s interior was about what he might have expected from an abandoned building in a rough neighborhood. Debris was strewn around, but nothing of value—a broken chair here, an old mattress over there by a collection of refrigerator boxes, evidently used by a homeless vagrant.
Right away Chuck heard voices. The voices echoed down from an upper floor because the center of the building was open with a sort of old-fashioned atrium.
“Hey, excuse me. I’ll be down in a while. I’m having a meeting here.”
Someone cursed.
As Chuck looked up, he could see all the way to a skylight on the ceiling. He was looking up past seven floors, each marked by a set of circular wooden safety rails. All the offices had been arranged around the open center so that people on any level could stand at the railings and look up to the skylight or down the lobby on ground floor.
Chuck moved quickly, checking rooms and abandoned offices on the ground floor, but no sign of the kid. What he did find was explosives and electronic timers attached to detonators. The packages were placed at key locations related to structural integrity. The timers were set to ten minutes, but not counting down yet.
He took the stairs up to the second level. He could still hear voices. They were quieter now, somewhere on the upper floors, but the noise carried and almost echoed in the abandoned structure.
“Big Tony served me five years. He was a ruthless enforcer, feared like nobody else. Are you sure it was Brandt?”
“I was in the helicopter. I saw him with my own eyes.”
Someone cursed.
“If I hadn’t gotten out of the arboretum when I did, I’d be toast just like Big Tony is now. I want Brandt’s head on a platter!”
“We’ll find him.”
“I ain’t got no time. What we’ve done can be reversed. I want his lips sealed like Big Tony’s.”
“I needed a lawyer like you in the Atlantic City mess.”
“Just find him. That’s what I’m payin’ you for, right? That’s your business.”
“My business is demolition. I’m an enforcer only when necessary.”
“This is necessary.”
“I told you I’d do it. The voices faded...”
Chuck entered an old office on the second floor and found the kid tied to a chair, his mouth gagged. A block of explosives had been placed right under his chair next to his crutches. His eyes were wet. Chuck pulled out a little tool pouch and did some fast work.
“Take it easy, kid. I’m a friend of your dad’s. I’m gonna get you out of here.” Chuck untied him and removed his gag. “Don’t move yet. Stay right there, understand?”
&
nbsp; “Yes, sir.”
Just then, a pencil-thin sleaze ball appeared in the doorway. Chuck was startled because he hadn’t heard any footsteps.
“What the— What are you’re doing, Holmes?” He reached for his gun. As he fired, Chuck dove and rolled. He fired while rolling and tagged the shooter’s thigh. The shooter collapsed and twisted to the floor.
As the shooter struggled to turn over, Chuck dove onto him. He pinned down the gun hand and stripped the pistol.
Someone up on an upper floor yelled, “What’s happening, Rex? What was that about?”
“Nice gun,” Chuck said. Nice shiny barrel. I’ll bet it fits right into that bullet hole.” Chuck shoved the barrel into the thug’s wounded thigh.” The man screamed.
Chuck fired the pistol. The man screamed again.
“Rex,” the man up on the upper level yelled, “who are you shooting at?”
Chuck said, “Who’s up there, Rex? Tell me now or this gets ugly.”
“I will piss on your grave,” Rex said.
“Wrong answer.” Chuck fired a shot into Rex’s other thigh.
After Rex quieted down from his scream, Chuck said, “I was trying to be nice, Rex. Were you planning to bury this kid? Is that what you were planning to do? I said, ‘Who is up there?’”
“Trafficante and the lawyer.”
“Who’s Trafficante?”
“The king of estraperlo.”
“What’s that?”
“Extortion, threats, illicit service, murder—you name it.”
“We’re coming down,” Trafficante shouted. “Answer me, Rex. Who are you shooting at?”
“You’re next,” Chuck shouted.
“Who said that?”
Chuck ignored them.
“How is Trafficante involved with Speaker Galloway?”
“He’s transporting the cash to Spain. Then he’ll launder it.” He grit his teeth. “It hurts.”
“Then what happens in Spain?”
“He launders the cash for Galloway and the ambassador. They take half.”
Chuck was no mathematician, but he didn’t have to be. Half of $10 billion meant that Speaker Galloway, the former US ambassador, and Congresswoman Marsha Carver were going to share $5 billion dollars in stolen money.”
“How fast can you crawl out of here, Rex? Can you make it before the buiding blows? You won’t have much time.”
“My legs are shot! I can’t crawl. Don’t leave me here!”
“Stop whining and start crawling. Maybe you can make it. I’ll give you fifty seconds. I’ll bet a dollar you can make it.”
Chuck quickly reprogrammed the timer attached to the detonator and explosives under the kid’s former chair. He synched them with all other packages in the building for fifty seconds and activated them. He disconnected a trip wire, which was apparently a sick insurance plan in case the kid tried to move.
Chuck said, “Keep quiet.” He stood up and hoisted the kid over his shoulder. He carried the kid out of the office and out into the atrium. Chuck looked up, but couldn’t see anyone standing by the safety rails of any of the upper floors. However, he could hear footstep of at least two men coming down the stairs.
“You’ve got thirty seconds till detonation,” Chuck said. “Don’t blow it.
Carrying the kid on his shoulder, Chuck jogged for the stairwell and hurried down to the first floor. Chuck could hear footsteps not far behind them. He saw Rex’s blood trail on the stairs.
Shifting the kid to the other shoulder, Chuck jogged out of the building and toward the gate.
Chuck look back in time to see the lawyer and Trafficante, both in expensive suits, running from the building. Hurst was taller than Trafficante and running faster. Two gunmen ran out another exit. Just then, dozens of blasts shook the earth.
A wall of dust rose behind them. Debris blasted into the air like a volcanic eruption. Trafficante fell first. The lawyer got another forty yards before he fell. Behind him, the abandoned building collapsed into a plume of smoke, the center of which lit up like fire. Smoke, ash, and dust erupted skyward and rolled outward.
Chuck put down the kid behind one of the trucks then ran back and grabbed the attorney, whom he pulled from some rubble and carried beyond the gate. “My back,” the lawyer said. “I hurts. I can’t take the pain.”
Chuck carried him to the far side of a vacant lot and set him down on a filthy abandoned couch. The lawyer screamed in agony.
“My back,” the lawyer moaned. “It’s broken.”
“Quit your whining or I’ll break it again.” Chuck seized his shoulder and gave him a little shake.
Hurst screamed. Then he just shook and cried. He said, “Just go ahead and shoot me, Brandt.”
“Why are you here?”
“Just call me an ambulance.”
Chuck grabbed his shoulders and shook again. The lawyer shrieked in agony. “You’re killing me! My back is broken. You’re killing me!”
“Tell me what you’re doing in D.C!”
“Don’t shake me. I was told to sue a congressman. Also, blackmail.”
“Told by who?”
“The Augeans.”
Chuck took a deep breath. He had crossed path with the Augean Command before, a group of super powerful men bent on tightening their noose of secret global authority. Clearly, Hurst, Trafficante, and the politicians were their soldiers.
“Blackmail who?”
“I needed to control behav—” The lawyer jerked. His head fell backwards. He was dead. Blood was spreading around his chest.
“Sniper,” Chuck said. He sprinted and dove behind the truck where JJ’s son was. He opened the cab door. “Climb in there but stay on the floor.”
“There’s too much trash.”
Chuck pulled one of the trash bags out, but it was heavy and bundles of cash spilled onto the ground.
“Look,” the kid said, grabbing a bundle.
“That’s your dad’s.” Chuck heaved the several trash bags onto the seat and grabbed a few bundles off the ground, tossing them in, too. “Get in right after me.”
Chuck crawled onto the floor and over to the driver’s side, staying low. He hot-wired the truck.
“Hurry up,” he said. “Get in.”
The kid crawled into the truck, staying on the floor.
Chuck stayed low, but hit the gas and turned the wheel.
The truck did a doughnut, stirring up a cloud of dust on top of all the dust already in the air from the collapsed building. Then he straightened out the wheel. The truck raced for the gate and smashed through.
On the city street, Chuck stayed low for several blocks as he raced at high speed. Then, when he had buildings to provide cover, he sat up in the driver’s seat and slowed the truck down.
CHAPTER 38
At the police station, Congressman Salvador Rosa was led into a waiting room. The coffee table was covered with magazines. He sat down on a couch.
“You want a cup of coffee or something to drink?” Detective Acosta asked.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Alright, take it easy. Just relax here. I’ll be back.” Acosta left.
Rosa sunk down into the couch and covered his face with his hands. He stayed that way for ten minutes.
When Detective Acosta returned, a man in suit followed him in.
“Congressman Rosa, I’d like to introduce you to Trey Depaul. He’s a special prosecutor. Because of the extraordinary circumstances of this case, he wants to talk with you.”
“Alright.”
Detective Acosta walked out.
“I’ll do my best, Congressman, but I was just called in at the last minute. Apparently, Special Prosecutor Hurst also had an accident. These are dangerous times.”
Trey Depaul sat in the couch across from Rosa. “Congressman, I want to express my sympathies for all that you’re going through.”
“Thank you.”
“If some bastard schemed with my ex-wife to blackmail me, I’d be angry t
oo.”
Rosa nodded. “Thank you, but I’m innocent.”
Hurst nodded. “Like I said, I can sympathize with you. On the other hand, the situation is what it is. We have to look at the facts and make decisions on where to go from here.”
Rosa waited for him to go on.
“To be honest with you, Congressman, this is a tough situation. Have you heard of the felony murder rule?”
Rosa felt his blood freeze in his veins. “No.” His voice cracked as he spoke.
“It’s like this: If you accidently kill a person while committing another crime, it’s still murder.”
“What crime?”
“Illegal eviction, assault, and theft. The good news is that an illegal eviction is a civil matter, so that doesn’t trigger the felony murder rule. The bad news is that assault and theft are criminal matters, so they do. ”
“What theft?”
“Detective Acosta said you were found in possession of your tenant’s black book.”
“Rosa didn’t respond.”
“We believe an assault took place. Then there’s the matter of accessory to impersonating an officer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Grimes didn’t check out.”
“What?”
“Whoever Grimes was, he was not a retired federal agent.”
Rosa felt nausea flood his stomach.
“Bottom line is that you shouldn’t have evicted that holdover tenant by force. Violence moved this into the criminal arena, so the felony murder rule was activated. Neighbors heard screaming. An autopsy will verify that he endured significant trauma and brutality even before he was pushed off a fifth story walkway. An autopsy will verify that Kenyan was tortured with a knife. Frankly, he deserved it for what he was doing to you, but the law doesn’t allow you torture somebody just because they deserve it.
“I never touched him.”
“That’s gonna be hard to prove. Even if you can prove it, you’re still an accessory to felony assault. Add theft to that. Juries will frown on unnecessary violence. Forced eviction will come across as reckless. Another factor working against you is that the motive will be clear to any jury. Once they find out that your tenant was dating your wife and blackmailing you, they’ll sympathize, but they will also have no choice but to follow the dictates of the law. That means they’ll have to convict you for the aforementioned crimes. That leads us back to the felony murder rule.
