by Jack Quaid
She climbed in and tossed a folder onto the dashboard.
‘Put your hands on the windshield,’ he said.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
Sullivan nodded.
She put her hands on the dashboard, and he frisked her. To get to the underground car park, Sullivan had sent her to three different locations, tailing her the whole way to make sure she wasn’t being followed by anyone else. When he finished patting her down, she leaned back in the seat.
‘Happy now?’
Her perfume engulfed the cab, so Sullivan cracked a window. ‘Better safe than sorry.’
‘Yeah, well, fuck, I went to a lot of trouble getting that.’ She stabbed a finger in the direction of the case file on the dash. ‘I shouldn’t even be here; everyone’s out looking for you.’
Sullivan picked up the file. ‘What did you find?’
‘Jay Franks, twenty-seven. 5’10, long blond hair. Tattooed to the hilt. One conviction, served three years. The youngest brother of Mickey and Val Franks. All of them three generations deep; crime is in their blood. Grandfather ran prostitutes and gambling, Dad shifted into cocaine in the ’80s and was very active during the X wars in the ’90s. He was even suspected of having a hand in the killing of Gary Shannon. Nowadays, the three boys specialize in ecstasy and meth. Their inner circle is small, the rest just contractors; they never get orders directly, which is how the Franks boys have managed to stay in business. Well, that and the fact that they are known for being extremely violent. In short, they don’t fuck around. Jay is the black sheep in a family of black sheep. They don’t trust him with anything. But they also have a problem they don’t know about yet.’
‘Like what?’
‘There’s an undercover in their crew.’
Sullivan was impressed. ‘How’d you find out?’
‘A name kept popping up. At first I thought it was just a CI, but some dickhead handler left in a badge number. I pulled the guy’s file and put two and two together.’
Sullivan flicked through the pages. ‘He’s been under nine months.’
‘Long time with the same crew.’
The photo clipped to the file showed a clean-cut, honest-looking badge. A rookie. After nine months, it was doubtful those words could still be used to describe him.
Winter lit a cigarette, smoothed out her skirt. She was building up to something. ‘They say you killed Con Taylor.’
‘People say a lot of things.’
‘You’re really going after Hailstrum, aren’t you? I want in. I want to help.’
‘You have helped,’ Sullivan said, holding up the folder. ‘Thank you.’
‘Are you fucking serious? You can’t do this by yourself. Half the department is out looking for you.’
‘Winter, look, trust me. You’re young and—’
‘Don’t patronize me.’
‘Stop pouting.’ He softened his tone. ‘Go home. Call in sick for the next couple of days. Stay as far away from this thing as you can.’
She stared him down for a couple of seconds. ‘What don’t I know?’
‘Forget about what you don’t know.’
‘It wasn’t just Taylor, was it? There’s others?’
‘You can’t go around asking questions.’
She stared out the window, her mind in overdrive.
‘Winter, promise me?’
‘Is this thing that big?’
Sullivan nodded. ‘Stay out of it.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jay Franks was a fuck-up from the beginning, with a few aggravated assaults, a couple of B&Es, and a quarter share of a rape to his credit. The youngest in the family, he also had the most to prove. Sullivan guessed that Jay had branched out on his own, trying to show his brothers he wasn’t the useless piece of shit they thought he was.
The Franks lived at the Lincolnshire Arms, an old bar that had been in the family for decades but hadn’t been in business for the past couple of years. It sat at the end of a residential street, with blacked-out windows and fading blue paint on the walls.
Sullivan pulled over to the curb and climbed out. The street was silent except for the distant hum of traffic from the highway a couple of blocks away. Two wooden, skinny double doors served as the main entrance. He knocked twice. Instantly, one opened. A shotgun barrel stared him in the eye.
‘Tell Mickey, Angus Sullivan’s here to see him.’
‘No fuckin’ Mickey here.’
He tried to lean away from the dangerous end of the shooter. It followed him, so he pulled his badge. ‘I can come back with some friends, but neither one of us want to do it like that.’
After a moment’s thought, the owner of the shotgun pushed open the other door. He turned out to be a kid, thirteen, fourteen, no older. Bald-headed, bare-chested, and covered in the beginnings of a tattoo shirt. Sullivan followed him into what used to be the public bar. ‘Wait here,’ the kid said, disappearing through a curtained doorway.
Small shards of light managed to push their way through the blocked-out windows, exposing the dusty bar and a cigarette machine that had been busted open and cleaned out. Sullivan shuffled his feet on the brown carpet. All the tables and chairs that would have littered the floor were now stacked to the roof in the far corner. There wasn’t a bottle on any shelf, and he doubted any of the taps worked.
Mickey Franks barged through the curtained doorway, followed by the kid. In a certain light he might pass for respectable, with his silk shirt, slacks, and expensive shoes. That was until his tattoos poked from his collar and cuffs. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he yelled.
‘Detective Angus Sullivan.’
Mickey turned to the tattooed kid with the shotgun.
‘You let a cop in here?’ The kid looked sheepish. Mickey slapped him. ‘Next time I’ll have a brick in my hand.’ He snatched the shotgun and told the kid to get the hell out.
He took off out of a door, and Sullivan heard a door slam in another part of the building.
Mickey held the shotgun like a walking stick. ‘Badge or no badge, I don’t mind disappearing a cunt. Know what I mean?’
‘I’m just here to have a couple of words with Jay.’
Mickey’s face formed a V. ‘Jay isn’t here.’
From behind the curtain emerged the middle Franks brother, Val. Compared to Val, Mickey was a sweetheart. He’d spent more years behind bars than free. He was taller, lankier, with long hair and a handlebar moustache. Behind him stood the UC. Nine months undercover had changed him from the rookie in his file photo; now he had a look in his eye, the kind that men who have seen a thing or two possess and wished they didn’t.
Val snorted. ‘You bastards can’t leave us alone, can you?’
‘Just a couple of words with Jay; that’s all I want. I don’t mean any disrespect, and I’m not here to start trouble. I don’t care about the things he’s done. I just want some information.’
‘On what?’ Val snapped.
‘On the crooked cops he’s working with. Anything else is incidental to me.’
Mickey and Val swapped a glance.
‘They already have him,’ Val said.
Sullivan stared, confused. ‘Major Crimes picked him up? Rayburn?’
Mickey nodded as best he could with what little neck he had.
A breeze flowed through the room, just enough to part the curtained door for a moment, revealing a small arsenal on a table: machine guns and hand grenades. Enough for a small army.
‘You boys planning a little something?’
None of them said a word.
‘I want in.’
‘Get the fuck outta here,’ Val said with a laugh.
‘Major Crimes pulled that job. The same crew that picked Jay up were working with him. Inside, he won’t last the night. They’ll kill him, and they’ll make it look like he killed himself.’
Mickey nodded. ‘We know.’
‘You’re going to need someone to get you into those holding cells. I can do th
at.’
‘You’re a cop.’
Sullivan pulled his weapon and fired a round into the UC. ‘Would a cop do that?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
He lay on the floor, grasping his knee.
Mickey pushed the barrel of his shotgun into Sullivan’s ribs. ‘You better have a pretty good reason for that.’
‘You’re a cop. A fucking cop,’ the UC screamed. It was painful, Sullivan knew from experience, but he did think the UC was overreacting just a little bit.
‘Would you mind explaining yourself?’ Mickey asked.
‘He’s undercover.’
‘I fucking am not. Fuck you, man.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Sullivan turned back to Mickey. ‘Is he new? Is he a good earner?’
Val slugged Sullivan hard in the face. Sullivan staggered but stayed on his feet. He waited for the ringing in his ears to stop. ‘You know anything about him before he came here?’
‘Victor Green vouched for him.’
‘Is Victor Green a snitch?’
Mickey thought about it for a moment. The chances of Victor Green being a snitch were very high in his eyes. ‘Check him for a wire.’
Val pulled up the UC’s shirt then turned back to Mickey. ‘He’s clean.’
‘Check his balls,’ Sullivan said.
‘How about we take his word for it,’ Val said.
Mickey nodded. ‘Do it.’
Val shoved his hand down the UC’s jeans. Sullivan couldn’t tell whether the look of disgust on his face was from the task itself, or the fact that when he pulled his hand out there was a wire in it.
‘Piece of fucking shit.’ He gave the UC a sharp kick.
‘Cuff him to the bar. We’ll deal with him later,’ Mickey said, lowering the shotgun. ‘Was that necessary?’
‘Jay won’t last inside, and the two of you can’t bust him out alone. Particularly now that you’re one man down.’
‘And you can get us inside?’
Sullivan grinned. ‘Ab-so-fucking-lutely.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The horn blared. Sullivan was the last out of the pub. He crouched down beside the UC, who was handcuffed to the bar, and pushed his mobile phone into his bloody fist. ‘It’s painful, I know, but you won’t die from this.’
‘I was under nine months.’ He yanked his T-shirt down to reveal the dove tattoos on his chest. ‘Do you think I like these fucking things?’
‘Call Patrick Wilson and tell him what’s happened.’
He tried to throw a punch, but Sullivan was out of range.
‘Remember, call Patrick Wilson.’
Val pounded on the horn again, and Sullivan walked out.
Mickey drove. Sullivan rode shotgun. Val in the back. He breeched his weapon. Checked the rounds. Reloaded. Breeched it, checked it again. Over and over. The obsessive repetition of the noise wore Mickey thin. His eyes snapped to the rearview, and he said, ‘Don’t.’ Mickey was in charge, there was no doubt about it, and Val didn’t breech his weapon again.
The SUV neared a corner and pulled to a stop. At the end of the street stood the 5th Precinct. Forty years ago, it was on the outskirts of the city, and the station was a medium-sized prison. Over the years, parts of the site had been sold off and redeveloped and the prison converted into a residential station. It still had four times as many holding cells as any other, and was used when there was an overflow of prisoners, which there typically always was.
Val jumped out of the SUV and headed for a nearby payphone. He dropped a coin into the slot and dialed.
Mickey ran his manicured fingers through his hair. ‘Just so we’re clear,’ Mickey said. ‘We’re here to get my brother out. If you start turning into a cop in there, I won’t hesitate putting a bullet in you.’
Sullivan nodded. ‘Fair enough, but while we’re talking clarity—you start shooting people, I may just turn into that cop.’
Val climbed back in, a shit-eating grin on his face. He pointed through the windshield. ‘Check this out.’
Sirens wailed in the distance, followed by the sound of prowlers being floored. Red, blue, and white specks pulled out, the SUV shaking as the fleet hammered past. There were nine of them in total, filled with pretty much every uniform assigned to the station.
‘Christ,’ said Mickey, looking over the seat at his brother. ‘What did you tell ’em?’
‘Some crazy nut was shooting up a school on Bay Street.’
Mickey glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got about thirty minutes.’
‘Fifteen, if we’re lucky.’ Sullivan set the timer on his watch. ‘Once they know it’s bullshit, they’ll leave one unit and send everybody home.’
Mickey nodded, cranked up the engine, and they rolled up on the monstrous building. Four stories of cold, grey granite. Windows covered with bars, and the roof with rusted barbwire.
‘Park in the rear,’ Sullivan said. ‘Where the cops park.’
Mickey brought the SUV to a stop by the take-home vehicles. They climbed out. The brothers peeled off their overalls; underneath: DPD uniforms. Sullivan didn’t ask where they got them. It didn’t matter. Mickey twirled his finger; Sullivan turned and felt the cuffs slip loosely around his wrists. A shake or two would be all it took for them to fall.
Sullivan was first through the door. The room was cold, the charge desk empty. Mickey tapped on the glass with his gold pinkie ring. Nobody came.
‘This could be easier than we thought,’ Val said.
Mickey checked his watch. Thumped on the glass.
Finally someone appeared. It was the old-timer, Bean. ‘Sorry fellas, just taking a shit.’
Val leaned forward, all smiles and rough charm. ‘Hope we didn’t rush things, cause you too much discomfort.’
Bean slid open the glass window. ‘At my age, discomfort’s all I got. What’s one more?’ He pushed a pair of glasses on his face and squinted at Sullivan. ‘I know you, don’t I?’
‘Angus Sullivan,’ Mickey said. ‘Rayburn wanted him put out of harm’s way.’
He recognized the name. His wrinkled lips curled in disgust as he spat through the window. It hit Sullivan square on the cheek and dribbled down his jaw. ‘Then maybe Rayburn should have sent him someplace else.’
Val laughed. ‘Got something for us to sign?’
‘I’ll get you boys out of here in a jiffy,’ Bean said, pushing a transfer form across the counter.
Val filled it out as if he had done thousands. Probably witnessed enough to get by. When he was finished, he slid the pen and paper back.
‘Most of the boys are out on a call. Some crazy bastard’s running around with a gun. Can you guys do the escort with me?’
‘Sure, buddy,’ Mickey said. ‘No worries.’
Bean buzzed them through then led them down the long hall. ‘It’s been a couple of busy, ball-busting days, that’s for sure. Some prick got stabbed here the other night, then there was that robbery. Now there’s a shooter down the road. Sometimes I’m glad my street days are behind me.’
Val laughed again. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’
Bean looked back, and his face dropped. ‘Oh, shit.’
Mickey and Val had their weapons on him.
‘How many on the other side of that door?’ Mickey asked.
Bean scrunched up his old newspaper of a face. ‘None.’
‘There’s at least one,’ Sullivan said, slipping off his cuffs.
‘You bastard,’ Bean snarled at him.
Sullivan ignored him. Pulled his weapon and went through the door, gun first, Val, Mickey, and Bean in tow. Swept the room left to right. The uniform behind the desk was frozen in shock, his mind too slow to catch up with what was happening. Then he went for his service revolver.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Sullivan said.
Without needing to be told, the uniform put his hands behind his head. He looked like he had just shit his pants.
‘Where’s Jay Franks?’ Mickey asked.
&nb
sp; ‘Holding Nine.’
‘Thanks.’ Mickey knocked him out cold.
Sullivan flashed him a hard stare. ‘Was that necessary?’
Mickey grinned. ‘I guess I should’ve shot him, huh?’
The cells were the old-fashioned type with bars instead of doors, no heating, and poor lighting. The twenty-three holding cells were full with at least two men in each cramped space. The criminals cheered as they passed, each secretly hoping that it was them that they were there for.
Jay Franks had a cell all to himself. Caked blood covered one side of his face from a beating he had taken the night before, and his SEC-Guard uniform was now filthy and torn. He was taller than Mickey, had the same skinny frame as Val, but unlike them he had a wounded dog look about him: scared, unsure, neither smart nor tough. It was clear to Sullivan that Mickey and Val’s plan to free their brother was as much about protecting themselves as it was him.
Val pushed Bean up to the cell door. He fumbled for some keys. As soon as he got it open, Val pushed him inside. Bean tumbled to the floor and wasn’t in much of a hurry to get up.
Jay stepped out. Val slapped a Beretta into his hand, then grabbed his neck affectionately. Jay shook it off. ‘Who’s this?’ he said with a look Sullivan’s way.
‘He’s nothing to worry about,’ somebody said.
Then Sullivan copped a blow to the back of the head. He stumbled forward and tried to grab hold of the cell door, missed. Fell to his knees. Mickey hit him again. His vision blurred. A high-pitched sound shot between his ears. Something hit him in the gut, and he rolled forward.
When the ringing in his ears faded and the vision began to return, he used the wall to pull himself up. He was in Jay Franks’s cell, and by the look of it, the door was locked.
Bean sat on the thin mattress. ‘Bet you’re regretting some of your life decisions around about now.’
Sullivan sat up, leaned his back against the bars of the cell. The Franks brothers were gone.
Bean chuckled grimly. ‘You reap what you sow, sunshine. You reap what you sow.’
The alarm on Sullivan’s watch beeped. The fifteen minutes were up.
