The Ambitious City

by Scott Thornley

“Monsieur, the rat must die. Alors, fire that thing or put it down.”

  MacNeice took two more steps towards Frédéric. “Drop your weapon, and tell your friends to do the same.”

  Williams wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but he stepped towards the big man, certain that with the size of him at least he couldn’t miss, wishing at the same time he was holding something with more punch than his standard issue.

  “You are amusing. First, I’m going to deal with this Maple Leaf rat—they spread disease, you know.” He walked over to Wenzel, put the barrel against the kid’s head and pulled back the hammer. “Bruni, s’il vous plaît, fais le compte—à partir de trois.”

  “I will stop you before he gets to one, Frédéric. Don’t do it.” MacNeice took another step towards him and held his weapon with both hands.

  “Oui, maybe yes—and Bruni will stop you. Are you ready to die, monsieur?”

  “Why would you risk a life sentence when you can stand down now?”

  “This property is énorme. We will be gone but you, sadly, will stay.”

  “Mr. MacNeice, sir, please don’t let him do this, please.” Wenzel was crying, his eyes squeezed shut.

  “Ah, splendide, mes amis, this is Monsieur MacNeice. I must say, though, I’m not impressed.” He looked at his watch, buried in the middle of a heavy black leather band. “Alors, no more talk. Say au revoir au petit mouchard. Bruni, from three.”

  “Trois …” The mountain’s voice was so high-pitched that if you weren’t looking at him, you’d swear he was female.

  Frédéric looked down at Wenzel, who was whimpering, drool spilling from his lip into the dirt. He was whispering, “No, please, sir, don’t …”

  “Deux …”

  MacNeice steadied his weapon, pointed at Frédéric’s head and started walking towards him. “Put it down, Frédéric, put it down now.” Bruni followed him with the shotgun, the barrel levelled at his midsection.

  “Un …”

  Frédéric turned towards MacNeice, smiled and opened his mouth to say something when his face exploded, spraying flesh, blood, hair, bone and brain matter all over Wenzel and the exterior wall of the barn. His body pitched forward violently, knocking Wenzel onto his back. Bruni swung around to fire at the attacker, and seeing no one, turned back—but it was too late. Williams’s shot slammed into his chest. Dazed, the big man staggered backwards with the shotgun raised. Williams fired again, hitting him in the chin, snapping his head back. Bruni slammed down hard on the pavement. The biker who had been covering the wounded cop ran for the farmhouse, while the other one crouched at the corner of the barn as if he was still trying to spot the first shooter. MacNeice moved quickly towards him, stepping over Frédéric’s legs.

  “Lay it down—it’s over.”

  The biker hesitated, then slowly placed the shotgun on the ground. MacNeice kicked the piece away and said, “On your stomach, hands behind your back. Don’t move.”

  Vertesi came racing around the side of the building, heading towards the farmhouse, weapon in hand. Aziz appeared at the barn door and, spotting Vertesi, yelled, “Michael, where are you going?”

  “I’ve got him.” Vertesi leapt up onto the porch and disappeared into the house, the screen door slapping shut behind him.

  “Aziz, cuff this one. Take care of the uniform and Wenzel.”

  Williams was taking the shotgun from Bruni’s hand when MacNeice tapped him on the shoulder, pointing to the farmhouse. He and Williams ran to the door. Once inside they stopped and listened—it was dead quiet.

  Williams pointed upstairs and MacNeice grabbed his arm. “Wait,” he said softly, putting his hand to his ear. “Listen.”

  There was a faint rumbling of footfalls moving fast.

  What the fuck? Williams mouthed the words.

  MacNeice’s eyes widened. “There’s a tunnel!”

  They tore down the stairs. In the basement they listened again: the rumbling was coming from the rear of the house. They rushed into the back room and saw a heavy oak shelving unit full of preserves; it had been pulled away from the wall. Behind it an open steel door revealed a concrete tunnel with caged lights set at intervals along the ceiling. They took off running and were just approaching a dogleg turn when three loud shots echoed towards them. The first was from a shotgun, the other two from a sidearm. Pellets from the shotgun ricocheted off the wall ahead of them and rattled menacingly towards them on the floor.

  As they turned the corner, an acrid smell filled the air. A hundred yards in the distance they could see two bodies. “Fuck!” Williams shouted and began running faster, easily pulling away from MacNeice. “Vertesi, you crazy motherfucker, you better be alive!”

  MacNeice was out of breath when he reached them. Williams was squatting beside Vertesi. Beyond them there seemed to be blood everywhere, but none on Vertesi.

  “He’s deaf, boss. He can’t hear a thing,” Williams said.

  MacNeice looked at Vertesi, who smiled that little-kid smile all the women loved and most men envied. MacNeice patted him hard on the shoulder and looked up the tunnel.

  The fourth biker was lying dead on his back in a pool of blood. The shotgun was behind him in the middle of the floor.

  “Take Vertesi back. I’m going to follow this tunnel to the end.” He stepped over the biker, avoiding the blood. It was another hundred yards or so before he reached a steel door with a small peekaboo cover and grate. He slid the cover aside and looked out into forest. Pulling the bolt, he stepped outside with his weapon drawn. The four bikes were parked in a shallow gully surrounded by trees. Only a narrow path leading up to the road could possibly give it away, and it was obscured by brush. MacNeice walked up to the road and looked back towards the farmhouse. It had to be a quarter-mile away.

  Things had happened so fast he hadn’t thought about the shot that killed Frédéric until now. He hadn’t heard it, not even a delayed, muffled pop. MacNeice walked along the perimeter of the chain-link fence until the meadow sank and he could see the first barn to the right of the house. As he tried to recall the angle, he could see uniformed figures running back and forth, several cruisers, ambulances, two firetrucks and a SWAT van in the driveway; he hadn’t even heard them arrive. He could still make out where Frédéric had fallen.

  Walking further along the road, he looked for fresh tire tracks on the mud and gravel shoulder. Fifty yards on, he found them. The vehicle had pulled into an old, tire-rutted driveway used to stack firewood and fallen timber from the property. He looked at the tread marks, pushed his fingers into their zigzag grooves—they were still moist. He stood between the tracks trying to picture the vehicle. They were too wide for a sedan. It must have been an SUV, he thought. There were no footprints near the tracks, no broken twigs or disturbed leaves. Light-footed, he thought, as he crossed the road.

  MacNeice began working out the geometry. The distance to the barn had to be more than six hundred yards. He looked down in the ditch for evidence of a shooter: depressed weeds, scuffed dirt, a fresh shoe or boot print. He was about to retrace his footsteps when he spotted something standing on the edge of the road like a tiny soldier. MacNeice squatted and looked closely at the narrow two-and-a-half-inch brass shell. Inside, the shooter had placed a tiny yellow buttercup, taken from a clump growing in the nearby ditch. Within a second of Frédéric’s head exploding he’d thought he’d figured out who the shooter was—now he was certain. Putting on a latex glove, MacNeice picked up the shell and nestled it inside the second glove, then slipped both into his pocket and walked back along the road towards the farm.

  He found Vertesi sitting on the steps of the farmhouse. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m okay now—just big-time ringing in my ears.”

  “Good work back there. But why did you take off alone?”

  “With respect, boss, you went out there with nothing but a handgun.”

  “I thought I could talk him out of it—I was mistaken. That tunnel was his insurance, the reason for
his bravado. We would have been six dead people, and no suspects.”

  “Swets is on his way. He couldn’t believe he missed the show. When I told him there was a tunnel, he asked where it was, and when I told him it was behind the preserves in the basement, you know what he said?”

  “No.”

  “Palmer polished off three Mason jars of peaches over the two weeks they were bunked down here, and he never noticed it.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said he was probably on his cellphone all the time.” Palmer was notorious for conducting the business of his romantic life while on the job. “But I also pointed out that you couldn’t spot it even if you were standing in front of it. I only found it because the guy didn’t take the time to close it behind him.”

  “How’s the young cop?”

  “He’s gonna be fine—the bullet tore through the muscle on the outside of his thigh. He’s embarrassed that he fell asleep in the cruiser. Frédéric actually tapped on his window with that chrome piece of his.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Tyler Wosniac, third year on the force.”

  “He won’t make that mistake again. Have you got your cellphone?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Do you have Sue-Ellen’s phone number on there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Call her.”

  “Like right now?”

  “Right now.”

  MacNeice sat down on one of the chairs that had been retrieved from the barn and watched as Vertesi punched in the call. “Hello, Sue-Ellen, it’s Michael Vertesi. The boss wants to—” MacNeice was waving at him to stop. “Sorry, Sue-Ellen, just a second.” He cupped the phone in his hand and looked at MacNeice. “What should I say?”

  “Ask if her brother has shipped out. If he didn’t, I want to leave him a message.”

  “He was supposed to go this morning, wasn’t he?”

  “I know. Just ask the question.”

  Vertesi asked. His eyes widened as he heard the answer; he shook his head and mouthed no at MacNeice.

  “Okay, ask her to give him this message: ‘Thanks for being there.’ ”

  “That it?”

  “No. She should also wish him good hunting.”

  Vertesi repeated the message verbatim. After he said goodbye, he looked quizzically at MacNeice.

  “Tell you later. How’s Wenzel?”

  “Aziz has him over in the field, just walking and talking, trying to get him settled down. He’s pretty messed up—in every way, actually—he pissed himself.”

  “Another set of clothes is in order. Get him back to the hotel and make sure his minibar is stocked with bourbon.”

  “Will do.”

  “What about Williams?”

  “He’s gone behind the house with two uniforms to dig around for the plastic bag. Oh, by the way, he returned that call—the one that went off in the barn. It was from Ryan. The state police have closed Old Soldiers and taken four members, including the owner, into custody.”

  “Perfect. And our surviving biker?”

  “He’s over there in the back of the cruiser but he hasn’t said anything. His Quebec driver’s licence says he’s Gérard Langlois.”

  “Good. I want him in the interview room in a half-hour.”

  “Will do, sir. The guy without a face was Frédéric Paradis.”

  “Freddy Paradise …”

  “You’re thinking it was Penniman who took him out?” Vertesi asked.

  MacNeice met Vertesi’s eye. “As far as our reports go, it was an unknown assailant, likely a rival biker. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir. Helluva shot—went right through the wall and killed an all-terrain vehicle.” Vertesi walked off towards the uniforms clustered around the cruiser.

  MacNeice went looking for Aziz and Wenzel. He spotted them walking along the treeline. Wenzel carried a stick and was swiping at the weeds that lined the path. They were lost in conversation and didn’t hear MacNeice coming up behind them until he snapped a twig underfoot. Wenzel jumped out of his skin.

  “Sorry, Wenzel, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Ah, jeez, man—I mean sir. That was pretty freaky back there, so I’m like, really on edge, ya know?”

  “I do. I thought you showed great courage, Wenzel.”

  “Courage? I was so scared I pissed myself.”

  MacNeice wanted to tell him there was no shame in that, but he doubted the kid would believe him. Looking at Wenzel’s gore- and urine-stained clothing, he said, “We’ll get you some new gear.”

  Wenzel looked down at himself. “Shit … well, I was always a Blackhawks fan anyways.”

  “Aziz, you’re okay?”

  “I am, boss, I am.”

  “Good. In half an hour you and I are going to interview the last of the bikers.”

  MacNeice retrieved his jacket from the Chevy and put it on. He took one last look around the place before getting in the car; Aziz was already doing up her seatbelt. He drove slowly past the big men in body armour carrying heavy weapons.

  Aziz noticed that several of them stared as they went by. Through her open window she heard one of them say, “That him?” and the answer, “Yeah, that’s him.” Aziz had to admit she was also wondering why MacNeice had taken such a risk.

  Hidden hunkered down in the barn, she could barely hear them speaking—there were no raised voices—but she had almost screamed when Paradis shot the young cop, so afraid was she that he’d hit MacNeice. Then she’d heard his voice, just as calm as before. She’d called dispatch again and whispered, “Get that bloody SWAT team out here! Send a goddamned helicopter if you have to, but do not, under any circumstances, call any of the cellphones of this team.”

  Glancing at MacNeice, she saw that he seemed lost in reverie, as calm as if he were on a Sunday drive in the country. She shivered, a delayed reaction to how close they’d all come to disaster.

  No report had signalled the arrival of the fatal shot. From where she was, she hadn’t even heard it tearing through Paradis’s skull, only the bang-bang of it piercing the barn wall, then slamming into the engine block of a new ATV not four feet away from where she was crouching.

  As they turned right on the concession road, Aziz said, “Wenzel couldn’t stop talking about you. Apparently you reminded him of Hughes, being so calm and all. He peed himself when you started marching towards Frédéric with your weapon pointed at his head.”

  MacNeice stopped at a light and watched as a young woman wheeled a stroller past the Chevy. Had he thought Frédéric would actually execute Wenzel? Absolutely. He was equally certain that Bruni would unload the shotgun into him, though he didn’t want to say any of that to Aziz. Instead he said, “Neither of those men would have backed down, not Frédéric or Bruni.” Even though the light had changed, he waited till the woman and her stroller were safely on the other sidewalk.

  He knew what he’d done was risky, but there was no another strategy that had a chance of saving Wenzel’s life. Had he stayed in the barn with his team to wait for the SWAT vans to arrive, at the very least Paradis and his men would have been down the tunnel and away, leaving two corpses lying in the dirt and no one knowing who’d done it or why, or how they’d managed to escape. If he’d opened fire from inside he’d have initiated a gun battle, echoing battles the farm had already seen. Though the bikers had more firepower, his team might have prevailed, or at least held out until the SWAT team arrived. However, Wenzel and Wosniac would be lying dead in the dirt.

  “What made you think they were out there?”

  “I don’t know. Wenzel was singing to himself when we went in, and he stopped. He’s a fidgety kid, nervous about being here; he should have been pacing or tossing stones or singing Johnny Cash songs—hearing nothing at all seemed strange.”

  “Sixth sense.”

  “Just observation.”

  “What do you think the biker will tell us?”

  “Depends on how rattled he
is. What I want to know is why Quebec bikers are riding with D2D. We know that farm isn’t registered to Frédéric Paradis, but he acted like the lord of the manor. Of course, I also want to know if he was the one who butchered Hughes and shot Luigi.”

  “That would be grim justice … Frédéric’s face exploding.”

  “Yes …”

  “You think it was Penniman, don’t you.”

  “That shot was at least six hundred yards—I’m certain of it.” He shoved himself up in the seat and reached into his pocket with his right hand. Pulling out the latex gloves, he handed them to her and drove on in silence as she retrieved the shell with the wilted buttercup in it.

  She held up the casing, turning it around in her fingers. “What in God’s name is this?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a calibre I’ve never seen before. He set it up on the road like a lead soldier.”

  “I saw Paradis when they bagged him—there was nothing left, just a hairline and a jawline … and part of one ear.” She stared at the shell. “What calibre do you think this is?”

  “I don’t know. Remember Ferguson from last year?”

  “The Brit engineer who gave you the name of the Bulgarian assassin?”

  “He’ll know.”

  “Why not just give it to our forensics team?”

  “Because I think Sue-Ellen Hughes has suffered enough.”

  Aziz took a deep breath and sighed. “Well, I never expected the day to turn out this way … from Dance to this.”

  They were cresting the escarpment. Dundurn stretched out before them, all green and grey under a cloudless sky; the lake and bay lay cool and shimmering in the blue beyond. The view never failed to give MacNeice a small hiccup of joy; it always suggested home and—somewhat ironically—peace. He turned onto the Jolly Cut and dropped the Chevy into second gear, letting it sink slowly into the city.

  41.

  AS THEY PULLED into the division parking lot, Deputy Chief Wallace was on his way out. He flashed his headlights so that MacNeice would stop. Rolling down his window, he said, “Join me for a minute, Mac.” He backed up into the closest spot and waited for MacNeice to appear at his window.