“He’s gone back inside.” Aziz exhaled. She handed MacNeice a Kevlar vest from the back seat. “Put this on.”
MacNeice wriggled into it just as they crested a small hill.
“Farmhouse in sight. There’s Melanie and the kids off to the left, almost to our men. Spotter’s flashing me, probably wants to know what to do with them.” Swetsky pointed at the narrow white beam.
“Tell them, Fiza,” MacNeice said, noticing that Melanie was staring towards the approaching caravan.
Covering the mouthpiece, Aziz said, “I’m on it.” Then, “Yes, get them to lie down beside you. Tell them it’s a game. Make sure they stay put, no matter what happens. Right … you’re all hunting for rabbits. I’m offline now.” She put the phone in the pocket of her vest and unholstered her Glock 17. “Done.”
“Good. Hand me the bullhorn. Remember, Swets, angle the car so the headlights are on the house.”
“Got it. I’m coming out your side.” Swetsky said, undoing his seatbelt.
“High beams.”
“Check.”
Swetsky swung the Chevy rudely into the shallow ditch, kicking up gravel as he spun it around. MacNeice and Aziz braced themselves to keep from toppling over, MacNeice focusing on the farmhouse. He saw the front-door blind shiver. Behind their car, the powerful SWAT vans bounced in and over the ditch and came to a halt, one on the front lawn next to the chairs, the other to the right of the driveway. Swetsky, Aziz and MacNeice were out of the car just as Vertesi’s came to a stop. Twelve heavily armed men in battle gear bolted from the vans. Six ran for cover behind the vehicles parked in the driveway and the others took positions crouching outside the house, three on either side of the porch. One of the spotters came running up behind MacNeice and knelt beside Aziz at the rear of the Chevy. Keeler stood behind the lead van, ten feet away. He held his hand up to get the detective’s attention, then dropped it.
MacNeice lifted the bullhorn. “You people inside—this is the police. There’s no chance of escape and no need for bloodshed. Drop your weapons. Come out the front door with your hands on your heads and lie face down on the lawn. Do it now.” He turned off the bullhorn and set it on the hood. The sounds of twilight—swallows, bats, crickets—and the low purring of the SWAT van’s engine replaced the rush and rumble of vehicles and the rattle of armed men. The house was lit up like noon on a xenon day.
MacNeice saw someone moving behind a second-floor window. “They’re taking positions inside—get down. I’ll give it one more try.” He lifted the bullhorn and flicked the switch “Randall Ross, Perry Mitchell, the rest of you—come out now! Hands over your heads—” The upper-floor window burst open and two shotgun blasts slammed into the driver’s side of the Chevy, blowing out the windows. “Keeler, it’s all yours!” MacNeice yelled.
On Keeler’s signal, four members of the SWAT team fired tear gas into the front and side windows—the large shells tore through the blinds. MacNeice saw a running figure inside before a shredded blind fell back into place. On the driveway side of the house, someone opened up with an assault rifle on the SWAT team making their way along the far side of the vehicles. They had to sprint the three feet between the Jeep and pickup truck—the last member had just left the cover of the Jeep when he was hit.
With a deafening roar, from every window, shotguns, assault rifles and Uzis tore into the vehicles and ripped up the ground in front of them. The Chevy shuddered with the impact, slamming down onto its rims as the driver’s-side tires were shot out. In a break between bursts, they heard one of the SWAT team scream, “Man down, man down!” If anyone answered, the response was lost as the onslaught resumed.
With the unrelenting fire directly above them, the team outside the house hugged the wall and waited for an opportunity to lob their stun grenades inside. Those behind the vehicles hunkered down, waiting for someone inside to stop to change a magazine so they could respond in kind. MacNeice realized the bikers hadn’t been fazed by the tear gas. He yelled to his team, “Stay down, all of you,” then crept past them to the rear of the Chevy, where he paused, took a deep breath and sprinted towards Keeler.
Several rounds zipped past him, tearing up the road, and something stung his leg. He screamed over the noise, “They’re wearing masks!” The van was also taking fire and shuddering. He leaned into Keeler, his face so close that MacNeice’s reflection filled the Plexi shield. “This is covering fire!” Keeler nodded. MacNeice made several downward jabbing motions with his left hand. “Explosives in the basement—they’re buying time for Ross. Understand?”
Keeler nodded again. Through his helmet mike he yelled, “Six, eight and three, M84S through the basement, then first- and second-floor windows. Go-go-go!”
Phwumph, phwumph, phwumph. The stun grenades thudded through the windows and the firing from inside stopped. They could hear yelling from somewhere on the first floor, three loud, sharp bangs followed by bright flashes, and then silence. The tear gas puffed out of the windows—it looked as if the house was exhaling. The SWAT team were on their feet and advancing. Keeler pushed up his mask and called out to his men, “Move! Get in there now!”
There was a flash and an explosion from somewhere inside the house, and the blinds flew out of the window frames.
“What the fuck was that?” Keeler yelled. Turning to MacNeice and slicing his hand from side to side, he said, “It wasn’t us. Not us!”
MacNeice realized what it was: Bigboy had screwed up. “Get your men back!”
“What?”
“Pull them out—fast! Do it!”
Keeler understood, yelling through his microphone, “Everyone away from that building! It’s gonna blow! Go-go-go!”
The team that was heading to the side door, their weapons at the ready, looked back in Keeler’s direction, hesitated and then scattered, running for cover behind the vehicles in the driveway. The six caught in front of the house saw Keeler and MacNeice waving frantically and started running towards the van and the Chevy. They were almost there when the house appeared to sag inwards from the roof to the ground, accompanied by creaking and snapping. A second later, with a deafening roar, the building tore skyward. It came apart as it flew up and then out in a disintegrating mess of glass, wood, plumbing, roofing, steel, cheap furniture … and bodies.
Everyone behind the vehicles got as low as they could, pressed against steel and earth. Those who hadn’t made it to cover crawled like crabs under or behind the vans. Williams said later that he was standing by Vertesi’s car, his jaw dropped like a kid’s, watching the house head skyward—“It was better than a movie”—when Vertesi grabbed his Kevlar vest and screamed three words at him—“What goes up …”—then pulled him to the ground.
And so it came down—the heaviest debris first, stabbing and slamming into the ground, punishing the vehicles, digging into anything soft and richocheting off anything hard. Next the glass and wood and lengths of twisted pipe slashed into every surface, looking for something to hurt. No one could say with any certainty how long this hellish hail lasted, but at some point it ended, and people began emerging from their hiding places.
Particles of insulation, upholstery, clothing, pillows, blankets and carpeting were floating everywhere like snowflakes, completely disinterested and in no hurry to come down. It made the air seem alive, almost magical. Both headlights of the Chevy were shot out, but when the artificial snow drifted into the remaining lights of the SWAT van, MacNeice thought he could hear the chorus of “White Christmas.”
Beyond where the farmhouse had stood, several small fires were burning, lit by debris that had ignited before it blew apart. Two of these fires were very close to the cornfield. Keeler yelled to his men, “Keep your masks on! Get those fires out!”
MacNeice turned to check on his team. Aziz, Swetsky, the young cop from the forest—all stood up tentatively, wide-eyed. He looked quickly over at Vertesi’s car. They weren’t up yet but he saw a hand waving and heard Vertesi yell, “We’re okay.”
“Everyone, put something over your nose and mouth! Do not breathe this air!” MacNeice said. Aziz and Swetsky came out from behind the car, their jackets covering their mouths and noses; their wide eyes told the story.
“Miller. Miller! Get these people some face masks. On the run, now!” Keeler yelled.
“How’s your man?” MacNeice asked.
“The round tore through the side of his hip. He’ll have physio ahead of him, but he’ll survive; they’ve got a field pack on him. He was almost taken out by the refrigerator. It landed behind the Jeep, a foot from his head.”
With their masks on, the detectives stepped over the scattered debris to see what was left of the house. One porch column remained, still anchored to its base—the only vertical remaining. The concrete foundation was intact but the furnace block had gone up and come down again several yards from its original position. The water heater had landed on the motorcycle trailer, breaking its spine. There was no fire, no smoke in the hole that had been the basement; it was as if it had all been sucked into the sky. While the tank was nowhere to be seen, heating oil covered the basement floor, swirling about with the water gushing from the severed main.
Three members of the SWAT team were using extinguishers to kill the small fires. They could hear the cruisers, EMS vehicles and firefighters beating their way along the road towards them. Amid the debris around them were several shreds of viscera—ugly, but none of it recognizably human.
To the young spotter, MacNeice said, “Go and get Melanie and the kids, but keep them away from the house.”
“No problem, sir. Man, I never—”
“Me neither, son, me neither. Go on now, make sure your partner and Melanie and the kids are all okay.”
The young officer took off at a jog, jumping over the wreckage like a cross-country runner over hedges.
“I’ll go with him, Mac. She’ll be pretty shaken up,” Aziz said, walking around the shattered remains of life on a country road.
A firefighter ran up to MacNeice and Swetsky, looked at the hole in the ground and said, “What the fuck did you guys use on this place?”
“It was self-inflicted,” Keeler said, coming towards them.
“Fuckin’ effective, whatever it was.”
“You can take over killing those small fires. I’ve got a man down over in the driveway—is there an ambulance on the way?”
“Is he it?”
“Some cuts. Otherwise, everyone else is fine.” The firefighter went down to the driveway, still shaking his head. He hollered to several others to follow him.
Keeler stepped closer and said in low voice, “There are large pieces of those bikers in the driveway and behind the house—the force of the blast went backwards and took them with it. Mac, we’ve gotta shut this site down or people are going to be trampling on some pretty grisly stuff.”
“Good call, Sergeant. Pull your people out and tape it. We’ll let the firefighters mark the remains. And get a retrieval team in here.”
“I’ll call it in,” Swetsky said, “before the coyotes get here for easy pickin’s.” He took the cellphone out of his hip pocket and headed off towards the road.
The Lincoln, Mustang, pickup truck and Jeep had taken the brunt of the gunfire and the explosion; each sagged on its house-side rims, leaning submissively towards the hole in the ground. The glass in the vehicles was shattered and most of the metal on the house side was torn up. Pieces of plumbing, steel framing and even wood trim stuck out of some of the vehicles—they looked like animals speared to death in some bizarre nighttime hunt. By contrast, anything that hit the SWAT vans had basically bounced off, leaving the heavy metal surfaces looking ball-peened. Mac’s Chevy hadn’t been spared. Dozens of rounds had hit the front and the driver’s side, pocked the steel, torn through the upholstery, taken out all of the glass and shredded the house-side tires. A sizable chunk of chimney had folded the hood. MacNeice wondered whether his CD collection had survived, and how long it would take to get the car roadworthy again. He patted the damaged hood the way a cowboy would a horse before putting it down—except MacNeice wasn’t willing to say goodbye to the Chevy.
His cellphone rang. He checked the number, then answered.
“What in God’s name happened?” Wallace asked. “I’ve got people telling me you could see that explosion from the mountain!”
“The bikers triggered explosives in the basement. I don’t know how, sir. We were taking fire. Non-lethal M84 stun grenades were thrown or fired in. There was a pause, and then suddenly the whole place went up.”
He told Wallace how he’d tried to talk the men out and about his doubts that everyone inside was as committed to a gun battle as the two who had killed Pat Mancini. He also told him about the mother and her kids.
“Fuck it, MacNeice!” Wallace said. “So ten bad men got blown up. I get it—you didn’t want that to happen. Still, I’m not crying. I’ll deal with the press. Keep that goddamned road closed. No photos till it’s cleaned up!” Wallace hung up.
MacNeice put the phone back in his pocket and looked up to see Aziz coming up the road with her arm around Melanie Butter, the boys trailing behind. He walked towards them.
“Melanie, I’m DS MacNeice. I deeply regret the way this ended.”
She had her hands in front of her lower face and was looking beyond him to the devastation. “I … Randy wasn’t … Why’d you have to do this? Why?”
“We didn’t. There were explosives in the basement and something happened. We didn’t use explosives.”
“Oh my God, where are all those men who were in there?” She tried to push past Aziz but the detective held her back.
“They’re gone, Melanie. Gone …”
The two kids were looking around for something familiar. One of them picked up a chair that had been blown onto the road and sat down on it. The other went over to him and pushed his butt onto the chair next to his brother.
“But … all of them? Gone?” She was holding on to her head as two EMS teams approached from behind.
“Can we help?” the first paramedic to reach them asked.
“Yes,” Aziz said. “This is Melanie Butter. She lived here with her two sons. Can you take care of them?”
“Definitely, Detective, that’s what we’re here for. But what about you, sir?”
“Me?” MacNeice asked.
“Yes, sir, you’re losing a lot of blood.” She pointed to the back of his right leg.
“God, Mac, you’ve been hit!” Aziz said.
“I forgot. Yeah, I felt it—like a hornet sting, when I was running.”
“These guys will take care of you.” The paramedic had an arm around Melanie, ready to lead her away. “Come with me, dear. You’re going to be fine.”
Her partner turned to the kids. “Wanna see inside our ambulance? There’s some really neat stuff in there. Come on, we’ll take a look.” He took each boy by the hand. “Watch out for broken glass and stuff.”
A young man from the second team said, “Sit down on that chair, sir. We’ll take a look at that leg.”
MacNeice sat down obediently and the first attendant pulled up his pant leg. The second opened a case. “You’re lucky, sir, it only grazed the muscle. You need stitches to avoid scarring, but the muscle will heal. It’ll be fine.”
“Good to hear, good to hear.” But MacNeice wasn’t really listening; he was staring at the devastation. The firefighters had placed several portable lights around the site. Everywhere they found human remains they were placing yellow flag markers. There were a lot of markers.
“We’ll clean and patch it up for you, but you should really come to Emerg now or check in at the hospital tomorrow.”
“Okay, I will …”
“I know the sound of that okay. I’ll make sure he does,” Aziz said, smiling at MacNeice.
MacNeice was still trying to figure it out. “I think Randall was down there rigging something. I think the stun grenade disoriented him and made him drop it.”
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br /> “Mac, the stuff in the basement was inert. It took Ross being down there to bring it to life.”
“I know, but all those men …” Firefighters were placing markers as far away as the barn.
“Yes, ten Damned Two Deuces thugs with assault rifles and explosives. They weren’t the local cricket team.”
“Cricket team—” He winced at whatever they were now putting on the wound. “Isn’t that eleven men?”
“Details, details,” Aziz said, resting a hand on his shoulder.
MacNeice looked up to see several bats doing crazy aerobatics above the wreckage, their radar probably confused by the specks of debris floating in the air. Far out beyond the cornfield he saw the beginnings of an electrical storm—flashes of lightning testing the ground for weakness. He said, “Retrieval better get here soon.”
“They will. Swets used the threat of coyotes. Let me make sure Melanie and her kids are taken care of, then I’ll see how we can get back to Dundurn. Is there anything you want out of your car?”
“My keys, the CDs from the glove compartment, and my briefcase from the trunk.”
“Okay, don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
The young paramedic stood up and his partner repacked the bag. “Okay, sir, that should do it. You’ve lost a fair amount of blood, so no heavy drinking or jogging tonight.” MacNeice rolled down his pant leg and thanked them. Standing up, he noticed that his shoe was soggy with blood. Realizing there was nothing more that he wanted to see, he sat down again. Maybe it was the power of suggestion, but he felt lightheaded.
Aziz had disappeared among the people and vehicles. There were firetrucks, ambulances, police cars and now department tow trucks parked everywhere. A frenzy of stuttering emergency lights shone up and down the road, illuminating the forest canopy in red and blue. MacNeice tried to imagine what the farm had been like when it was built—full of fresh hope and rugged enthusiasm for growing and nurturing a life on the land—but he couldn’t keep the image in focus. He gave up when he saw a firefighter squat nearby to put down another yellow marker.
The Ambitious City Page 34
