by Jack Quaid
He pounded on the door. ‘It’s Angus Sullivan, Horse. Let me in!’
Another shot came at him. Sullivan fired back; it bought him a few seconds.
‘Horse!’ He slammed his fist against the door again. ‘LET ME IN!’
A round cracked through the air.
Sullivan dragged up his Glock. He pulled the trigger.
CLICK!
Empty.
‘Shit,’ Sullivan mumbled. ‘HORSE!’
The security door swung open. A two-fingered hand came out and pulled him in.
Sullivan hit the floor, pulled off the gas mask, and coughed so hard it hurt his ribs.
The door slammed shut. Horse threw cushions against the bottom to keep the smoke out.
After a handful of deep, painful breaths, Sullivan climbed to his hands and knees and then to his feet. He scoped the joint and pointed to the Pakistani family in the corner of the room. ‘Who are they?’
‘This is their place.’
They were scared shitless—they wouldn’t be a problem.
Sullivan checked the rounds in his weapon; empty. He tossed it on the couch and held his hand out to Horse. ‘Give me yours.’
Horse shook his head.
‘You want my help, give me your weapon,’
‘Shit.’ Horse slapped the Glock into Sullivan’s palm. ‘It’s only got one bullet, anyway.’
Sullivan holstered the Glock. ‘Sometimes one is all you need.’
The security door rattled. The smoke had dissipated, and Deacon and God were back at it. There was a hard kick into the door, followed by another and another. It was only a matter of time before they forced their way into the flat.
‘Now, tell me everything,’ Sullivan said.
Horse paced, chain-smoked. ‘Mackler is Hailstrum; she’s the real deal, a hard-assed bitch who’s not to be fucked with.’
‘When did you find out Mackler was Hailstrum?’
‘Two, three weeks ago? I don’t know, not long. You see, Angus, Hailstrum had cops running all kinds of scams. Robbery, pimping, bribery, but she was smart, real smart. She only ever spoke to two guys. Your buddy, Patrick Wilson, and William Campbell. Everything came through them. Three years ago, when you exposed Wilson, she put a stop to all of it; all but one scam.’
‘What was the scam?’
‘She had found a way to skim the annual police budget. For the past three years, she dipped her hand in and took the state for a quarter of a billion dollars.’
Sullivan rubbed his face. ‘Jones was right,’ he said.
‘Shit yeah, he was right. Smart prick didn’t know how right he was. In the basement of Oxford House is where the Detroit Police Department stores the servers with all their digital administration files.’
‘And all evidence of the skim?’ Sullivan said.
‘The kidnapping of Jones’s family was only ever to get Chief Mackler into that building. Don’t you see, destroying it eliminates all the evidence of the skim, and any reason for anybody to look for Mackler. She’s alive,’ Horse said. ‘And so is Jones’s daughter. Mackler will hold onto the girl until the very last minute. Just in case she’s backed into a corner.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then you don’t want to be that girl. Look, you get me out of here, and I’ll testify to everything.’
There was a metallic crack from the security door to the apartment, sharper than the dull thumps they had been hearing for the past ten minutes.
‘What the hell is that?’ Sullivan said.
Horse shot across the room, pushed his face against the peephole. ‘They’ve got a tire iron,’ he said, with a look back to Sullivan. ‘They’re wedging the door open.’
Sullivan tried to think. The pounding on the door made it difficult.
Horse paced. ‘Shit, shit, shit! We can’t stay here, man. We can’t stay here.’
The Pakistani family flinched with each thump on the door. There were tears from the children and fear in the eyes of the parents.
Sullivan took two steps and looked out the dirty window. The view was mostly of blue sky but, with a tilt of his head, he could make out the concrete that surrounded the building and the few people that dotted the road. With a further tilt, he made out the twelve floors of the outside wall, all shooting down to the concrete. Each had a window identical to the one Sullivan stared out of. Each had the same drainpipe running alongside them. The pounding on the security door stopped.
Horse looked through the peephole. ‘The security door is off,’ he said. ‘It’s off.’
There was pounding on the front door. It wouldn’t be long until they were inside.
‘We’re so fucked,’ Horse said.
Sullivan walked into the kitchen and returned with a chair. ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ he said and swung the legs into the window. The glass sheet smashed out and plummeted to the concrete below.
Sullivan tossed the chair and pushed his head out the window. Hot air slapped his face as he looked down the side of the building to the twelve stories below. His stomach turned just looking at the view.
He swung a look back to Horse; his face was white. ‘No way.’
‘If you want out of here, this is it,’ Sullivan said.
‘We’ll never make it to the ground.’
‘But we will to the apartment below.’
‘And then what, knock?’
Sullivan swallowed hard. ‘And hope someone’s home.’
Horse pointed to the window. ‘You go first.’
Sullivan climbed over the couch, put a hand on what was left of the window frame, and pulled himself out until he was sitting on the edge, twelve floors up. Fear tensed his muscles. He slowed his breathing, tried to relax. Not an easy thing to do with the view he had.
‘Hurry up,’ Horse yelled. ‘They’re getting through.’
‘Do you want to go first?’ Sullivan yelled back.
Horse was right. There was no time for fucking around. Sullivan took a shaky breath, held on tight to the window frame with his left arm, and swung his right out and grabbed the drainpipe. He gave it a shake. It was covered in bird shit, but sturdy. Brackets connected it to the wall at every couple of feet and would do as a makeshift ladder.
He gripped onto the pipe and kicked his leg out. It connected to a bracket. His other leg followed. He hung on the pipe and caught his breath.
Horse poked his head out the window. ‘Hurry!’
Sullivan’s hard stare was enough to shut him up, and when Horse disappeared back into the apartment, Sullivan began to make his descent. Short, careful steps. His hands were covered in sweat. One by one, he wiped them on his jeans and kept moving. A gust of hot wind hit him. Sullivan froze and, when it passed, continued and came level with the window of the apartment below. He gripped the pole with his battered hands. He stabled his right foot on a bracket and kicked.
Not even a crack.
‘Oh shit,’ Sullivan mumbled to himself. He looked around for another option. Eleven and a half floors up, options were limited.
He swung again, this time harder. The window cracked. He was getting somewhere and, swing after swing, Sullivan pounded on the glass until finally the thing gave way and fell into the apartment. He shifted his weight, and hooked his left leg into the window frame, followed by his left arm and the rest of his body. He hit the carpet, out of breath, panting and in shock.
‘It would have been easier to use the door,’ an old-timer said. Eighty and not out, he sat in what was probably his favorite chair. He had been watching game shows until Sullivan landed on his floor.
Sullivan climbed to his feet. ‘You’re probably right,’ he said as he leaned out of the window. ‘I’m in!’ he yelled.
Horse came out of that twelfth-floor window and onto the drainpipe as if he were scurrying down a stepladder.
‘THEY’RE IN!’ he yelled back. ‘THEY’RE IN!’
As Horse neared the window frame, he lunged. It was a good try, but he fell short. Sullivan swung his
arm out and grabbed hold of him. Horse slipped. His other arm latched onto the broken window frame. Glass cut his fingers. Horse clenched his teeth in pain.
Gunfire.
Sullivan looked up. Deacon hung out of the flat above, weapon in hand. Sullivan lurched farther out of the window and wrapped his fingers around Horse’s belt.
Two more shots rang out.
With all the strength he had left, Sullivan pulled Horse inside. They both collapsed, catching their breath for a moment, before Sullivan stumbled to his feet.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said to the old man, who shifted his attention back to the television.
‘Sure thing.’
Sullivan and Horse busted out into the hall. It was quiet, empty and identical to the others. Horse made for the elevator.
‘No,’ Sullivan shouted. ‘This way.’
The stairwell was dark and narrow, the floor covered in spent needles and condoms. Sullivan and Horse bounced down the stairs five at a time. Pain shot through Sullivan’s knees each time he landed. He was drenched in sweat, and his heart was beating so hard he could feel the thump in the back of his head.
Sullivan took a corner and stopped dead at the barrel of a gun. His gaze shifted past the weapon to the Sudanese boy holding it. His eyes were older than his years, hardened by the hell he had seen in whatever hell he left in his home country. He was flanked on either side by his gang: two kids with the same don’t-give-a-fuck attitude.
‘Empty your pockets,’ the kid said.
Horse smirked. ‘Piss off, you little shit.’
Sullivan raised his hands. ‘Do as he says.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s nothing more unpredictable than a twelve-year-old with a gun.’
‘Shit,’ Horse muttered and emptied his pockets. He had a wad of cash and some keys.
The sidekicks collected the goods. The kid with the gun shifted his aim to Sullivan.
‘You too.’
Sullivan removed the Glock from his waistband and lowered it gently onto the step.
‘Wallet!’ the kid demanded.
‘I don’t have one.’
‘WALLET!’
‘I …don’t …have …one.’
The kid tilted his weapon up to Sullivan’s face, his finger around the trigger. There wasn’t a shake in his hand or a second thought in his eye.
Then a police siren cut through the air, from out in the yard. The sidekicks yelled something in Sudanese. They pulled at their friend with the gun. He wouldn’t budge. Another muffled siren cut through the building, and a moment later, the three of them were gone.
‘Little shits,’ Horse said as he bent to pick up the Glock from the step.
Sullivan took a breath. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’
Horse opened the door and stepped into the yard.
Blood sprayed Sullivan’s face.
Horse was dead.
Blood rolled down his cheek and dropped from his chin.
The two uniforms in front of him panicked. They had been called out to a disturbance on the fourteenth floor and were taken by surprise when Horse walked out of the stairwell, with the Glock in his hand. They were new to the job, both in their early twenties, with dumb looks on their faces and creases in their shirts from where they had come out of the packaging. One of them was tall, lanky; nothing more than a coathanger for his uniform to hang from. The other was short and built like a brick shithouse. The lanky one was Daniels; the bulldog, Tran.
‘PUT YOUR HANDS UP! PUT ’EM UP!’
Sullivan did. ‘My name is Angus Sullivan,’ he said. ‘I’m working with the Detroit PD.’
‘Oh, shit. Shit!’ Daniels said. ‘Was he a cop?’
Sullivan looked down at what was left of Horse. Daniels was a good shot; either that or he got lucky. He had blown the back of Horse’s skull all over the wall.
‘Was he a cop?’ Daniels yelled again.
Sullivan shrugged. ‘Sorta.’
‘We are so fucked,’ Daniels said.
‘You were the one who shot him,’ Tran said.
They argued among themselves as Sullivan crouched and checked Horse’s vital signs. It was pointless. He was dead before he hit the ground. Sullivan wiped the blood from his own face with his forearm and sighed. ‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’
Daniels pointed to Horse’s corpse. ‘He had a gun in his hand.’
‘So do you. Should I shoot you?’
There was no point in Sullivan continuing to talk. The two fuckwits couldn’t see past their own immediate worlds. He shook his head and stepped away.
‘Hey,’ Tran called. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ He pulled out his sidearm. ‘Come back here.’
Sullivan stopped and turned. ‘Or what?’ he said.
Tran thought about it for a moment before lowering his weapon. ‘You need to come with us,’
‘No,’ Sullivan said. ‘I really don’t.’
Chapter Sixty Two
The blood wouldn’t wash off.
Pink-stained paper towels were scattered around Sullivan’s feet. The washbasin was blocked and filled to the brim with red water. His hands shook, his mind raced, and tears ran down his face. The day was taking its toll. He told himself that he just needed to keep it together for a couple more hours. That’s all, and then everything would be all right.
When Angus Sullivan stepped out of the bathroom of Percy’s Hotel ten minutes later, his mind was clear and there wasn’t a speck of blood on him. He was composed and he was cool.
The television above the bar spewed out Fox2’s commentary and speculation about the day’s events, from the shooting at the Westin and Niagara Lane, to the bombing on William Street. The bar was full, and there was little talking; everybody sat, watched, and waited. The majority of the images were from behind the police cordoned-off area; long-lens shots showing little. But there were still plenty of people at Ground Zero, armed with Internet connectivity, which made everybody a journalist. Pixilated images of what was left of Oxford House filtered through from various angles and showed the devastation in short and jerky clips.
Sullivan leaned against the bar to get closer to the television and get a better look at the footage. Despite the front of the building being stripped and half of the second floor caving in, the shell of Oxford House was still standing. If Mackler wanted to destroy the DPD’s servers in the basement, she would have wanted the entire building to be rubble. Something had gone wrong. Either Horse hadn’t used enough explosives or some of them hadn’t gone off. The basement might still be intact.
He couldn’t go in as Angus Sullivan. He’d be recognized, arrested, and jailed, and all in time for Mackler to escape. He parked illegally a couple of blocks away and headed in on foot. It grew dark in the space of those two blocks, and the streetlights failed to come on. The explosion had taken out a major power line under William Street.
Sullivan slowed at a corner and saw a row of fire engines lining the street. When he reached the last truck in the line, he opened the door and scanned the interior; it was empty. The second one was the same. But in the third he found what he was looking for: a turnout coat. Sullivan slipped it on and caught a glimpse of himself in the truck’s window. He looked the part of a fireman, maybe.
There were police tape, two prowlers, and a couple of uniforms at the intersection of State and William Streets. The badges chatted among themselves as he approached. He didn’t steer clear of them, nor did he head straight for them. He walked as if he were just another fireman doing his bit to help out the city in its time of need.
Sullivan nodded as he passed. There was a nod back, and a couple of steps later, he was inside the perimeter. His mind eased, and his muscles relaxed.
And then his heart stopped when a uniform called out:
‘Hey!’
Sullivan turned on his heels and scoped out the best direction to run if he needed to.
‘Where are you headed?’ the cop yelled.
The uniform thought about it for a moment before giving a nod. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Move along.’ And he went back to chatting with the other cops.
Shards of clinical white light exposed the ruins of William Street. Five-hundred-watt work lights had been erected. The boxes they came in sat discarded next to them. Most of emergency services had gone home to get some rest before coming back at first light to do it all again. Only those searching for survivors remained. They carefully moved rubble and called for anyone left alive to make a noise, any noise, if they could, but as Sullivan walked the street, he didn’t hear any reply.
Most of the debris around Oxford House had been cleared away, and a path into what was left of the lobby had been made. More five-hundred-watt globes lit up the scarred building, and exposed chucks of scorched concrete and office furniture from the floors above. An inch of water covered the floor and ran off in various directions from a main that had burst somewhere. The entrance to the basement was at the end of the lobby. He watched his footing on the makeshift path to it.
There were cracks all over the walls of the narrow staircase and steel beams had been erected to jack up the ceiling. Sullivan shifted around one and kept on descending. He heard a voice and paused. He couldn’t make out the words but, as he reached the last of the steps, he saw their source. Christopher Ong; early twenties, anxious, bad haircut, and wearing a Pac-Man T-shirt. He barked orders at underlings and looked as if he took pleasure in doing so.
The basement was narrow and long. Sullivan could imagine what it had once looked like, with rows of computer servers and nothing else. After the explosion, that had all changed. Half the room was under concrete and what was left was heavily damaged.
Ong was in the middle of another order when he caught a glimpse of Sullivan. He looked about to mouth off, so Sullivan thought he would get in first. ‘What the hell are you doing down here?’ he grunted. ‘This whole place is a firetrap.’
‘Who are you?’ Ong asked.