by Jack Quaid
There was a brief silence from the press; then they went apeshit.
‘Is this incident connected to earlier incidents at the Westin Hotel and Niagara Lane?’
Adams paused before he confirmed what everybody knew to be true. ‘It appears the incidents are connected.’
Although Sullivan was close enough to see the press conference from the street, he stood in the middle of a McDonald’s that had been converted into a makeshift rest stop, with coffee and water for emergency services, and watched it from half a block away on a widescreen television. He sipped a cup of coffee and listened as Adams fielded questions. He gave the public hope for the future and expressed compassion for those who were lost. He said everything he was expected to say, and did so honestly, but Sullivan didn’t hear anyone ask the most important question: why?
‘CALL FOR ANGUS SULLIVAN.’
He looked through the crowd. A uniform still with his puppy fat stood by the door, a hand high above his head; a department-issued cell phone was in it.
Sullivan waved the kid over.
‘Came through the switchboard,’ he said, handing Sullivan the phone before disappearing back into the crowd.
Sullivan pushed it to his ear. He heard gunfire. Then he heard the voice of Con ‘Horse’ Gracie.
Chapter Fifty Seven
Horse fired two shots over his shoulder, buying himself some time.
Deacon and God had picked him up a couple of blocks away on Smith Street, after he set the charges in Oxford House. They made it out of the city and as far as Forrest Park before Horse suspected anything. It started with a sly look from Deacon that only lasted a second, but it was all Horse needed to know that he was in trouble.
Then he saw the gun.
Instinct took over. Horse threw his leg up and kicked the weapon out of Deacon’s hands. It fell by his feet. There was a scuffle. They were at a red light, and Horse escaped, kinda.
Deacon and God chased him through an alley and into the Wasserman Projects. Twenty stories of high-density housing erected by the government decades ago, which had since decayed into a slum for criminals and economic refugees.
Horse hit the stairs, and all that cardio his wife had made him do finally paid off. He reached the twelfth floor before his legs grew weak, and he busted into the hall. It was long, wide, and empty. One side was lined with the barricaded doors of the flats and the other with a clear view of the city skyline.
Horse pounded on the graffitied security doors, but they all stayed closed. The elevator at the end of the hall opened, and a young Pakistani boy stepped out. He took one look at Horse, soaked in sweat and weapon in hand. He took off, keys in his hands, ran the length of a handful of doorways, and came to a sliding stop. He dropped his keys, scooped them up, keyed the lock, opened the door, and before he could slam it shut, Horse had thrown his shoulder between it and the frame.
The kid yelled in a language Horse didn’t understand and tried pushing him back.
Then, out of the stairwell emerged Deacon and God. They pulled up their weapons, shifted their aim to Horse, and blasted away but were too far to hit anything.
Horse sent two rounds back, and as soon as he did, the door gave way. The kid, scared, fell to the floor. Horse pushed the door open, and he was in.
He slammed it shut and locked it. Deacon and God pounded away, but the flat was a cell; without a key, no one could get in or out.
Horse panted, scoped his surroundings. Two rooms: lounge, kitchen. A Pakistani family huddled in the corner of the bedroom. Husband, wife, and two boys, all scared shitless.
Horse picked up the telephone and dialed. It took ten minutes and he was put on hold four times, but eventually he heard the voice of Angus Sullivan.
‘Chief Mackler is alive,’ Horse said.
Chapter Fifty Eight
Sullivan pushed the phone to one ear, jammed his finger in the other, and listened very carefully to what he was told. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘She wasn’t in there, man, she wasn’t in there. Mackler went straight through the lobby, to the building behind. Campbell was waiting with a car. She wasn’t in the building when it blew. None of her crew were, none of them.’
‘Her crew?’
There was a silence on the other end of the line.
‘Horse!’
‘Campbell isn’t the one in charge, don’t you see; don’t you get it? Chief Mackler is . . . She’s Hailstrum, man, Hailstrum.’
Sullivan slumped against the wall of the McDonald’s and slid to the ground. He ran his hand through his dirty hair and closed his eyes.
‘What?’ Sullivan said. ‘Why would she do that?’
‘Why anyone? Money. Money! It’s all about the money. Who gives a shit about anything else? This thing is not about Jones or freeing dirty cops. Fuck Jones and his quest for a clean department. He’s just dreaming, pie-in-the-sky shit. Getting that poor bastard to resign was just a diversion to cover up what’s really going on.’
‘What is really going on?’
‘No way, man,’ Horse said. ‘I ain’t giving this shit up for free. Right now, I’m trapped on the twelfth floor of the Carlton commission flats, in 12D. God and Deacon are on the other side. It won’t take them long to get through the door. If you come and get me out, I’ll confess to it all.’
Sullivan pulled himself off the ground and looked over to the debris of William Street. ‘Sounds like bullshit to me, Horse. The chief?’
‘Have they found her body, or that little girl’s?’
Sullivan paused. ‘Monique Jones is alive?’
‘Not for long,’ he said. ‘She’s insurance. Until Mackler can get the fuck out of Dodge. That was the plan.’
‘And then what?’
‘And then you won’t find either one of them.’
The press conference was coming to an end. Sullivan joined the handful of badges just off camera and watched as Adams answered off-the cuff questions with so much ease it was as if he had written them himself.
A journalist from The Free Press yelled over the top of his colleagues, ‘Who will be the Acting Chief?’
Adams had been waiting for this question and took pleasure in answering it. ‘For the time being, Assistant Chief Raymond O’Conner will be taking the reins as Acting Chief.’
There was a subdued but steady round of applause from the uniforms and plainclothes standing to the side of the makeshift stage.
Adams waited until the applause faded. He stood up straight and looked down the barrel of the biggest network camera he could see. ‘What has happened here today is a terrible tragedy. Many people have died. Many more are injured. In time, we will know the identity of those responsible, and they will be punished. Until then, the Detroit Police Department and this government will be focused on tending to those in need. That is our number-one priority.’
Adams’s closing words were drowned out by an avalanche of questions; then, as he stepped away from the microphones and cameras, he saw Sullivan waiting for him just inside the cordoned-off area.
‘Chief Mackler and Monique Jones are alive,’ Sullivan said to Adams and O’Conner.
Neither said a word, their faces frozen, and for a moment, Sullivan thought they hadn’t heard him.
‘Let’s have this conversation off the street,’ O’Conner said.
The offices, stores, and businesses in the block surrounding Oxford House had all been evacuated. O’Conner led them over the road and into the lobby of a consulting firm that had been taken over by the gas company, who were trying to gauge the stability of the local gas mains. They headed down two flights of stairs and into the underground car park. O’Conner scanned it. Satisfied it was empty, he nodded for Sullivan to begin.
Sullivan told them everything as fast as he could, and when he was finished, wiped the sweat from his face with his forearm.
‘I don’t buy it.’ O’Conner’s gaze shifted between them. ‘Con Gracie is looking for a get-out-of-jail-free card. He’
ll say anything.’
Adams pulled out a carefully folded handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ he said. ‘It rings true.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’ O’Conner said.
‘After the Hailstrum scandal, Jones and I had to fight tooth and nail for Mackler’s cooperation. She only gave us as little as she needed to. After the events of today, I’m willing to believe almost anything.’
Sullivan lit a cigarette. ‘According to Horse, the explosion was to cover up something else.’
‘Like what?’
Sullivan shrugged. ‘He won’t say unless we give him immunity. Supposedly, Mackler has him boxed in at the moment. If we don’t act now, and if he’s telling the truth, he could end up in a ditch somewhere and we may never know.’
‘If this is true,’ O’Conner said, ‘and we can’t be sure that it is, Chief Mackler was Hailstrum all along. She was behind some pretty unforgivable things. Murder, bribery, prostitution, robbery, fraud. Are we really talking about this? The Detroit Police Chief being corrupt?’
Sullivan put the cigarette to death under his foot. ‘I’ll head over there, see what Horse has to say.’
‘No you won’t,’ Adams said. ‘Hailstrum came close to destroying this department before. It’s taken three years to regain the trust of the public. Hailstrum, and this whole mess, can only do us further harm if we expose it.’ He drew a hot breath. ‘Let her go.’
‘What?’ Sullivan said.
‘Let her go.’
Sullivan felt faint and leaned against a concrete column. ‘How many people has she killed? Today alone?’
‘I am fully aware, Mr. Sullivan, of the pain she has caused.’
‘I seriously doubt that.’
‘The truth of the matter is, apprehending her will cause irreversible damage.’
‘If we let her go,’ O’Conner said, ‘Monique Jones dies.’
‘She’s already dead,’ Adams said.
‘We can’t know that,’ Sullivan said.
‘He’s right,’ O’Conner said. ‘We have no evidence to prove she’s dead.’
‘And we may never have it,’ Adams said. ‘She has no reason to keep the girl alive. Monique may have been killed hours ago, for all we know. What we do know is that Mackler wants to disappear. For the good of everyone, let her.’ Adams shifted his body and looked to O’Conner. ‘It’s an impossible situation, but it’s the right thing to do, for the city.’
There was pain in O’Conner’s face, and Sullivan knew what his answer would be. ‘All right. Let her run,’ he said in a tone so quiet that they almost didn’t hear him.
‘It’s settled then,’ Adams said.
Sullivan pushed himself off the wall. ‘No, I don’t think it is.’
‘What makes you think you have a say?’ Adams turned to O’Conner. ‘Place him under arrest. Have him sent back to prison.’
O’Conner didn’t budge.
‘Do it!’
O’Conner’s old hands hooked around the handcuffs he hadn’t used in years and pulled them from his belt.
‘You’re wrong about this, both of you,’ Sullivan said.
O’Conner looped the cuffs around Sullivan’s wrists. ‘I’m sorry, son.’
Chapter Fifty Nine
Nobody noticed Lopez march Sullivan down William Street in cuffs. He looked over his shoulder; her palm sat casually on the butt of her weapon. ‘I need you to get a message to Jones for me,’ Sullivan said.
‘Shut your mouth.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he mumbled. ‘Tell Jones to—’
‘Shut your mouth, Sullivan. And take a left at the end of the block.’
Sullivan navigated around a man covered in white dust. He had a phone pushed to his ear, and he was telling whoever was on the other end how much he loved them. Sullivan took the corner. The street they turned into was smaller and quieter.
‘Lopez, tell Jones—‘
‘Shut up. At the next alley, hang a left.’
Sullivan did as he was told. It was a tight dead-end lane, with exposed air conditioner units on the walls and an unmarked police vehicle pushed against the rear.
‘Stop,’ she said.
Sullivan felt Lopez move up behind him. She unlocked his cuffs, slipped them into her pocket and, when Sullivan turned, pointed at the Ford. ‘The keys are in the ignition, and there’s a weapon in the trunk. O’Conner wants you to pick up Con Gracie and find out everything he knows.’
‘O’Conner wants me to go after Chief Mackler?’
Lopez nodded. ‘But if you’re caught, or find yourself in the shit, you’re on your own. He won’t help you.’
‘I’ll be sure to thank him for his support,’ Sullivan said as he stepped to the driver’s-side door of the Ford.
‘Your escape needs to look authentic,’ Lopez said. She glanced at her feet briefly before looking at Sullivan. ‘I need you to hit me.’
Sullivan shook his head. ‘Talk your way out of it.’
‘I’m not that good a liar,’ she said. ‘Just do it.’
‘No.’
‘DO IT!’
‘Really?’ Sullivan said.
She nodded.
‘Shit,’ he muttered as he stepped over to her.
Lopez planted her feet, closed her eyes and braced herself.
Sullivan rolled his fist shut. Punched her.
She barely flinched. The shock of the blow was worse than the blow itself. ‘Stop being a pussy and hit me.’
Sullivan swung.
Her head snapped back. As far as punches go, it was average. She looked back at him through the strands of her hair.
‘Again,’ she said. ‘And harder.’
Chapter Sixty
Sarah’s parents picked her up, but Jones refused to leave with her. Instead, he limped among the injured of William Street, hoping to find Monique. He came across a couple of girls with the same build, but neither of them was her.
A French restaurant had been cleared and turned into a makeshift command center where everybody rushed around talking on phones and tried to get the city back on its feet. Nobody saw Jones enter. He made his way through the maze of chairs and power cables to the rear of the restaurant, where Adams and O’Conner were being briefed by a rep from Detriot Essential Services.
Adams saw Jones approaching. ‘That’ll be all for now,’ he said to the rep and gave Jones a hug. ‘I’m so very sorry.’
‘They may still find her,’ Jones said.
Adams nodded. ‘You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry.’
‘Where are you with the investigation?’ Jones asked.
O’Conner and Adams swapped a glance.
‘We’re swamped here,’ O’Conner said. ‘We’re just trying to keep our heads above water.’
‘You’ve got no one out there looking for my daughter?’ Jones said.
Half the room went quiet, turned, and watched.
Adams put a gentle hand on his arm. ‘She’s gone, my friend.’
‘I won’t believe that.’
‘You have no choice,’ Adams said.
Jones was trying to make sense of what he had been told when Lopez walked through the doors with a busted lip and the beginnings of a black eye.
Chapter Sixty One
Sullivan passed through the checkpoint with ease and headed out to the Forrest Park housing commission flats. It had been forty-five minutes since Horse had phoned him, and it would be another fifteen before Sullivan could get there. He hoped the man with seven fingers could survive that long.
At the first report of the explosion on William Street, Adams had the city shut down. Vehicles were turned away at the outskirts of the CBD, public transport was closed, and the only vehicles allowed to move were those exiting. The streets were flooded with office workers and students, all hot, sweaty and angry as they made their way out of the city and walked.
Sullivan hit the horn, created a small gap, and inch
ed his way through the people. He copped dirty looks and some more abuse, but he pushed his way through, and when the road opened up, he hit the gas.
He arrived at the projects, climbed out, and popped the trunk.
One Glock.
One clip of ammunition.
One Kevlar vest.
Two canisters of tear gas.
One flashbang.
One gas mask.
Sullivan slid the vest over his T-shirt. Armed the Glock, strapped it to his hip, and grabbed the tear gas and mask. He slammed the trunk and crossed the yard, passing a handful of teenagers playing basketball, two old men chatting, and a group of Sudanese girls pretending to be tougher than they were. Not one of them so much as looked at him.
He climbed into the elevator and pressed the button for the twelfth floor. The numbers ticked over on the cracked panel.
10
Sullivan put on the gas mask.
11
He gripped the canisters of tear gas in his fists.
12
The doors opened.
He saw God and Deacon down at the end of the hall, taking turns kicking the security door of one of the apartments.
They didn’t see Sullivan coming.
He stepped out of the elevator, pulled the pins from the two canisters of tear gas, and rolled them down the hall. A stream of white smoke blasted out in their wake.
Deacon heard the rattle first. He saw Sullivan in the haze, raised his weapon and fired off two rounds. Sullivan disappeared into the smoke.
Gunfire cracked through the air. Random, panicked shots. Sullivan stuck to the wall. With the gas mask and the smoke, he was about as blind as they were.
A round exploded into the wall by his head. He raised the Glock, sent two rounds back in the direction the gunfire had come from, and kept moving.
Sullivan reached flat 12D. Two more shots came at him. One bounced off the security door, and the other was lost in the wall.