Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues

by Chris LeGrow

Smitty walked out of the Sarge’s office. One glance at Brittany’s face said she was concerned about something. “What’s up?”

  “That was Jake. He sounds concerned about something. He said he needs to talk to me. He’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

  Smitty frowned. He didn’t like the sound of that. “I’ll let the Sarge know.”

  The Blues filed out of the Sarge’s office, the great mood spread to everyone.

  Brittany walked out into the late spring evening to see Jake. The sun was setting. Long pink fingers of dusk raked across a quickly darkening sky. Standing in front of the retirement home, she spotted Jake arriving and waved.

  His returning acknowledgment was less than enthusiastic, and he especially looked at a loss for words. Brittany frowned. This couldn’t be good.

  The moment Jake saw Brittany, he was ripped from within. Torn between his growing love for her and the realization that she may be involved in some sort of vigilante group was the worst feeling he’d had since arriving in Omaha. His mind raced and he tried to piece together exactly what he wanted and needed to say.

  As though sensing his apprehension, Brittany reached for his arm. “Let’s walk the pathway; it’s quiet.”

  They strolled through the flower lined path in silence. As dusk grew deeper, warm lights illuminated the lane. Short greenery, red tulips, and purple iris nodded in the evening breeze. “I love it here,” Brittany said. “It’s so peaceful.”

  She stopped by a black iron bench. “So,” she said. “What’s so important that you want to talk tonight?”

  Tiny shuffled by.

  “Hey,” Brittany said. “How are you, Tiny?”

  Tiny stopped as though she’d awoken him from deep thoughts. Jake squinted at the older man, his internal radar alerting him to something weird about the situation but giving him no clue as to what.

  “Hey, you two,” Tiny said. “Beautiful evening.”

  “Yes,” Jake said, not quite able to put his finger on what was wrong here.

  “You two take care of each other.” Tiny smiled and shuffled away, heading away and going farther down the path.

  Jake watched the older man leave and exchanged a confused glance with Brittany. “That was weird.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It certainly was.”

  She turned to Jake who took a deep breath. “I heard your voice,” he said. “On an audio tape…”

  “TINY HAS A PLAN,” THE SARGE TOLD THE BLUES IN THE conference room. “He’s gonna put an end to Clubba’s little empire. Tiny recognized what was going on before anybody else.”

  “He’s always had a way of fingering troublemakers,” Smitty said.

  “And knowing what they’re up to,” Harry said.

  “One last thing,” the Sarge said. “Tiny wants to go out of this world by setting Clubba up for a crime that’ll put him in prison for the rest of his life—maybe even one that’ll fire up Old Sparky and the death penalty.”

  The Sarge swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “Tonight at precisely seven p.m. Clubba will come for him.”

  “I thought he was coming for the girls,” Smitty said.

  “Yeah—isn’t that what we’ve been thinking all along?” Big Al asked.

  “Tiny knew if he kept tightening the screws, Clubba would come gunning for him.” The Sarge blinked several times in a row as though something was in his eyes. “Clubba got out of prison this morning.”

  “Wait,” Smitty said. “You mean the guy is on his way to kill Tiny right now?”

  “Tiny thinks so. Him first, then the girlfriend, then the sister.” He pulled in a shaky breath. “I trust Tiny’s intuition.” He checked his watch. “Almost seven now; Tiny’s already started, on his way through the grounds. Our job is to work our way to the places where Clubba can ambush him. Get your gear and work your way toward the westernmost area of the trail where the shrubs are thickest. My guess is that Clubba won’t be alone. He likes witnesses to see how he deals with his enemies. Let’s go; get your gear and head out.”

  “Darkness,” Clubba whispered to the two companions flanking him, “is our friend. Look there.” Clubba pointed out the shadowy figure of a short man drawing closer from about twenty yards away. “Just as Abrahim said.” Clubba stood silently, bat in hand, itching with anticipation. “That’s him,” he growled. “That’s the one I want.”

  Clubba tightened his fingers around the handle and swung the weapon through the air as a test. A soft whoosh sliced through the cool evening air. Clubba grinned with excitement. Oh, yes, this would be perfect. The familiar sound of the wood meeting a human skull echoed in the recesses of his mind. Finally, revenge was his. Once he bashed the head of the cop who’d mocked him for over a year, they’d see who’d laugh last.

  Brittany realized she could keep nothing from Jake. Beginning slowly, she explained the real purpose of the Ol’ Blue Unit and what they’d done over the last year.

  “I knew about the purse snatchers,” Jake said, “but the others?” He shook his head in confusion and admiration for what the Blues had accomplished. “Wow…just…really?”

  “Fraid so,” Brittany said.

  Her nod scattered her mane of fiery hair in the breeze. Jake clenched his fingers to keep from brushing it away and slumped back. “This had to be expensive,” he said at last. “Where’s the funding coming from? Not the state.”

  “No,” Brittany said. “There’s this group—The Bureau they call themselves—very rich people who provided the money for everything.”

  “Ben,” Jake said out loud.

  Brittany shot him a questioning glance.

  “Ben’s my brother; he’s on this Bureau thing.” Jake leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. Head down, he tried to grasp the reality of what went on inside this place, trying to make sense of it. “Oh, man.”

  “I was shocked when I first found out, the day we first met in Sarge’s office.”

  She smiled at the memory. “These guys are still cops, Jake. They’re helping the active duty officers with needed information. It saves lives.”

  Still staring at the ground, Jake remained unconvinced, and yet somehow it made sense on a warped level.

  Smitty and six other Blues walked toward the couple on the western part of the trail. “Dad, what’s going on?”

  Smitty smiled and glanced from Brittany to Jake. Brittany put her hand on Jake’s knee, “He figured it out, Dad; he knows.”

  Smitty glanced toward him. “I need to go. We’ll talk later. Jake, we can use your help. Clubba’s coming after Tiny.”

  Immediately Jake straightened and stood, meeting Smitty’s gaze directly. “How’s that possible? We’ve got protection assigned to his ex-girlfriend.”

  “Don’t you think he knows that?” Smitty asked with a lift of an eyebrow. “Tiny’s been working the guy over for months, and Clubba’s wanted to kill Tiny since the day he was arrested. This way he goes for Tiny and leaves the girlfriend and her sister alone.” Smitty smiled. “Quite a guy, our Tiny. You in or not?”

  “Tiny walked by here not fifteen minutes ago, heading that way.” Jake pointed toward the shrubs down the pathway.

  A distinct yelp erupted from the shadows forty yards away.

  “But…Clubba,” his driver Mok said hesitantly. “Even if it is him, look—” He pointed toward a small group of people farther away. “They’ll see us.”

  “Them?” Clubba asked with a sneer. “That bunch of old men? Fool, I need you both to act like the soldiers I trained you to be. Got it?”

  Mok and Ka hesitated, glanced at the bat in their boss’s hand, and nodded.

  “First,” Clubba said and pointed at the small figure drawing nearer to their position, “I kill that one. Then you two take care of anybody else who tries to interfere. Understand?” he asked with a distinct glare at each young man.

  The two nodded again and Clubba smirked at how easy it all was. To lead people all he had to do was show them who was stronger, and it was always him. T
he bat made sure of that.

  The targeted man walked straight down the path, never glancing to the right or the left. Heart galloping in his chest, Clubba willed himself calm. He’d need every sense he had to accomplish his goal. Two more steps, he thought, watching the little cop approach. One more. Eyes widened with expectation of the coming blow and the excitement of watching terror flood the man’s lined face, he stepped out from behind the bushes. “Now!”

  Tiny stopped and gave Clubba a disgusted look. “What’s the matter, Warlord?” The term dripped with disdain and sarcasm. “Lose your little army?”

  “Wha—” The element of surprise evaporated and Clubba froze in place. “How did you know?”

  “Simple,” Tiny whistled through his broken dentures and started to laugh. “You’re stupid.”

  Rage enveloped Clubba. His arms, chiseled and sculpted from the prison gym, drew back. His swing caught Tiny across the chest. Air flew out of the older man’s lungs. The cracking of ribs delighted Clubba. He hoped he’d broken at least three; if he got lucky he’d punctured the lung.

  The old man yelled in pain; the sound never failed to thrill Clubba. “Laugh at me, old man? Laugh at this!” Clubba raised the wooden cudgel overhead and put all his strength behind the second blow. It landed in the middle of the man’s back, bringing with it another well-earned howl of pain from his enemy and a shiver of delight up his spine. “Who’s laughin’ now, you old goat?”

  Caught up in the delivered thrashing, Clubba didn’t notice Mok and Ka slink off in the night, never heard the stampeding footfalls of a herd of old men headed his way, never saw one lone man outpacing everyone else. Wrapped up in the glory of battle, reveling in the pain of his enemy, suffused with the metallic scent of fresh blood, Clubba was in another world. The soft give of human flesh beneath the solid wood traveled through his limbs and coiled in his gut. The snap of bones breaking brought on orgasmic waves of delight.

  “Go on…laugh at me.” He turned the body over with his foot and stared at the smaller man on the ground. “Not so funny now, is it?” Clubba taunted. “C’mon. I dare you.”

  Weapon in hand, Clubba slowly raised it over his head, readying himself for the final, glorious death blow, but he wanted his nemesis to see it, anticipate it…fear it. “What’s the matter, you little—”

  Boom! Boom! Two shots in quick succession flew from Jake’s nine-millimeter sidearm. Clubba stumbled back, bat still raised overhead. Bewildered, he glanced down; two large holes in the center of his chest spread crimson blood and soaked his shirt. “Just a bunch…of stupid… old…men.”

  Boom! The third shot hit Clubba’s throat, stopping his words and severing his spinal cord. He collapsed, falling to the earth. As darkness slowly started to cover his vision, he heard the distinct sound of his weapon of choice making the same cracking sound that he loved to hear from his victim’s skulls, only this time, it came directly from his own.

  Jake’s ears reverberated from the shots.

  “Jake!” An alarmed voice he’d know anywhere—Brittany—came from behind him. Swiveling around, he instinctively aimed his weapon that direction.

  Clubba’s well-armed soldiers held very large, very sharp knives against her neck.

  “Drop the gun or I’ll slit her throat,” Mok said.

  Jake hesitated. Dropping his weapon was a bad idea and went against everything learned in training.

  As though to emphasize their point, Ka sliced through her cotton shirt and into her shoulder. Brittany screamed in response. Blood mottled the fabric, trekked down her bicep, and dripped off her elbow.

  Every inch of Jake’s skin heated with rage. Every nerve in his body screamed to do whatever it took to help Brittany, but years of training kicked in. Despite what his heart demanded, Jake remained calm and controlled his voice.

  Holding his arms out, to indicate he wasn’t targeting them, he pointed the muzzle at the ground and tried to change their focus, “How old are you? Sixteen? No more than seventeen, right?” Jake braced himself against the image of Brittany between the two and strove for a fatherly approach. “You’re too young for this. Believe me you don’t want to—”

  “Shut up!” Mok cut off Jake’s attempt to stall. “We are Sudanese soldiers!” Mok said the words like a threat. He threw a knowing glance at his partner as though committing them both to the current course of action.

  “Drop it,” Mok said. “Or we slice her up in pieces.”

  The fatherly routine evaporated, Jake gritted his teeth and forced himself to breathe. “Leave now and you might get away.”

  The companion poked his knife tip deeper into Brittany’s already wounded shoulder.

  An anguished cry flew through her lips. Surrounded by the two thugs holding her upright, Brittany’s head dropped. One blade still at her throat and the other in her lacerated limb, she wobbled; her knees buckled.

  Mok smiled at Jake, the type of smile that all bullies possessed, when they have their victims where they want them. Evidently he thought he was in control of the situation. Jake wanted to rip the punk’s head straight off, to rush in and pull Brittany to safety, but there was no way to reach her two assailants before they’d do what they’d threatened. Edged weapons at close range were too lethal. He’d never make it in time.

  “Okay.” Jake bent down and placed the gun on the ground with the grip toward him waiting for the right moment when he would grab it and shoot. “It’s on the ground,” he said. “Right here…”

  Mok lifted a long lock of Brittany’s red hair with the blade’s tip. Spearing Jake with a direct gaze, he smiled again. “You were walking with her because you have strong feelings for her, no?”

  Once again Jake pushed down his internal fire. Only a clear head would keep Brittany safe.

  “If you want her to live, you’ll give us the gun and let us leave. If you follow, we slice her open and the next time you see her will be on a slab. Understand?”

  Five Blues and the Sarge slowly approached from behind closing in on them. Relief washed through him, and Jake put his hands up in the universal sign of surrender. Having no clue what the Blues were up to, his only hope was to play along. “Fine.” The only way out of this, he figured, was to keep talking until the Blues played their hand. “Have it your way. Leave her and go.”

  “Leave her?” Mok said and laughed.

  “He thinks we’re stupid,” his companion said. “She comes with us, as insurance.” He motioned to Jake’s gun.

  They weren’t taking Brittany and they weren’t taking his weapon. That much Jake knew for certain.

  Ka released his hold on Brittany’s right arm. Striding toward Jake, a victorious smile lit his face.

  Phitt! Phitt! The oh-so-soft sound filtered through the night like twin zephyrs. Mok slid to the ground in an animated convulsion. “Yeee-aaahhh!”

  Smitty wrapped his arm around Brittany’s shoulders, catching her as her captor fell away. Halfway to Jake’s weapon, Ka turned to his partner who writhed on the ground surrounded by a group of white-haired men—and the girl.

  Jake seized the moment and grabbed his gun off the ground. “Drop it,” he bellowed. “Now.”

  The knife hit the cement path with a loud clank.

  Jake glanced at the Blues. The officers they once were shined in their faces. Jaws clenched, eyes steely, anger radiated from each one. Ka glanced at the convulsing Mok and snatched up the knife his accomplice had dropped, brandishing it threateningly once again.

  No one had kicked it away; Jake cursed the oversight.

  Ka laughed and brandished the stiletto toward Jake.

  Jake’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Jake, no!” Smitty hollered.

  Phitt! Phitt! Ka dropped in his own painful spasms.

  Relief flooded through Jake. He sucked in a lungful of clean air; adrenaline drained from his body. His finger slid off the trigger and he holstered his weapon. “You guys get their knives?”

  “Yep,” the Sarge said.r />
  A semicircle of the Blues surrounded the bangers still writhing on the ground. Each Blue shook his head. Taser darts still jolted Clubba’s men.

  “I thought they were supposed to stop after five seconds,” Big Al said.

  “We really gotta get those things fixed. Those guys are flapping around like fried bacon,” Benjamin said.

  “Tiny…” the Sarge asked. “Who’s with Tiny?”

  The group hurried over to their friend and colleague.

  “Jeeze, Tiny,” the Sarge said. “I—I’m sorry…we—”

  Tiny lay on the ground, his limbs pointing at odd angles. He struggled for every breath, a terrible grinding noise sounded with every inhalation.

  Jake knelt beside the Sarge who seemed to struggle with comforting his friend and containing his emotions.

  “You did it, Tiny,” the Sarge said. “You were right all along.”

  Tiny lifted a world-weary gaze to his superior. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “End of tour, Sarge,” he said with a wan smile. “End…of…tour.”

  He fell silent, his eyes staring into the star-filled sky.

  “Tiny.” The Sarge swiped at his eyes. “You were a good cop, Tiny. A good cop.”

  The doors of the retirement home burst open and light spilled out from the juncture where Boss Nurse Betsy stood, arms akimbo. “Ya’ll better not be playing with fire crackers out here,” she called.

  In the background, screams from Clubba’s boys morphed into low moans. The occasional zzz-aa-pp of the darts floated over.

  “We really got to get those things fixed,” Smitty muttered to the Sarge.

  Boss Nurse stalked over to the commotion, taking note of the scene. Sliding a strong arm around Brittany’s back, Betsy herded her toward the infirmary. “Lidocaine and stitches for you, girl,” she said. “We’ll have you back in business in no time.”

  Smitty exchanged a pointed look at Jake. “We need to talk,” he said with a nod at the Sarge.

  Approaching sirens wailed in the distance.

  “No kidding,” Jake said. “No freaking kidding.”