Noble Warrior

by Alan Lawrence Sitomer

  “Got eyes on me?”

  “With this scope? Perfectly.”

  “Sending it now.”

  “Copy,” Stanzer said.

  M.D. composed a message on Puwolsky’s cell phone and fired it off.

  mission done – all gold – meet at detroit historical museum on woodward ave in 1 hr, southeast side, parking lot B – bring girl

  “Message sent,” McCutcheon whispered.

  “You know if they don’t bring her out we’re gonna have to go to in,” Stanzer said.

  “You mean Plan B?” M.D. asked.

  “I mean Plan F,” Stanzer replied. “F standing for Fucked.”

  M.D. stared at the phone and waited for a reply.

  “Well, I guess we’re about to see how smart these guys are,” he said.

  A reply buzzed in. McCutcheon looked down at the screen.

  how many french fries do fifth graders eat?

  M.D. wrinkled his brow.

  “What’s it say?” the colonel asked.

  “It’s a code,” McCutcheon replied. “A verification query.”

  He gulped.

  “And the answer could be anything.”

  M.D. reread the text message from Larson and tried to cook up a plausible response, but guessing the proper reply felt impossible. It could be peanuts sit in tall bushes or it could be basketball players smell like blue barns or it could be mad little mice.

  There was no way to tell. Worse, there was no way to crack it. Certainly not in the limited amount of time in which he had to reply.

  “Shit!” McCutcheon said. Underestimating the intelligence of Puwolsky and Larson might have just cost Kaitlyn her life.

  M.D. put the cell phone back into his pocket and pulled the Sig from the small of his back. Time for plan F, he thought.

  Then a new idea struck him.

  “On my signal, jam all cell phones,” he said into the radio mike.

  “Roger,” Stanzer said not questioning why. The colonel knew there was a time to lead, a time to follow, and a time to shut the hell up and trust the man in the field. He’d gone this far with McCutcheon, so now he’d have to go the whole way, and only hindsight would prove whether it was a mistake.

  Stanzer removed the black case from his pocket and readied his interference device. M.D. composed a text.

  hello?

  He counted to twenty and then composed another.

  hello? you get that?

  Larson replied twice via text, but McCutcheon ignored both responses. Instead, he counted to twenty yet again and fired off a third message.

  Larson, wtf…where r u?

  “Okay, kill it,” M.D. said into his mike.

  Stanzer tapped the screen, and a moment later all cell signals within a hundred-yard radius went dead. McCutcheon, heading for cover, fell back to his position behind the junked red pickup truck next to Stanzer.

  “How much battery life you got left in that thing?” he asked as he slid next to the colonel.

  “Maybe ninety minutes,” Stanzer said. “Explain your thinking.”

  “Scenario one,” M.D. said. “He thinks the cell towers are down because of the storm and we toggle back and forth, turning the phones on and off, to create the impression that it’s just patchy service he’s getting, due to crappy weather.”

  “And we continue to try to lure him out?” Stanzer asked.

  “Correct,” M.D. said. “But I can’t say I am a big fan of this plan because I know if I was on the other side of that door, I’d be…”

  Suddenly, the front entrance cracked open.

  “Suspicious,” McCutcheon said finishing his sentence.

  A hand appeared. Waving a white T-shirt, like a Don’t shoot me flag. The colonel, M.D., and all six members of Stanzer’s team locked on the liquor store’s front door.

  A tall figure wearing a blue-and-black hoodie stepped out into the rain. Six laser beams suddenly dotted his body with red targeting points, three on his chest, three on his brow.

  The man, a thug, a gangster, looked down, saw the red dots, and paused. It was clear the shooters could have already taken him out, but since they hadn’t he figured it was okay to step forward. To make his intentions clear, however, he continued to wave the white shirt high in the air.

  “Bam Bam!” he yelled into the empty parking lot.

  McCutcheon didn’t answer.

  “Bam Bam!” he hollered again his voice cutting through the rain.

  The tall gang member strained his eyes to see, but he couldn’t make out any figures in the distance.

  “Bam Bam!” he blindly yelled a third time. “He knows you’re out here.”

  McCutcheon held his ground.

  “He wants to make a deal.”

  Stanzer and M.D. traded a sideways look.

  “He’s crazy, man,” the guy shouted. “Says you either talk to me or he starts sending out the girl. In chunks. One bloody piece at a time.”

  “I have to go,” McCutcheon said.

  “It’s a trap,” Stanzer replied.

  “Seems to be kind of a theme for me lately.” M.D. stepped out from behind the red pickup. “Yo!” he cried out. The Priest turned his head. “I’m over here.”

  The two met in the middle of the parking lot as rain continued to fall on their heads.

  “Who ya got with you out here, SWAT?”

  “Do you know what I’ll do to you if any harm comes to my girl?”

  “Listen up, youngin’, this shit ain’t got nothing to do with me. That cop in there’s fucking crazy,” the gangster said. “Me, I’m a straight-up businessman.”

  “A businessman, huh?”

  “You bet your ass,” he said. “And I’m in a helluva predicament.”

  McCutcheon looked his man up and down. “Who are you?”

  “My fellas call me Puppet.”

  “The new High Priest?”

  “Not for long if my boyz see me make nice-nice with you,” Puppet said. “I do and my shit’ll be floating at the bottom of the Detroit River by sundown.”

  McCutcheon didn’t seem surprised by the news.

  “So why are you out here?” M.D. asked.

  “This shit was supposed to be just regular business. I deliver a certain person of interest to Larson and he provides me a fat payment for her delivery. Mutherfucker kept a few of the more significant details about who he was runnin’ a game on in the dark, and shit’s done snowballed like hell on me now.”

  Puppet gazed down at his sweatshirt and spied the laser beams targeting his chest. “Yo, can you do something about that?” he said in regard to the guns being pointed at him. “Shit’s making me nervous.”

  McCutcheon considered the request and looked over his back shoulder. Stanzer, able to hear M.D.’s entire conversation through the live radio mike M.D. wore, gave an order.

  “X the beams.”

  The red dots peppering Puppet’s kill zones disappeared, but Puppet was smart enough to realize the weapons were still being pointed at him. One wrong move and he’d get lit up like target practice.

  “How many peeps you brought out here anyway?” Puppet asked.

  “Enough to make sure every last person in that building goes home in a box.”

  Puppet shook his head. “Like I said, we sure got us one hell of a predicament, don’t we?”

  “Not if you bring out the girl.”

  “I told ya, I’m a businessman, so we can talk about that, but Larson,” Puppet said. “Guy’s a fucking psycho. Ain’t no way he’s letting her just walk right out.”

  “So betray him.”

  “I cross him and my men in there will be seeing me do a favor for you. Point-blank, that shit can’t happen. My leadership ain’t exactly what you call solidified at this moment of time.”

  “But you’ll have saved their lives.”

  “Priests don’t care about dying,” Puppet said. “Priests only care about living by a code. On the streets. In lockup. In the fuckin’ hearse on the way to the cem
etery, the code is the only thing that matters. Makes for a real predicament.”

  Puppet knocked his head back and let a few drops of rain fall onto his face.

  “But I’m a businessman, so I come to ya with a proposal.”

  “If my girl’s safety isn’t guaranteed then don’t even bother talking. That’s nonnegotiable.”

  “You got it,” Puppet said. “But I gotta be able to walk away from this, too. Me and my boys. No one arrested, no one sniped.”

  Stanzer spoke into M.D.’s earpiece. “Not a problem.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that,” M.D. said to Puppet.

  “See, I told ya, I’m a businessman,” the gang leader replied. “But Larson wants to be able to walk away, too.”

  “Not happening,” Stanzer said.

  “Not happening,” M.D. repeated.

  “He’s making a proposal,” Puppet said.

  “There will be no negotiation,” Stanzer said.

  “We’re not negotiating,” McCutcheon said.

  “You and him, one on one,” Puppet continued offering up the deal. “He makes it past you, he walks scot-free. Back to his former life.”

  “No way,” Stanzer said.

  “And if he doesn’t?” M.D. asked.

  “I said,” Stanzer barked into the earpiece. “No way.”

  “He knows he’s cooked anyway,” Puppet said. “He figures his partner’s dead, he ain’t got no more allies, and the only poker chip he owns is your little lady. He’s willing to trade her safety for a shot at his freedom. Not for his freedom. He knows y’all won’t go for that. Just a shot at it.”

  Stanzer’s voice crackled in McCutcheon’s ear. “Okay, make whatever deal he wants. I’ll handle Larson later after the girl is safe.”

  “But just in case you’re thinking about handling Larson later after the girl is safe,” Puppet added, “you gots to know one thing.”

  “What’s that?” M.D. asked.

  “Priests always pay. But they get paid, too.”

  McCutcheon had heard the saying a thousand times before. “What’s your point?” he asked.

  “My point is that I’m the guy who picked up your li’l lady. That means I know where she lives. That means I know where her whole family lives. So if you break your word to me and double-cross Larson, my peoples in there are gonna think me and you struck our own little side arrangement. They gonna think I punked out in the face of pressure from the po-po. And that, as you know, would be very bad for me.”

  “Which means?” M.D. asked.

  “Which means I’m gonna have to go back after her again, in order to prove I’m solid and save my own ass,” Puppet said. “She’s the only insurance policy I got.”

  M.D. snatched Puppet by the throat.

  “What’d you say?”

  “Yo, chill man, we just doin’ business here.”

  “This ain’t business,” M.D. said squeezing tighter. “It’s personal.”

  “Well, you brought her into it,” Puppet argued.

  “I didn’t bring her into anything.”

  “Yeah, you did,” Puppet said. “Soldiers like us can’t give a fuck about a chick. They come, they go, but if you stupid enough to care about one, that shit becomes a liability.” Puppet pushed McCutcheon’s hand away from his neck. “Now let me go, youngin’. We doin’ business here. Act professional.”

  M.D. released his grip but remained locked in on Puppet’s eyes, ready to tear the gangster’s head off.

  “Stay poised, son,” Stanzer said into the earpiece. “Focus on the mission.”

  “So what are you telling me?” McCutcheon asked Puppet.

  “I am tellin’ you in my line of business, my word is my bond,” Puppet said. “You give me your word Larson won’t be targeted by whatever fucking Navy SEALs you got out here if he can get past you in a one-on-one showdown, and everyone can head home early and go get us some hot chocolate.”

  “We can’t make that promise, McCutcheon,” Stanzer said into the earpiece. “And you know it.”

  “You got a deal,” M.D. said.

  “McCutcheon!” Stanzer snapped. “I know you hear me, son. You do not have the authority to—”

  M.D. tore out his earpiece and tossed it to the ground. Soon as he did Puppet’s chest lit up with red dots.

  “What da fuck?” Puppet said.

  “All right, Mr. Businessman, we’re on.” McCutcheon extended his hand for a man-to-man shake. Puppet, still lit up with red targeting beams, paused, not knowing if he was about to be blasted. When he finally realized no bullets were coming, he reached toward the outstretched hand of McCutcheon and accepted the deal.

  The two negotiators had come to terms.

  “That’s bullshit! You overstepped your bounds.”

  “He’s a ’roid monster, sir. All ego,” McCutcheon said as he took off his watch. “Guy’s wanted me from day one.”

  “This isn’t some flyweight piece of shit who’s had a couple of community college Tae Kwan Do lessons,” Stanzer barked. “We snooped his background. The man’s got years of Academy training. Stick, fist, knife, gun, all kinds of certifications. He’s not some pussy cop. He’s an animal.”

  “He won’t get by me.”

  “He might.”

  “No chance.”

  “Yes, there is a chance. There’s always a chance. It’s a bullshit deal, and a bullshit move, and it wasn’t your call to make.”

  “With Puwolsky out of the picture, Larson had no other play.”

  “But we did,” Stanzer said. “Didn’t you read your enemy? The Priests don’t want to fight. That’s obvious. You could tell that all they want is a path out. We sweat them for another few hours, stay patient, hold our position, and they’d start to re-think their loyalties. Shit,” Stanzer said. “By four o’clock this afternoon I’m sure they would have popped Larson themselves. Especially if he made a move on the girl. Her life is their life now and they know it. You fucked the pooch on this one, soldier.”

  McCutcheon secured his SERE knife in his belt. “I’m going in there. And Larson is not coming out.”

  “Admit it. You want to have a go at him.”

  “I want Kaitlyn safe.”

  “Naw, you want payback,” Stanzer said. “You want payback for being schemed, you want payback for the hell you went through in prison, and you want payback for being treated like a piece of disposable ghetto dog shit.”

  Anger screamed through McCutcheon’s blood. The cool, calm, methodical warrior was nowhere to be found. What raged inside was a beast hungering to be fed.

  “And what’s your point, sir?” McCutcheon asked.

  “My point is,” Stanzer said, “I just want to know whose ego it is we’re really dealing with?”

  The colonel set down his sniper rifle. If McCutcheon was going in, he wasn’t going alone.

  “He beats me, you have to let him walk, sir. No matter what happens, this has to end for Kaitlyn. Promise me that.”

  The colonel remained silent.

  “Promise me, sir.”

  Still, Stanzer said nothing.

  “So that’s how it is, huh?” M.D. said. “Well, pardon my bluntness, but fuck the unit, sir. I mean what the hell are we fighting for anyway if not for civilian safety?”

  Stanzer put on a pair of leather gloves.

  “Maybe it’s you who ought to look at his ego, Colonel, ’cause to me your priorities right now seem all smacked up.”

  Stanzer flicked the safety off his Sig and then put the gun in its holster.

  “This was not the way I wanted this to play, McCutcheon,” Stanzer said. “But what’s done is done.” The colonel spoke into his radio mike. “Maintain your positions. No one fires without my orders.” Stanzer gazed out at the liquor store. “Even if our target walks right out the fucking front door.” He turned to M.D. “But you’re not going to let that happen now, are you, son?”

  McCutcheon replied in a crisp, clear, cold voice.

  “Not a chan
ce, sir.”

  “Ew-weee! I love me a high-stakes matchup!”

  As McCutcheon and Stanzer entered the abandoned liquor store, Larson smiled from ear to ear. The Priests—there were seven of them in addition to Puppet—stared at their two enemies with somber, menacing eyes. Some held handguns, others smoked menthol cigarettes, some just kept their hands in their pockets looking mean and trying to keep warm. There were no assault rifles in the room.

  For the Priests, this was a war they never hoped to wage. Like with quicksand, they’d mistakenly stuck their toes into the dark puddle of colluding with dirty cops, and then found themselves neck deep in danger. Maybe they’d live to see tomorrow’s dawn, maybe not. As street soldiers, all of them knew that every day could be their last—but this day felt particularly more doomed than most.

  Yes, they were prepared to shoot it out with Stanzer’s team. If they had to. But none of them felt they’d win.

  Larson appeared almost giddy. He was a gladiator, and gladiators lived for the moment of battle. Roughly a century before Jesus Christ was born, real men—big, bold, fearless, and mighty men—warred to the death on the sands of the Colosseum floor. Larson always wished he could travel back in time and be one of the lucky ones who got to fight in the majestic stadium. Winning or losing, living or dying, these things didn’t drive him; his thrill came from the fantasized glory of participating in a life or death competition, a match of honor. Though Larson could not go back in time to Ancient Rome, he felt exhilarated by the idea that he’d brought Ancient Rome to Detroit.

  “Honored guests,” Larson said with a gallant bow. “Welcome.”

  McCutcheon scanned the room. White bulbs dangled from exposed wires in the ceiling, offering lighting that was checkered and irregular. Some areas were bright, others were not, and no real rhyme or reason existed behind the pattern. The fact that the lights worked at all meant electricity still ran through the walls, but the smell of stale beer, mold, and piss indicated that any ventilation system had long ago stopped functioning. There were broken silver racks of old shelves piled in one corner, two overturned freezers lying like corpses in another, and planks of rotted wood heaped throughout. A rat scampered past a discarded beer can and disappeared through a hole. Surely not a lone soldier.