So he returned to the intersection. Entered the strip plaza’s parking lot at its far end, away from the gas station. Backed the Ford into the isolated parking space nearest the street, positioned for a fast departure. Then pulled a road map from the glove compartment and spread it across the dashboard—a visible rationale for his stop.
From behind the mirrored shades he kept an eye on the sentries, while he worked out the final details of the op. Figuring they would almost certainly celebrate Dixon’s release with drugs, he’d give them ten minutes—about as much as he could risk without arousing the sentries’ attention. Their dulled senses, combined with surprise, shock, and speed, would help even the overwhelming odds against him.
Because conducting a hit on a sunny Friday afternoon, at a busy commercial crossroads—and against a killer protected by at least eight gang members—was insane. Unthinkable.
Which was exactly what he was counting on. That, plus the fact that Dixon and his pals, feeling secure in their own headquarters, would be distracted and probably partying. Closer to D.C., newly freed killers like him were running scared or lying low, hiding from the “vigilantes” who had been targeting them over the past year. But no freed murderer had been assassinated this far outside the D.C. metro area.
And who would expect a lone man to attack an armed group?
This was an enormously risky op, with significant likelihood of things going wrong. But Hunter had weighed other options and none looked good. All required him to stake out this heavily trafficked, highly exposed location for an extended period—either to attempt a sniper shot, or to follow Dixon elsewhere. But undetected surveillance and tailing required a team and a commitment of days. He simply didn’t have time to devote to a lengthy stakeout. Besides, a white guy would stand out conspicuously if he hung around here, or tried to tail the gang leader into his African-American haunts.
This was the only time and place where he knew Dixon would be—and when the killer would have his guard down. And complete strangers entered this gas station constantly, which would allow him to get close. So, bad as it was, this looked like his best option.
He tilted the interior mirror toward his face. Inspected his disguise. Ragged blond hair sprouted from under the baseball cap. The pasted-on blond goatee hid his cleft chin and changed the shape of his face for any CCTV cameras.
He adjusted the cap’s brim farther down over his mirrored sunglasses.
Tightened the Velcro straps on the tactical shooting gloves he was wearing.
Slid his right hand under his unzipped leather jacket. Found the grip of the Glock 26, concealed in its molded IWB holster against his hip. He tugged it a bit, reassuring himself that it would slide out fast and smooth. The Baby Glock’s standard magazine carried ten 9 mm rounds; he’d added one to the chamber. For backup, he carried a spare 15-round, interchangeable Glock 19 magazine in a pocket inside his jacket.
Hunter hoped he wouldn’t have to shoot anyone except Dixon. He had a code about such things, a code he had settled on over a year ago, when he started taking vigilante actions.
He would kill only individuals he knew were involved in acts of murder—or kill in self-defense against criminals trying to kill himself or others. He would use only non-lethal violence against lesser criminals. And he’d never commit a violent act that risked injury or death to cops or innocent people—not even if that inhibition led to his arrest.
Not even if it cost him his own life.
Those were the risks he had to accept for doing this stuff. Because his goal was to seek justice for innocent victims, not to create more of them.
That was his code. And he had to cling to it with fanatical consistency, because he knew his code was the only thing that kept himself from becoming a vicious animal like Reginald Dixon.
Reaching down, he fetched a jumbo-sized beverage cup from the passenger-side floor. A jaunty red plastic straw stuck out of its white plastic lid. It looked perfectly innocuous.
His final surprise for them.
He checked the dashboard clock.
Three forty p.m.
He took a long, steady breath. Released it.
Time to get it done.
Hunter unfolded from the driver’s seat, leaving the door unlocked and slightly ajar, the engine still idling. Another calculated risk, but he’d be gone just a few minutes.
Pressing his unzipped jacket closed with his elbows to hide the gun, he carried the drink cup in front of him with both hands as he walked toward the gas station at the far end of the plaza.
2
Isayah “Oz” Johnson was leaning casually against the wall not far from the entrance when a white guy in mirrored shades came around the corner of the building heading his way. Oz straightened, then relaxed when he saw the cracka holding one of those “Big Sipper” cups in his gloved hands. Dude just coming in for a refill.
Oz didn’t like how the guy strutted, so cocky-like in his leather jacket and boots. He wanted to say something to the asshole. But Reggie had a rule against hassling customers. “Bad for business,” he said. “And don’t need nobody bringing Five-Oh down on us.”
So Oz just glared silently as the gray dude strode past, ignoring him, and reached Jamal, who stood in front of the doorway. Jammies was so big he blocked the whole entrance. Cracka stopped, smiled up at him, and said, “Excuse me, sir.”
“Sir.” So po-lite. Probably scared shitless.
Jammies grunted and slowly shifted aside, just enough to let the dude inside.
Hunter barely squeezed past the huge, head-shaved thug in the doorway. Inside, he paused to take stock.
A few aisles of overpriced snack foods, groceries, personal necessities, and auto supplies.
DVD rental machine next to the ATM at the wall on the right.
Checkout counter to the left, a skinny Asian kid ringing up cigarettes and lottery tickets for a middle-aged white customer.
Nearby, another Asian guy, older—maybe the father of the one behind the register—wiping down a small sandwich counter, where the carry-out orders were prepared.
In the rear right corner, a tiny alcove for the restrooms.
In the rear left corner, just beyond the sandwich counter, a door marked “PRIVATE.” Two young toughs on either side of it, arms crossed, staring at him. Muffled laughter and profanities rising from the room behind the door. That would be Dixon, his girlfriend, and the rest of his gang.
It was obvious the Asians were the nominal owners, but that Dixon’s gang had strong-armed them into remaining in place here, serving as a legitimate-appearing front for their drug operations. Serving as slave labor.
No way he would risk their lives, or the lives of innocent customers, just to do this. He had to get them all clear—or forget about it.
He spotted the coffee station at the center of the rear wall. He made his way back there, circling close enough to Dixon’s guards to spot the bulges of concealed firearms under their clothes. He counted four CCTV cameras high on the walls; but given the clientele and transactions transpiring here, he was certain they wouldn’t be operating.
At the coffee station, he leaned over his oversized drink container, pretending to fill it from one of the waiting carafes. He made a show of adding packets of sugar and creamer, stalling while he waited for the lone customer to leave. Then he proceeded to the sandwich counter.
He nodded at the middle-aged Asian man.
“Hi. I’d like to place an order. Do you read English, sir?”
The man smiled and nodded.
Hunter placed his cup on the counter, then withdrew a small notebook and pen from his shirt pocket and wrote a note. After he finished, he grinned as he handed it to the man.
And watched his eyes widen as he read:
Please stay calm and continue to act normally.
I am an undercover narcotics police officer.
We are about to conduct a police raid here.
Again—please remain calm. Show no sign that anything is wrong.
Now, go over to the other clerk, and show him this note.
Then both of you leave the store at once.
He saw the clerk was about to speak.
“Sorry, maybe my scribbling isn’t clear,” he interrupted, leaning close. He drew his jacket aside, just enough to reveal the grip of his gun. Holding his smile and pointing at the note, he whispered: “We don’t want you to get hurt. Don’t show any surprise or fear. Don’t look at those other men. Just walk slowly to that young man, show him this note, and then both of you leave the building and keep walking away from here.” He dropped the smile. “Do it right now.”
The man obeyed, going over to the boy and handing him the note. The kid frowned as he read, then his eyes snapped toward Hunter. The older man tugged at his arm, got him to follow. They moved out from behind the counter and without a backward glance headed outside.
He had to act now, before any more customers showed up.
He put his hands on his hips and stared after the two departing clerks.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Where you going?”
He looked around, feigning confusion. Caught the eyes of the two thugs in the back.
“Did you guys see that?” He picked up the drink container in his left hand and began to walk toward them. “You see what just happened?” Continuing to approach, he half-turned and gestured behind him, toward the door. “I give the guy my order, but then they both just walk out!” He turned back to them as they moved a step away from the door, suddenly wary. “You work here?” he continued. “You mind telling me what the hell’s going on?”
Suspicious, the guy to his right started to reach inside his jacket. Hunter leaped forward and snapped a front kick into his groin. The guy went down, clutching himself and wailing. Before the other could react, Hunter had the Baby Glock in his right hand, trained on his face.
“Raise your hands and turn around,” he snapped.
The guard stood paralyzed. He raised his hands—then his eyes darted toward the entrance, just as Hunter heard the door hiss open behind him.
“Jammies!” the guard yelled. “This dude—”
Hunter snapped a kick into his groin, too, then hopped to the side and spun to face the new threat just as a shot rang out.
The big guy stood just inside the closing door, legs spread, a double-handed grip on his gun. His shot slammed into the wall where Hunter had been an instant before. Still clutching the cup in his left hand, Hunter fired three times rapidly, one-handed. The first hollow point slug caught the man mid-body, the second in his left shoulder, the third in his jaw, sending a spray of blood against the glass door. The guy toppled backward into it, slamming it open again, and landed across the threshold.
Oz had watched, bewildered, as the two store clerks hustled outside, then broke into a run across the parking lot. Then he heard yelling inside the store. But he wasn’t as close to the door as Jamal. Jammies had played college football, and for a big dude he was fast. He had his Colt .45 out and was rushing through the entrance before Oz could even move.
Oz yanked the .38 S&W revolver. Then Jammies’s cannon boomed—followed immediately by three more-muted shots in rapid succession. Scarlet gore splattered the closing glass door a second before Jammies’s giant body crashed backward against it, smashing it open again. He landed across the entranceway on his back, his shaved head smacking the pavement with a sickening crack. Half his lower jaw was torn loose and hanging.
Stunned, Oz stumbled back. He tore his eyes away from the horror of what was left of Jammies’s face, looking around wildly for help.
Where the hell Deuce and Marvel at?
3
Reggie Dixon had done his first line off the grimy surface of the office desk, through a rolled-up twenty. Then Sharleen, already wasted, decided to do a strip-tease. A coming-home gift, she said.
Dixon’s hitmen loved that idea. The four of them hooted and laughed while she held his eyes and slowly unbuttoned her blouse . . .
Well, he love that idea, too. And he don’t mind them seeing her body—after all, she his, not theirs. He enjoy reminding them about things he has but they don’t. Of course, Sharleen’s body would be amazing, ’cause she still just seventeen. Younger the better . . .
As she did her slow striptease to the thumping rap beat from the office sound system, Dixon frowned, remembering the one that sent him to the joint . . .
Well, okay—not that young. But how the hell he supposed to know she barely thirteen? Bitches these days, they grow up so fast. That one, that Loretta, she been standing there outside his sister Neema’s house, saying she waiting for Neema’s daughter Keshia. And she so fine, like she at least fifteen, sixteen—least as old as Keshia. So he smile and tell her, Keshia and her mom over at his place, and they send him to pick her up and take her there.
So she go with him. And he take her instead to that spot down under the Amtrak bridge. And he drag her out the car and has his fun.
Then he tell her shut up—but she just keep screaming and carrying on. So, what he supposed to do then? Let her go to the po-lice? Ruin his life?
Okay, the whole thing a stupid mistake. But that point, no way he can let her talk. Only one way out of it. And too bad, too, ’cause she just a kid. But hey—shit happens.
So he use a rock to shut her up.
Just his damn luck those kids up on the bridge see him do it and call the cops . . .
Dixon watched, stirring, as Sharleen undid her last button. She swayed back and forth, letting the blouse play peek-a-boo. She started to shrug it off one shoulder.
He heard a loud voice, then sudden wailing, right outside the office door.
“The hell?” Dixon growled. He nodded toward the guy nearest the door. “Rocks, go see what—”
But then a hole blasted through the wall, throwing splinters and drywall—followed by three more quick shots from just outside the door.
“Shit!” Dixon shouted, hitting the floor behind the desk. The others did the same, Sharleen falling atop him, screaming.
Hunter watched the giant crash to the ground outside the front entrance, then spun and gave each of the downed guards a sharp kick to their heads to keep them out of play. He heard yells and commotion from the office. Holstering the Glock, he tried the door knob. Locked.
He took a step back, then launched forward onto his left foot, raised his right leg, and stomped near the door knob with the heel of his boot. It took two tries, but the door burst inward.
He jumped to the side to avoid taking any fire from within. Flipping the lid off the cup, he reached inside and lifted out the flashbang grenade. Holding down the safety handle, he yanked out the pin, then tossed the grenade inside the room. He spun away from the door, covering his ears tightly with his palms and squeezing his eyes shut.
When the shots stopped, Dixon shoved Sharleen off himself and scrambled on his hands and knees to the back door. Those behind him continued to yell as he reached up, threw the slide bolt, and turned the knob. The door opened, and he felt Sharleen clawing at his back as he tumbled outside. She landed beside him, still hollering.
He didn’t know who was shooting up headquarters, and he wasn’t about to hang around to find out. He got to his feet and turned toward the street behind the stores.
“Reggie! Wait!” he heard her squeal. He glanced back. She was on her hands and knees just outside the open doorway. She began to rise when a dazzling flash and thunderous bang knocked her down.
Even though the blast was largely contained within the inner room, the concussion was stunning.
Ears ringing, Hunter drew the Glock again and rushed inside. The ramshackle office was filled with litter and veiled with acrid smoke. A wad of cash and a few plastic baggies with white powder were scattered on an old wooden desk. He immediately saw the rear exit door was open. It took him a few seconds to determine that none of the dazed and moaning individuals sprawled on the floor was the Target. He moved to the rear doorway.
Just outside,
Dixon’s girlfriend was on the ground, holding her head and howling “Reggie! Reggie!”
He squinted out into the sunlight. Saw the Target running across the street, headed toward a dirt-filled gap between the two derelict, abandoned houses. He raised the gun and snapped off a hasty shot. Saw the guy stumble. Heard the girl scream.
Took a step outside for a clearer second shot.
Then the half-opened door slammed back against him.
4
Devon “Deuce” Taylor had been taking a leak next to the Dumpster when he heard yelling, then gunfire inside the building.
Damn. He was the only one of the outside crew not carrying. He couldn’t risk it, not with his sheet, ’cause a gun charge would put him away for at least a dime. He started zipping up when he heard the explosion.
The hell?
Deuce hustled around the Dumpster and spotted Reggie back there, running across the street. Sharleen was sprawled outside the back door. Her blouse was open and she was holding her head and screaming. He moved to help her—then heard approaching steps just inside the office. Instinctively he jumped aside behind the half-open door. Two seconds later, a gunshot blasted from the other side of the door.
In the yard across the street, Reggie wobbled on his feet.
Sharleen shrieked again.
The muzzle of a handgun poked out from the edge of the door, leveling to take aim again at his boss.
He shoved the door, slamming it against the shooter on the other side.
Caught mid-stride and off-balance, Hunter stumbled. Before he could recover, a tall, wiry black guy hurtled from behind the door and slammed into him, seizing his gun hand. Hunter hit the ground with the guy atop him, pinning his gun hand. The guy raised his right arm for an elbow strike to his face. Hunter blocked it with his left forearm, but the guy’s descending hand clawed at his face, knocking off his sunglasses—then seized a handful of hair . . .
WINNER TAKES ALL Page 5
