Martyr's Inferno

by Scott Gamboe

  He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number. After two rings, a voice came across the line.

  "Illinois Department of Revenue, Simmons."

  "Hey John. It's Jim Hunter. I need a favor."

  "If you haven’t filed your taxes yet, I'm going to give you a severe beating."

  Jim laughed. "I just need to find out who owns a certain company."

  John gave an exaggerated sigh, and Jim could almost see him rolling his eyes. "Okay, what do you have?"

  "A company called R.A.M. Incorporated, on Michigan Avenue in Chicago."

  Jim heard the tapping of the keyboard, and there was a long pause. "Jim, what have you gotten yourself into?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Do you know who Richard and Anthony Marcel are?"

  Jim' entire body tensed. "Rich and Tony Marcel, sons of Joseph Marcel?"

  "The very same."

  "Can you fax me their information?"

  Joseph Marcel was the leader of one of Chicago's major crime families. And his son, Tony, was one of his leading hitmen. The investigation was definitely getting more interesting.

  CHAPTER 4

  Jim slowed his car and turned into the parking lot for his apartment building. He glanced over at Matt, who was adding up the night's batting statistics.

  "If we could take the outfielders from our Wednesday night team and use them on Thursdays, we'd be unbeatable," Jim said.

  Matt smiled but didn't look up. "Hey, not every team can have the stellar one-two punch of Matt and Jim on the left side of the infield."

  "How many easy fly balls did they miss out there tonight?"

  Matt grimaced. "At least four. I think we need to shake the lineup around, maybe move a few people into new positions. The change of scenery would do them some good. I still think you should have taken second base when those two outfielders collided."

  "It wouldn't have been right," Jim said, shaking his head.

  "There's no rule against taking advantage of an injury."

  "Geez, Matt, we're not playing for the state championship. It's just a softball league." He changed the subject as he dropped the car into park and opened the door. "You had a nice stop down the third base line tonight."

  They strolled across the parking lot. Matt's steel cleats clattered loudly on the asphalt. "Thanks. We should have won, you know." They stepped into the apartment building.

  "We would've, if Dave hadn't-"

  He broke off in mid-sentence. His hand snapped to the Glock pistol at his waist. The door to their apartment was ajar. They exchanged a brief look and drew their weapons, darting forward to flank the door. Jim waited for a nod from Matt. With a steady cadence, he gave a three-count on his fingers, then lurched through the doorway and into the apartment.

  Their place was in shambles. Glasses lay shattered on the floor. Ripped clothing was tossed around the living room. Their television set lay in ruins on its face. Matt's computer monitor had a golf club protruding from the screen. Jim tried his best to ignore the damage, focusing on the search for those responsible. They swept through the apartment, room by room, but found no one.

  "Damn!" Matt kicked a flattened basketball across the room with a muffled thud. Jim stood stoically, lips pursed, his fists clenched so tightly his fingernails dug into his palms. The telephone on the wall was smashed to pieces, so he called their dispatcher with his cell phone. Neither he nor Matt spoke while they waited for a fellow officer to arrive and take the report.

  Fifteen minutes later, the patrolman was on-scene and had started his paperwork. Jim and Matt tried to sort through the wreckage to get an idea of what had been destroyed. Jim was not surprised to see Steve White, the patrol lieutenant, step through the open doorway, followed by the captain. "How are you guys doing?"

  "We're all right," Jim said. He bit his lip. "Just really pissed."

  Captain Bates stood just inside the doorway, hands on his hips as he surveyed the carnage. "Do you have any thoughts about who did this?"

  Jim nodded slowly. "I think it was someone working for the Marcel family."

  The lieutenant's eyes flew open wide. "The Chicago Marcels? The crime family? What have you been doing?"

  "He's been investigating Tony Marcel," Matt replied, his face buried in his hands.

  "I think he's involved in the Perkins murder somehow."

  The captain stared thoughtfully across the chaos of the living room. "Perkins . . . I thought that was a suicide."

  "Jim has a working theory that it wasn't," Matt said. "I think this props up his story just a bit. The timing is too perfect for it to be a coincidence."

  Jim wiped his hands as he stood up. "I haven't even been on the case that long. I don't understand how they could already know."

  Lieutenant White scribbled in his notebook. "Besides, this isn't like them. Usually, organized crime figures are more patient. They try bribery first." He glanced up at Jim. "Or have they already done that?"

  "No. Sir." Jim's jaw clenched. "I would have reported it immediately if they had tried."

  Captain Bates walked out the door, then poked his head back inside. "I need you two available twenty-four seven. I'm calling in the feds on this one. We'll get to the bottom of it, I promise you."

  While the other officers did their jobs, Jim and Matt surveyed the wreckage. Jim was particularly distraught over the demise of his iPod. It was a running joke among his friends that he could not function without it. Normally, he would have taken it to the softball game, but he had forgotten to recharge the battery. The screen was cracked, and it wouldn't turn on.

  Matt peeked over his shoulder. "Need a burial detail?"

  "Hah. Come on, Mister Wizard. I thought you could fix anything."

  Matt took the iPod to the kitchen table, where he pried the unit open with a knife. While he tinkered with the electronics inside, Jim checked the rest of the apartment. Food had been smeared across the floors and walls. Drinks had been dumped out. Jim had seen extreme vandalism before, but what had been done in their apartment was almost a natural disaster. Whoever it was had known they would be gone, and they took their time.

  He found an unbroken glass and drew some water from the sink. He tried to put himself in the mind of the perpetrator. Obviously, they knew he and Matt had a softball game that night. But there was always the chance that one of them might return home early. That meant at least one car would have had to follow them to the game, ready to call whoever was in the apartment if necessary. He felt confident that multiple people were involved. Again, all signs pointed to the Marcels.

  He returned to the kitchen to find Matt next to several pizza boxes and a cooler full of soda.

  "Courtesy of our union," Matt mumbled through a mouth full of pizza. He wiped his fingers on his dirt-covered softball pants before snapping the iPod cover back in place. He dug through the mess of smashed components that had been their stereo and managed to find a small set of speakers, which had somehow survived the carnage.

  Jim plugged them into the iPod. At the touch of a button, music floated across the room. He smiled. "I feel better already."

  "I'll have to order you a new screen, but I've got it working, at least."

  "Now we find out who did this." Jim eyed the Taser dangling from a nearby officer's utility belt. "I hope they resist arrest."

  #

  Jim lay in bed and watched the ceiling in his bedroom as it seemed to spin slowly overhead. He really should have left the bar a few hours earlier. The familiar headache throbbed in time with the beating of his heart. He would have a bad hangover in the morning. He rolled out of bed and staggered to the kitchen for a glass of water. The television in the living room was on. Matt sat on the couch, cleaning a small revolver.

  "Hey, Matt. What's up?"

  His roommate whirled about, eyes wide. His eyes met Jim's, and he relaxed as he dropped his shoulders. "Geez, Jim, you scared the living daylights out of me."

  "Sorry." He nodded to the weapon. "New gun?
"

  "If you're going up against the Marcels, I'm going to need a drop gun in case I have to shoot one of them."

  Jim rolled his eyes. "Seriously. What are you doing?"

  "At the range yesterday, I noticed that my backup pistol has a cracked slide. I found this old gun in my dad's house. I'm trying to clean up this old clunker so I can use it for a week or two, until my regular backup is fixed."

  Jim swayed, peering more closely at the table. "Is that the box it came in?"

  "Nope. That’s the ammunition. I think the ammo is as old as the gun."

  Jim smiled. "Good luck. I wouldn't try to shoot the breeze with that stuff."

  #

  The dilapidated truck coughed and chugged into the parking lot of the newly reopened airport in Grozny. Grigory stepped out of the truck, carrying one briefcase in his right hand while the other was strapped to his suitcase. As the truck drove away, he studied the sprawling white building before him, accented by the green pillars in front. Years of civil war had devastated most of Chechnya, and Grozny was no exception. In recent years, the region had slowly clawed its way back from oblivion. The airport was a testament to the will of the Chechen people to survive and to persevere.

  Grigory focused his attention, not on the building itself, but rather on the eight-foot high chain link fence surrounding the perimeter. With the early hour, the guards would likely be less diligent, which should make the next phase of the operation go more smoothly.

  He angled across the parking lot and approached the fence before turning toward the awning-covered entryway. While still some distance from the main doors, he paused to untie the second briefcase. He cast darting glances around the area to see if he was being watched. Travelers crossed the parking lot, but none paid him any attention.

  He knelt to tie his shoe. With one hand, he removed the leaves covering the hole beneath the fence. In the span of a few seconds, he pried the fence upward and slid the briefcases beneath. Retrieving his suitcase, he walked briskly along the sidewalk to the terminal entrance.

  The sun shone brightly through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the terminal, which brought a comfortable atmosphere to the new facility. The scent of fresh paint hung like a pall throughout the facility. He fell in line with other passengers to check his luggage for the flight to Moscow, and ultimately, Mexico. An occasional guard passed by on patrol. The camouflage uniforms contrasted with the off-white interior of the building. After an interminable wait, Grigory approached the counter. He checked his suitcase to Mexico City, accepted his ticket from a bored-looking clerk, and made his way to the gate.

  Grigory had about an hour before his flight, so he grabbed some food at a small shop. When the announcement came for his flight, he waited in line once more. He deliberately chose to place himself at the rear of the file. The employee at the gate tore his ticket in half and returned the stub. Following the instructions he was given, he passed through the gate to the tarmac.

  With a casual step, he turned to his immediate right. He flanked the building and moved into a circle of trees. The briefcases, with their lethal cargo, were right where he had left them. With a deep, steadying breath, he left the concealing boughs and returned to the tarmac, only to be immediately confronted by an airport employee.

  "What are you doing?" she asked in heavily accented English.

  Grigory paused, her choice of language momentarily confusing him, until he remembered his attire. He had shaved his heavy beard, and he wore an American baseball shirt. She probably thought him some foolish tourist.

  "I . . . I'm sorry. I had to pee." He showed her his ticket stub.

  She reached out to take him by the arm, frowned, and looked at her watch. She waved him on toward the airplane. He nodded in mock gratitude, nonetheless glad he had not been forced to kill her. If her body had been found before he left Chechen airspace, there could have been a problem. He climbed aboard the small plane to begin the next leg of his odyssey.

  #

  Jim stepped out of his car and crossed the parking lot. He checked his watch and was relieved to find he had arrived on time, despite heavy traffic. Captain Bates had set up a meeting between Hunter and Bill Franke, a federal prosecutor, to discuss the situation with the Perkins case and the possible mob involvement. He opened the door of the small steakhouse. His mouth watered with the smell of flame-broiled beef. A hostess guided Jim to a booth near the rear of the restaurant. Fortunately, the restaurant had high ceilings, alleviating Jim's fears of an attack of claustrophobia.

  Ten minutes later, a man wearing a crisp black suit and wire-rimmed glasses joined him at the table. Jim stood, and the two shook hands while they introduced themselves. After the waitress took their orders, Bill placed a small electronic organizer on the table in front of him.

  "I read your reports about the Perkins case. I'm impressed with what you've done. There are a lot of officers out there who would've been content to let it go as a suicide."

  Jim acknowledged the compliment with a nod. "What do you have for me?"

  "I've spoken with the FBI agents who are assigned to the Marcel Crime Family. It's been common knowledge for some time now that Tony is operating autonomously, away from his father's influence. The reason he has spread his organization downstate is that he is not yet ready to directly challenge his father, Joseph Marcel. That time may come, but for now, the two will avoid each other. Richard Marcel is working both sides. He still belongs in his father's organization, but he also does some work for Tony."

  "So where do his greater sympathies lie?"

  "I think if it came down to a fight, Richard would side with his father. But at present, he is a wild card. My opinion is that Tony is the one Marcel you're after. It appears he is working on a major shipment, and the information we've picked up indicates he'll make tens of millions of dollars from it, whatever it may be."

  "You don't know what the product is?"

  "We believe the shipment originated somewhere in Asia. Tony has a contact in Afghanistan, so it could be heroin. His communiqués refer to something called 'Martyr's Inferno.' But it would have to be one hell of a lot of heroin to draw this much activity. So we're not certain on that."

  "Do you think he's involved in this business here in town?"

  "It certainly bears his trademark. First, with the Perkins case, it looks like a classic, albeit sloppy, Tony Marcel hit. Unless he wants to intimidate a rival, he tries to make his murders look like accidents or suicides. Because of that, we have no idea how many murders he has committed. That's why he and Joseph are on the splits. Don't get me wrong, Joseph is responsible for more than his share of murders. But he's smart enough to know Tony's reckless actions will only draw police attention."

  "So why would Tony do this now, if he has this huge shipment coming? With that kind of money, he wouldn't need to worry about making some petty cash off a hit on a retired college professor. There has to be more to this."

  "Agreed."

  Their lunch hour came and went. The two exchanged phone numbers and promised to keep each other updated. Bill announced he was asking the FBI to place Tony and Richard Marcel under surveillance. Jim held the front door open and Bill stepped through. They circled the building to reach the parking lot.

  The roar of an engine broke the afternoon calm, followed by the sharp crack of gunfire. Bill cried out, hands clutched to his chest as he fell. Jim dove to Bill's side. He grabbed an arm and pulled Bill behind a nearby truck as bullets ricocheted off the pavement all around them.

  CHAPTER 5

  With Bill safely under cover, Jim rolled out from behind the truck, gun in hand. He ran after the rapidly disappearing car. It was beige, possibly an older model Mercury. He leveled his pistol, but he couldn't fire. There were too many other vehicles around to risk a shot.

  The car screeched around the corner and vanished from sight. Jim cursed under his breath as he holstered his firearm. He raced back to where Bill lay in a bloody heap. The manager emerged from the restauran
t and stood motionless, his hand over his mouth.

  "Police officer! Call 911!" Jim dropped to Bill's side, relieved that the gunshot wound was higher than he had thought, up near the shoulder. Gingerly, he slid one hand under Bill's back. He found a much larger wound where the bullet had ripped the flesh away when it left the body. He kept pressure on both sides and immobilized Bill as best he could until the ambulance arrived. By then, several squad cars had swarmed the area. Jim's description of the car had been broadcast to all surrounding police agencies.

  Jim wiped blood from his hands as he crossed the street. He knelt and examined one of the spent cartridge casings, ejected from the shooter's weapon. It was definitely a rifle. Based upon the number of shots fired at them it was most likely some type of assault weapon. The casing was from a 7.62 millimeter round, which was the right size to have come from an AK-47 rifle. Funny, but he had always been frustrated with eyewitnesses who could look right at a murderer or a suspect vehicle, and moments later, not be able to describe what they saw with any accuracy. Now he had seen it from the other side. Although he managed to provide a decent description of the car, he couldn't describe the weapon used to fire at them, even though it had been less than thirty yards in front of him.

  "Jimbo!"

  Matt trotted across the parking lot. Jim gave a wan smile. "Hey, buddy."

  "You all right?"

  "Yeah. I was meeting with a federal prosecutor about the Marcel connection. Then we had this." He pointed to the scene behind him, where officers swarmed the entire block.

  "We have to do something. If it is Tony Marcel, he won't give up until you're dead."

  "Maybe we can find something to arrest him on. Hold him in jail until we can come up with a plan."

  "Come on, Jimbo, you know better than that. Even behind bars, these guys still call the shots in their organizations. He would just step up the heat on you." Matt stepped closer. His eyes darted around to be sure they were not overheard. "Seriously, Jimbo, I think it's time for something more direct."