by Chris LeGrow
“Yep,” Scott said. “Monitor the radio and converge on the route they’re using to escape and cut them off. Got it?”
“Absolutely.”
Scott scanned the room filled with officers and detectives. More nods and murmurs of understanding and agreement met his analysis. It was a good plan. “I’ll monitor our frequency. Stay tactical; stay safe.”
One glance told him all he needed to know. Everyone was definitely ready. The possibility of arresting an entire gang in one operation psyched up everybody involved. “Let’s hit it.”
Shanese plucked at the curtain covering the living room window and peeked out across the street where a couple of dozen of Clubba’s hoods still hung around. Over the past month, she’d performed the same useless routine watching the young men under her ex’s control deliver their silent message. He’s comin’, woman. She didn’t know whether to cry or vomit. They scared her. A lot. But not as much as the thought of Clubba’s bat cracking against her skull. She rubbed the thin material between her index finger and thumb absently.
The waiting was the worst—not knowing when or where the attack would come. Clubba fed on the terror, and she prayed she didn’t let fear get the best of her, that she could face him straight on and take what came. She prayed but doubted she’d have the strength.
“They still there,” her grandmother said from the kitchen. “Just like yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. They ain’t goin’ anywhere, girl.”
“I know…but I think there’s more today. A lot more.”
“Uh-uh-uh,” her grandmother clucked behind her. “That Clubba nothing but trouble from day one. Didn’t I tell you?”
“Yes,” Shanese admitted reluctantly. “But I was in so deep and so quickly, I—” She broke off that line of thinking. It didn’t do anyone any good. What was done was done and pretty soon she’d have to deal with the consequences. Fear coiled inside her and she drew in a deep breath to brace herself. She almost wanted it over and done with now.
Before Shanese let the drape slide closed, several groups of older men outside caught her eye. Dozens of them. Tons more than ever before. Puzzled, she turned to her grandmother. “Grandma, is there some senior activity today?”
Her grandmother wiped her hands on a blue kitchen towel and slung it over her shoulder. “Not that I know of. Why?”
Shanese dashed to the kitchen window and peered as far as she could see to the right and then to the left. There were always a group of old men—she recognized several—who hung out or were observed walking around or playing checkers. Today, though, there were loads more. Not only did they line the benches, some stood between the buildings. She tilted her head and frowned. Almost like they were waiting.
“Grandma, did you see all those old men outside? You sure nothing’s going on? A party maybe?”
“Party? With who?” She threw her towel on the countertop and padded into the living room. “What you talking about?”
Shanese pulled the curtain back; her grandmother took a step forward, surprise flitting across her face. “That’s a lot of men. Any of them cute?”
Shanese shot her grandmother a shocked look. “I didn’t look.”
“Doesn’t matter. What’s cute to me is different than what’s cute to you. Lemme see.” She drew back the window covering and scanned the older gents at leisure.
“Grandma.” Shock turned to scandal; Shanese couldn’t believe her grandmother’s actions.
“I’m old; I’m not dead, girl.”
Shanese shot her grandmother a glare.
“Don’t give me that,” she said with a tsk of disgust. She pointed across the street. “Them Clubba’s boys?”
“Yes,” Shanese whispered.
“They ain’t nothing but trouble.”
“I know that now.”
“Look at all those men milling around out there. I don’t recognize any of ’em. Do you?”
“I’ve seen some of them around. I think they live here. They’re usually playing checkers when the weather’s nice.”
Her grandmother’s attention stayed with the newcomers. “Maybe I’ll go introduce myself.”
“Grandma!”
“Just to see what’s up,” the older woman said not taking her focus off one particular gentleman, between buildings.
“Hardly,” Shanese said, unable to keep the smile from her face.
“Well, a girl can look, can’t she?” Glancing left and right and then left again, her grandmother shook her head. “That’s really odd though, child.”
“What is?”
“I’ve never seen that many older men in the neighborhood before. The odds have definitely improved.”
Shanese couldn’t help it. In spite of Clubba’s men hovering around like vultures, in spite of his reign of terror, in spite of the upcoming and promised beating, she laughed, and for a moment, her burden was lightened.
SMITTY, SUPERVISING THE INNER ESCAPE ROUTES FROM the apartment the Blues had used for surveillance, looked like a television producer with ten screens showing the entire complex. He immediately spotted the cops in the undercover cars. Reaching up, he nonchalantly tapped his hearing aid that doubled as a radio and broadcast to all the Blues. “Gang unit evidently put some undercovers in the parking lot—middle of the complex.”
“Smart move,” Smitty said to himself with a smile. Always good to see a well-planned operation. “Make sure everybody stays put. Let the gang unit deploy and close in on Clubba’s thugs. My guess is that they’ll come in from behind using the houses and bushes as cover. Then for good measure from inside the complex. They’ll run directly toward the undercover officers,” Smitty said, “We’ll slow ’em down for the uniforms to catch up and collar the punks.”
Smitty wondered how he could warn the gang unit that there were way more bangers on the scene than ever before. Nice thought but too late. Smitty lifted his head, and checked again. A gang officer sprang behind a bush and grabbed one of Clubba’s soldiers from behind. The ambush was on!
Smitty tapped the earpiece radio. “Be alert, guys; gang unit’s gonna jump ’em.”
As predicted, ten officers bolted from behind Clubba’s men.
“Police!” The cry went out in Sudanese.
“On the ground. On the ground.”
Sudanese soldiers scattered. With the officers coming from behind, Clubba’s soldiers ran right toward the apartment complex. Officers were hopelessly outnumbered. Those with a suspect proceeded to handcuff them. Others sprang into the chase.
One officer, Steve Turley, a ten-year veteran, stopped, quickly trying to comprehend the pandemonium exploding in front of him. He grabbed his portable radio, knowing Sergeant Scott was monitoring, and yelled, “We’re way outnumbered. There’s gotta be over twenty suspects running exactly where you said.”
A terrified Sudanese soldier not paying attention thumped straight into Turley’s chest sending his radio flying, Turley wrestled the kid to the ground and cuffed him. Turley hoped his message got out.
Smitty smiled—a familiar adrenaline rush shot through him. “It’s on, boys. They’re heading right for us.” From his position in the upstairs apartment, Smitty observed the undercover officers scrambling out of their cars heading toward the mayhem. “Looks like the undercovers got the message. They’re piling out of their cars and heading straight for you guys.”
Memories of hitting the pavement and running down criminals like they’d done in days gone by flooded every Blue on the detail. Each one had stationed himself at a choke point with the same assignment: pepper spray them when they run by, break off once they pass, and work your way to the vans. Head back to the precinct.
“Grandma,” Shanese yelled. “The bangers are coming. All of ’em. They’re coming!”
“Get out the back door, child, and take your sister. Run! Run now!”
“What about you?”
“Got a plan. You two go now.”
With a nod, Shanese grabbed her sister by t
he hand and obeyed her grandmother’s directive. She had no clue what the plan was, but she prayed her grandmother would be safe. Guilt for bringing this into her home washed through Shanese but she shook it off. No time for that now. She and her sister ran out the back door.
“Fire!” her grandmother shouted, hoping a neighbor would call 911. Nobody would do anything in this neighborhood if she yelled help. “Fire!” she screamed again.
Shanese glanced over her shoulder and frowned. What was going on? Her sister tugged her forward.
“Come on,”
“But—“
“No buts. Grandma said run.”
Her grandmother grabbed the thick, oversized metal spoon from its drawer. Wrapping both hands around the handle, she backed into the far corner of her kitchen. Sounds from outside floated through the open door where her granddaughters had fled. Screams and yelling and commotion filtered in. Maybe somebody had actually gotten involved and called the cops…if she was lucky. If she wasn’t…her grip tightened around the thick metal, and she took a deep breath. If those Sudanese weasels came looking for trouble, they’d find it.
Smitty watched the scene unfold in amazement. Pepper spray permeated the air; he held a handkerchief to his cover his nose. Curses in English, Italian, and Sudanese floated up through the din surrounding the apartments. One gang officer caught a banger and the fight was on. Five of Clubba’s boys ran straight for the Chelini brothers who sprang into action, yelling in Italian. Before the thugs got to the Chelinis, they ran directly into a cloud of pepper spray. A piss pack hit a straggling soldier and exploded all over the younger man in all its five-day glory.
The targeted teen screamed in Sudanese, grabbed his eyes, and sank to his knees in utter defeat. Two ran toward the trees on the north side of the street; one ran straight into the brick wall of an apartment and fell to the ground knocked out cold. Two officers, Peterson and Gonzales, both of the gang unit, rounded the corner and stopped cold. Officer Peterson grabbed one banger, threw him to the ground, cuffing him as he recoiled from the disgusting stench of urine.
Gonzales approached the second banger who was out cold and followed suit. Clubba’s men rubbed their faces into the cool grass and gave no resistance to the handcuffs. Peterson and Gonzales exchanged an I’ve-never-seen-anything-like-this-before look, shrugged their shoulders, and jumped on the next banger they could reach. Once they cuffed one, they moved to the next. Gonzales keyed his microphone. “Need two transporting officers at Sixtieth and Etna.”
Peterson glanced up to catch his breath. Two older men smiled and waved at him. Peterson noticed several others strolling by. One of them winked, “Nice work, kid.”
They sauntered past the noise and commotion as though they’d done it a hundred times…just fading away. Mesmerized, Officer Peterson watched in fascination. The banger under his control kicked him in the leg. He slammed the pepper spray–blinded kid with a bad attitude into the ground face down. “Stop resisting.”
Screams and shouts both foreign and native flew through the police radios. Undercovers in the parking lot didn’t need an invitation. They poured out of their vehicles as fast as they could manage and bolted toward the sound of commotion.
“Where they at?” yelled Kerry Cunningham, a seventeen-year veteran. Nobody knew. Kerry’s partner, the lead officer Tye Mason, himself a twenty-year veteran, yelled to the other officers. “Run to the noise. Stay with a partner. Don’t get isolated. Go! Go! Go!”
The officers ran to the fray; more white-haired men than anyone had seen in one place were hanging around various buildings watching the officers run by.
“Get back inside!” Kerry yelled to one particular gent. The reply caused a brief pause. “Yeah right, sonny; I was doing this before you were born,” the old man with a shiny cane hollered back.
Kerry and Tye ran as fast as they could. Rounding a corner, Kerry met a large piece of metal. Clang! Pain, sharp and thick, shot through his head. He fell face first onto the ground and laid there a long moment trying to fathom what had hit him. He turned onto his back. “What the—?”
An elderly woman wielded a very large, oversized, thick metal spoon. “I’m so sorry, officer,” the woman said and tried to help him up. “I thought you was bringing trouble to my door, and I didn’t see the word police until you tumbled to the ground cuz it’s on your back.”
“It’s okay, ma’am. Just…put that thing away.”
Tye stopped at the sound of his partner hitting the ground. “You all right?” He drew up beside him and pulled him to his feet, steadying the older lady at the same time. “Holy crap, you’ve got a knot the size of an Easter egg on your forehead.”
Kerry’s fingers flew to the spot. Sure enough it was swelling like a helium balloon; it was going to be a doozy.
“I thought you was one of those no good thugs,” the woman said. “I’m so sorry, officer. Can I get you a glass of water?”
Kerry watched the look of recognition cross his partner’s face as he realized what had happened. He grinned from ear to ear.
“Ma’am,” Tye said, “why don’t you go back inside before you kill one of us?”
“Yes, sir,” came the courteous reply. “I’m really sorry about that.”
Kerry looked over at the woman. “No problem,” he said. “I’m fine and we’ve got to go.”
All tenderness fled the older woman’s face; fiery indignation flared in her eyes. She pointed the metal spoon toward the sounds of the fighting. “Go get those no good thugs right now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Kerry and Tye spoke simultaneously, turned on their heels and dashed toward the tumult.
“That gramma-lady decked you.” Tye laughed out loud.
“Shut up. There are old folks everywhere around here. Watch out.”
The gang unit and uniformed officers zigzagged through the maze of twenty buildings. Each held four apartments. The insanity of chasing one suspect let alone twenty was a lose-lose proposition, and every cop knew it. The bangers had a month to scout everything out; they knew where to run and where to hide.
“It can never be easy, can it?” Sergeant Scott muttered. Monitoring the radio traffic in a unmarked police van at the original dropoff point, he was pleasantly surprised to hear of the initial successes that his officers were having catching three to five bangers at a time.
As the officers secured the bangers, Scott noted that six of his officers were on the radio calling for medical attention for pepper spray exposure. There were so many he said, “Everyone’s pepper spray cans must be empty.”
Scott said. “There’s twice the number of bangers we anticipated; it’s stretching our ability to nab anymore.” The sergeant told a uniformed officer in the van with him, “Call for more cruisers.”
The officer keyed his microphone and contacted the dispatch center. “We need every available cruiser in the precinct.”
The radio dispatcher replied, “That’s clear, 2 Adam 10, 15, and 16 report to Sixtieth and Etna to assist the gang unit.” All three cruisers advised that they were clear on the call and en route.
“More police cruisers on the way, Sergeant.” The officer said.
“Good,” Sergeant Scott replied. “I just hope they get here in time.”
From a small mound, Abrahim and one of his soldiers were able to get a brief look at the pandemonium of running soldiers and police officers. Abrahim was initially shocked that the police were able to sneak up behind his entire group of soldiers. The panic of the police pouncing on his soldiers sent them all running into the large apartment complex. Now, however, the initial shock had been overcome, and it looked like his soldiers were taking advantage of the many escape routes the maze of apartment buildings provided. They were running in every direction with all this confusion, so he knew the police would not be able to have an organized response.
“Many will escape,” Abrahim said to himself with a smile before he resumed his own attempt to flee.
What Abrahim and his soldiers d
idn’t know was that there were undercover officers sprinting from the middle of the complex. They heard the radio chatter and could tell that there were numerous fights going on. This fueled their desire to get into the fray, even though they had to sprint one hundred yards through the apartment complex, they dispersed two by two between the buildings.
The frustrating thing for the officers was that nobody could give a good location over the radio as to their location in the huge complex. Unlike on TV cop shows, it was extremely difficult to find an address or an exact location when an officer is running after a suspect and screaming at the top his lungs for the suspect to stop. The undercover officers could only run toward the screaming and hope to find and assist the officer in the arrest.
Another problem was that there was screaming everywhere. It echoed off buildings, and since the commotion was so loud, there were residents coming out to see what was going on. The officers were yelling to one another, at the bangers, and to the residents to get back inside for their safety—at the same time attempting to provide some coherent information on their radios.
Sergeant Scott who could hear the problems the officers were having finally said, “We’re losing control.” Then Sergeant Scott heard the voices of his undercover officers starting to enter the fray. “There’s some good news,” he uttered as he listened to the radio.
Smitty was also monitoring the progress of the undercovers sprinting to the aid of their fellow officers. Smitty smiled. That was good planning to put those undercover boys in the parking lot, but they are still going to need some help. Smitty tapped his hearing aid/ microphone and broadcast to the Blues, “Looks like the undercovers from the parking lot are finally joining in, stay sharp boys.”
There were acknowledgments from the Blues who were still waiting to ambush the escaping gang members. Smitty smiled and said to himself, “Those punks should be approaching our Blues any minute now.”
Officer Steven Turley was back in the chase. He had recovered from being plowed into during the initial part of the operation. As he approached the apartment complex, he could see that there were various officers cuffing the suspects on the ground. There were officers still in hot foot pursuit in various directions toward the inner parts of the complex. Even with the number of bangers that had been caught, Officer Turley said to himself, “There’s still too many of them.”
