by Jack Quaid
Sullivan couldn’t argue with that.
* * *
The sedan pulled around and half a block later came to a stop. Exhaust fumes blew a steady stream of white from the rear. For a brief moment everything was quiet.
The footsteps came.
Out of the darkness surfaced a shotgun followed by its owner, Rayburn, then Warren behind him with his own hell stick in hand. They moved to the trunk. Warren threw a glance to Rayburn as if he were asking permission. With his heavy chin almost touching his chest, Rayburn nodded the okay, and the pair of them unleashed hell.
Shotgun blasts shattered the silence. Muzzle flashes lit up the street. The metal of the trunk tore and contorted under the double-aught buck pounding in. A tire deflated. The sedan dipped back and to the left.
They made Bonnie and Clyde look like pussies.
Eighteen shells later the thunder ceased, but it took a couple of seconds longer for the echoes to fade. Gun smoke lingered in the air. Warren jammed a finger in his ear and tried to shake loose the deafness. Rayburn checked the breech of his weapon. They both relaxed. A job well done.
‘Garcia,’ Rayburn called. ‘Come check this out.’
They heard nothing.
The driver’s side door was wide-open and still swinging from the impact the sedan had taken. A step or two later, Warren peeked inside.
Empty.
After a look to Rayburn, they both found their attention drawn to the trunk. Rayburn drew his sidearm and took aim. Warren did the same and swung his foot up under the lock and kicked the trunk open.
They found the bloody corpse of Garcia.
Rayburn tightened his fist. He wanted to punch. ‘Shit,’ he mumbled. ‘He’s got the recording.’
Chapter Sixteen
Sullivan ran until his legs gave out. He slowed and put his hands on his knees. Sweat poured down his face and dripped onto the concrete between his shoes.
He had reached the beginning of I94 and could make out the First and Last Hotel farther down the road. Sullivan pushed through the doors. The joint was country-and-western themed with wagon wheels pushed up against the walls and murals of horse-drawn carts. Sullivan crossed floor and made for the pay phone by the restroom doors. He dropped a couple of coins and dialed.
Jim Jones answered on the second ring.
Sullivan told him where he was, told him to hurry, and hung up. He waited with a Budweiser at a table by the rear wall. The drunks paid him no attention, and the staff were busy reading magazines and watching late-night television.
Headlights entered the car park and dimmed. The front door opened and closed, and Jones limped around the bar until he found Sullivan.
He pulled up a seat. ‘Can I listen to it?’
No hello, no pleasantries . Nothing.
Sullivan placed the tape recorder on the table. ‘Just press play.’ Sullivan sipped at his beer and watched Jones as he listened to the confession and killing of Con Taylor.
When it was finished, he pressed stop and gently placed the tape recorder on the table. ‘And Rayburn is in on this as well?’ he asked.
‘And his whole crew.’
Jones sighed. ‘Shit.’
Sullivan finished his beer and leaned forward. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’
Jones’s eyes hardened, and Sullivan saw a glimpse of the cop he used to be before his leg was blasted away and his balls were cut off in Internal Affairs. ‘I’m going to bury them.’
‘I was hoping you’d say something like that,’ Sullivan said.
Sullivan drove. Jones got on the telephone and had his rookie, Lopez, organize a safe house.
‘Can she be trusted?’ Sullivan asked.
‘She’s my wife’s niece.’
Sullivan shrugged. ‘If she can’t, that’s going to make for an awkward Christmas.’
Lopez called back with an address to a safe house in Bryden Street West Chicago. It was a shitty part of town, where the residents knew how to mind their own business and keep their mouths shut.
Sullivan pulled the car into the driveway and climbed out. Jones told him it had been seized from a twenty-two-year-old meth dealer, who three weeks earlier was sentenced to a decade of maximum security.
What was left of the front yard was ground to dirt and filled with potholes from cars repeatedly bouncing up the gutter to park on it. The windows were covered with bars, the walls on the inside with amateur graffiti. The DPD had furnished the place with a couch, a table, some chairs and mattresses in the two rooms. All of it was secondhand.
Despite opening all the windows, the house still smelled like three-week-old crystal meth. Jones made tea. The milk was off so they drank it black, and while sitting at the table that looked onto the street, they waited.
‘Most cops I know would turn a blind eye to something like this,’ Jones said. ‘Most would think it was too dangerous.’
‘Do you really think I’ve got much of a choice?’
Jones looked at him for a moment. ‘No. Considering your situation, I guess not.’
Then at that point, there were headlights in the street. A vehicle pulled over to the curb, and Lopez climbed out. She wore a XXXX coat, and when Sullivan peeked out of the window, he saw her pajamas poking out of her sleeves. She carried everything Jones requested in a shopping bag from K-Mart, and as soon as she was through the door, Jones locked it behind her.
The rookie laid the contents on the table. There was a video camera, tripod, a laptop computer, and various batteries and power cables. Jones gave her a sideways glance as he set up the video camera and booted the laptop. She hadn’t said anything since she stepped through the door and was now leaning against the wall with her attention elsewhere.
‘Is everything alright?’ he asked.
‘Levi’s been sick the last couple of nights. I haven’t been getting much sleep.’
Jones gave Sullivan the explanation: ‘Five-year old.’ Then back to Lopez. ‘At that age they have nightmares all the time.’
‘Yeah,’ Lopez said as she checked her phone absently.
Once the video camera was set up and aimed at Sullivan, Jones took a chair across from him. ‘You’re probably familiar with this process, but to reiterate, we’re going to record this conversation on video and immediately back it up by uploading it to our secure server. After that, Lopez will stay here with you while I seek warrants based on the evidence we capture tonight and your recording of Con Taylor. Are we understood?’
‘I understand,’ Sullivan said.
‘Let’s get started.’ Jones hit record on the video camera and cleared his throat. He went through the preamble of time, date, interview subject and the full names and ranks of those present. ‘Detective Sullivan, would you please tell us about what you know in regards to the SEC-Guard robbery early yesterday morning?’
Sullivan told him everything.
The hints and whispers he had heard for months about a network of crooked cops led by a high-ranking member of the department that goes by the name Hailstrum. He told him about the lead he got from the two-bit piece of shit, Roach. About how he was too late to stop the robbery in time and how he found the SD footage at the crime scene. Sullivan told him about how he traced it to Con Taylor, and finally how Rayburn tried to take him out over the whole thing. He spoke quietly, was very specific over the details and times, and when he was finished, he was covered in sweat and exhausted.
Jones ended the interview and stopped the recording. He took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes, and stretched out his leg. They all heard it crack, then he settled his attention back across the table at Sullivan. It took a moment for him to phrase the words he wanted to say, but Sullivan knew in a roundabout manner what they were going to be before Jones spoke a word.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Jones said quietly. ‘What you’re doing, I wish every member of the department would do it. These bastards need to be stopped but I’ve just sat through you telling me how you’ve spent the past couple of days, and
I know your were doing it to stop the robbery and apprehend Taylor, but Jesus.’ He glanced at his notes. ‘There’s breaking and entering, withholding evidence, intimidation… The bosses are going to come down on everyone, including you. You’re looking at a suspension at least.’
‘I know,’ Sullivan said, lighting a cigarette. ‘Kinda sucks to be me, doesn’t it?’
They heard the roar of engines first. Then they saw the vehicles bounce up the gutter and the headlights pour through the barred windows, blinding them.
Sullivan sided up against the window and peeked through. ‘It’s Rayburn.’
‘How did they find us?’
Sullivan titled his head toward Jones and clenched his fists.
‘Well, I was with you the whole time,’ he said.
Then it dawned on them both: Lopez.
She took a step back and knocked into the wall. ‘I’m sorry. They said they were going to hurt, Levi. I didn’t know what to do.’
The color drained from Jones’s face. ‘What did you tell them?’
‘I only gave them this location, I swear.’
‘Where’s your son?’ Sullivan asked.
Lopez’s gaze shifted to Jones. ‘He’s at your place, with Sarah.’
Jones got on the telephone, called his wife. Everybody was safe. He told her to get out of the house as fast as possible and check into a hotel.
As he hung up, Rayburn’s stocky figure emerged from behind the headlights. His palms aimed to the sky, he appeared unarmed. ‘Boys, boys, we’re just all being a bit silly right now. How about you toss out that recording, Sullivan, and we can all go home. No one needs to get hurt here tonight.’
‘Do you believe him?’ Lopez said hopefully.
Sullivan and Jones looked at each other and at the same time said, ‘No.’
‘We can call for backup,’ Lopez said.
‘Who’s there to call?’ Sullivan replied. ‘I’ll keep him talking.’ He pointed to Jones. ‘Upload the interview to the server.’
Jones pulled the card from the video camera, pushed it into the laptop, and got started. ‘This is going to take a while to upload.’
‘How long?’
‘Five minutes?’
‘Damn it,’ Sullivan muttered. ‘He’ll know we’re stalling.’
Jones tapped away at a couple of keys on the laptop. ‘Just do what you can.’
‘Wudda you say?’ Rayburn yelled. ‘Sound like a plan or what?’
‘I don’t know if I’m too keen on that, Rayburn,’ Sullivan yelled from behind the barred window. ‘It sounds like a pretty shitty deal to me.’
‘It is.’ Rayburn laughed. His body broke up the beams of the headlight as he paced the front yard. ‘What other choice do you have?’
Sullivan pointed to the computer. ‘How long has that thing got to go?’
‘It’s only at thirty percent,’ Jones said.
‘You can’t stay in there forever,’ Rayburn called.
‘I don’t know,’ Sullivan said. ‘A couple of folding chairs could really tie the room together.’ He looked to Jones for an update.
‘Forty percent.’
Shit.
‘We’ve got that young woman’s little boy,’ Rayburn yelled.
Terror crossed Lopez’s face. ‘He doesn’t,’ Sullivan whispered to her before yelling out to Rayburn. ‘That’s bullshit, and you know it.’
Rayburn shrugged. ‘We could always go get him.’
‘If you could’ve, you would’ve.’
Rayburn shrugged. ‘Yep. But, you know, if you don’t come out, we’re going to come in.’ He stepped out of the way, and Cooper and Warren approached the house, holding a battering ram between them.
‘Shit,’ Sullivan said.
‘What?’
‘They’re coming in. Where’s the upload at?’
Jones limped back from the table. ‘Sixty-five percent. We’re looking at five minutes? Maybe?’
‘Then that’s how long we need to stall them. Someone give me a weapon.’ Jones and Lopez blank faced him. ‘Give me a weapon.’
‘I’ve only got one,’ Jones said.
Lopez shook her head. ‘And you’re not getting mine.’
Sullivan rubbed his face. ‘Alright, none of this shooting in the leg shit. You two shoot to kill?’
Their training kicked in. They pulled their weapons, stood off-center to the front door, and readied themselves to blast away anything that came through it.
Silence in the street and in the house. Then come the battering ram on the front door. It slammed in with an awful thump. The house shuddered. Dust and plaster fell from the ceiling. The ram struck again. More dust and more plaster, and still the door wouldn’t give. After a couple of more cracks, Cooper and Warren gave up and tossed the ram on the front lawn, retreating back behind the headlights.
‘What happened?’ Lopez asked.
Jones lowered his weapon and smiled to Sullivan. ‘We seized this house from a drug dealer.’
Sullivan couldn’t help laughing. ‘He had the doors reinforced to protect himself from police raids.’
Jones holstered his service weapon. ‘It worked.’
‘So we’re safe?’ Lopez said.
The engine to one of Rayburn’s vehicles cranked up. An SUV. It accelerated toward the house and hit the brakes. Warren climbed out and pulled the cable from the front bumper, wrapped it around the grate of the front door, and jumped back into the SUV.
Sullivan took a step back from the window. ‘This could be a problem.’
Warren floored the SUV. Tires spat dirt at the front of the house. The beast catapulted over the nature strip, and halfway across the street, the tension on the cable tightened, and the front wheels lurched up and pulled at the front of the house.
Everything inside shook. The plaster cracked. The beams loosened.
‘He’s going to tear the whole place down,’ Jones said.
‘Where’s the upload at?’ Sullivan asked.
Jones wiped dust off the screen. ‘Ninety-three percent.’
Warren floored the SUV. It sped toward the house. Stopped inches from the front door. Changed gears. Ate up dirt again in reverse. Lurched and yanked at the font of the house.
The meth dealer didn’t reinforce the door on the cheap. It was connected to the whole front wall, which Warren and the SUV were close to tearing off the house.
‘Ninety-six percent,’ Jones yelled.
Warren changed gears and sped the SUV up to the front of the house. Hit the brakes and stopped a few feet from the door. The wall was on the verge of collapse and could have possibly been pulled down by hand, but Warren was going to take it with force.
Sullivan pointed to the laptop. ‘Let that run. If we’re lucky, it’ll upload before Rayburn finds it.’ He thumbed back at the wall. ‘As soon as this bastard goes down, I want you to run as fast as you can and don’t stop.’
Lopez nodded. Sullivan looked to Jones, who was rubbing his knee. ‘I don’t run so fast, nowadays.’
‘I’ll run with you,’ Sullivan said.
Warren floored the SUV, and the wall came down.
Chapter Seventeen
The house was exposed like some autopsy photograph with its internal parts laid out for the whole world to see. The kitchen had been torn in half, and with the mains busted, water sprayed into the yard.
Sullivan wiped the dust out of his eyes in time to see Lopez disappear over the neighbor’s fence and into the darkness. Part of the roof had fallen on Jones. Sullivan pulled him off the floor. He stumbled to his feet, took one look at the smashed laptop in his hand, and threw it at the wall. ‘Shit.’
The upload didn’t send.
Rayburn emerged from behind the glare of the headlights, shotgun in hand. Warren and Cooper followed him, stepping over rubble as they crossed the yard, and both Sullivan and Jones knew that running would only get them shot in the back.
Rayburn looked around at the mess at his feet. ‘Who would have thought t
he little fucker had the foresight to reinforce the whole bloody house.’ He shot a look over Sullivan’s shoulder. ‘Where’s the girl?’
Sullivan shrugged. ‘No idea.’
‘She’ll turn up. Now,’ he said in a cooler tone. ‘Are you going to give me your recording, or am I going to have to put a bullet in you?’
Sullivan shook his head and coughed dust as he dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out the tape recorder he used to capture Con Taylor’s confession. He held it tight in his hand.
‘Come on,’ Rayburn said. ‘Give it up.’
Sullivan tossed him the recording, and after listening to it for a couple of seconds, Rayburn destroyed the evidence under the heel of his boot.
Jones slumped his shoulders, closed his eyes, and took a breath. All the scenarios of how the night could end ran through his mind, and none of them looked bright.
Rayburn lowered the shotgun. ‘Okay fellas,’ he said. ‘It’s time to—’
His voice was cut short by the single bleep of a patrol car’s siren. The prowler cruised at a cautious five miles an hour toward the torn-down house at the end of the street.
Rayburn looked over his shoulder at Sullivan and Jones. ‘I won’t hesitate putting a bullet in these two fuckers if one of you mouths off. Now hold up your badges. Let them know there’s nothing to fear.’
Sullivan unclipped his badge from his belt and held it high along with the others. The patrol came to a stop. A muscle-bound arm hung out of the open window and halfway down the door. It belonged to Sergeant Graham, a uniform out of the 10th Precinct. His partner, Bate, was behind the wheel.
Sergeant Graham nodded to the group of cops in front of him. ‘We got a call about some noise, but Jesus,’ he motioned to what was left behind them, ‘what the hell happened?’
Rayburn leaned down to the open window and bullshitted the constable with some story about chasing up a lead in the SEC-Guard robbery.
The Sergeant went for his radio. ‘I’ll call for backup and get this area locked off for you guys.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Rayburn said. ‘We’ve already called. Major Crimes has got this one. All the fun and games are all over with anyway.’
