by J. T. Patten
Drake huffed. It’s exactly who I am. The Man from Orange took a glance down the long hallway, ignoring the small head peering from her apartment, and splintered the door frame, sending the door into a wall with a loud slam.
Chapter 66
Oz had the thin line of Two-bags’s gratis heroin cut on the glass of his mobile phone. He had no interest in why the invisible supply chain no longer brought the high-quality white dope from Colombia through the Venezuelan Hezbollah partnership with the Sinaloa cartel. Nor did he care or worry about how it went up through Tucson to Chicago, where it further branched out to the Midwest. Even though Oz’s preference was the Mexican black tar heroin produced with other synthetic drugs within Guerrero state and up along Sinaloa, Durango, and the Chihuahua states, he only cared how it felt when it entered his brain.
Involvement of Hezbollah to reclaim the Colombian connection was in full force, and they were courting gang leaders such as Two-bags, while at the same time increasing high levels of fentanyl-laced heroin to their competitors to hamstring the Mexicans. But this, too, was neither of interest nor mattered outside of his manageable candy-hustle business that Two-bags was sticking his fingers in.
All that mattered now was he had the next day off and a bag of party mix to celebrate with. Oz had no clue how much fentanyl was laced to make sure he never came back down.
“Hey, baby. You comin’ down hard? I got a treat for you.”
He passed the phone over to his girl just as the apartment door burst open.
“Oswald Robinson?” the man yelled.
Oz dropped the phone and raised his hands. Shawnay struggled to put her top back on while raising her hands up, out, to the sides in an effort to comply.
“She in there.” Oz pointed down the hall.
“Who?” The white man spun to the short hallway. He carried two handguns and wore a face of blood spatter and fury.
“The girl. But I didn’t touch her. We just has her locked up so she don’t get in no trouble before she go to work for us in the morning.”
The man looked confused. He blinked his eyes often. His mouth made a clicking sound.
“You can go check.” Oz started to stand, but the man rushed up and shoved a foot into Oswald’s chest, knocking him from the small kitchen chair onto the floor.
The man towered over Oz, both barrels pointed down at him but periodically swinging to the right at Shawnay.
“What girl?” he shouted again.
“Zarielle, her name Zarielle,” said Shawnay as she readjusted her top. “We look after her. Like fosters.”
The angry man’s face continued its contortions, and he started shouting, using his pistols in the gestures.
“Who the fuck do you work for?” Drake kicked Oz in the side.
“You can’t go hittin’ him like that! I’ll sue your motherfuckin’ ass an’ this whole city.” Shawnay started to get up.
Drake backhanded her across the head with his pistol. “Don’t you fucking move.”
“Shawnay, shut the fuck up.”
The man pointed his weapon back down at Oz. Oz’s head was scrambling, and then he saw the yellow lettering on the blue jacket. FBI. No, sir. Two-bags’ll have me killed in a minute. “I want my lawyer. I ain’t sayin’ shit.”
The FBI agent hit Oz across the head with his weapon.
“You motherfuckin’ crazy, cop?” Oz raised his hands to his bleeding head. He had had more than his unfair share of beatdowns by the cops over his lifetime. And one thing he had learned, FBI was going to go a lot better than a whisky smellin’ red-faced CPD beat officer on a Saturday night. Oz rationalized that he probably wouldn’t get any more lumps from this Fed. “Take me in. I don’t know nothing. I want my—”
The white Fed turned again to Shawnay. “You! Face down on the couch. If you move, you’re dead.” When she didn’t comply, the agent holstered his weapon, grabbed her by the hair and forced her face down into the seat cushions.
The man clicked his mouth three more times, tucked the second weapon away and reached down for Oz’s shirt.
Oz expected to be lifted up; instead, he saw the fabric pulled over his chin then hard across his mouth, and then lifted again from the bottom over his eyes.
Oz expected to feel hard metal against his forehead. He heard the hiss of escaping air. Like from a pop bottle.
The fabric pulled across his lips. Oz opened his jaw to stop the cloth from pulling so tight. At that moment, the liquid started pouring in. Sweet at first, but then the drowning sensation sent him reeling in panic. He was back in the water. Six maybe seven years old. Down at the South Shore’s Rainbow Beach Park with his cousins. The wave had knocked them all down. Oswald laughed at first, then sucked in a mouthful of water. He somersaulted underwater and saw his little sister and cousins doing the same. The water threw him down then pulled him up. They were tugged back into deeper water.
Oz choked on the sweet cola and could feel his eyes roll back.
He felt himself lifted back up. The chocking stopped.
Shawnay was screaming in the background.
The man yelled again. “Who do you work for? What do you know about a plan for an attack tomorrow in Chicago?”
Oswald felt his body fall backward again. His head hit the ground hard. The shirt tightened across his mouth once more, and before he knew it, his mouth had opened in reflex; then the soda cascaded into his throat again. His nose and up to his eyes burned from the carbonation pain entering his sinus cavity and down his choking throat.
I’ll talk. I’ll talk. But the words never came. Instead Oswald was drowning again. Reaching for his sister’s hand. He saw her slide down the sand into deeper darkness as the bubbles spun around him.
Oz flew up again.
“Last time, who do you work for?”
Oz pushed his tongue against the wet shirt. He wanted to speak. He would tell them who he worked for. Then the FBI would have to stop. He didn’t need to say more. Two-bags wouldn’t know who dropped a name. Oz heard the hiss again.
Shawnay screamed, “No!”
The man shouted back at her. The sound was distant in Oz’s head. “Fucker, you will talk, I guarantee. I’m not playing by the CIA enhanced interrogation manual here. We’re in my territory now. My rules.”
Oswald’s head hit the floor.
It started again. It was the same feeling from Lake Michigan. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t breathe. He knew they were all going to die on that beautiful summer day. But Oz had lived. So had one of his cousins. He wanted to live. His body, once completely rigid, relaxed. I’ll tell you everything. I’ll say all that I know. Let me live. I’ll change. As his body started to spasm, he felt as though he was out of his body until it lifted up again. He suffered a hard slap to the side of the head; then the covering came down and he could breathe. First, he saw the light. Then heard the clicking sound that the monster made. Shawnay’s crying was muffled.
Then the loud voice again. “Now, tell me all!”
“Two-bags. I work for Two-bags. He runs Lawndale. He runs everything. Drugs, girls, he’s got all the corners. He stays during the week in some rich suburbs, but he and his boys own places all around the area. I can show you. He just needed me for the busses and the kids. That’s all.”
“What busses and kids?”
“I drive them around selling candy. To the rich white folk. We make money off that, sayin’ we a charity.” Oz choked hard, and the man turned him to the side as he vomited.
“What does Two-bags want with the kids?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
The agent yanked the shirt back over Oz.
“No!” Oz screamed. “He’s got some deal with the Arabs. But I don’t know more. He had me hold some boxes. For the parade tomorrow. So the kids could get dressed up.”
“Does he have a weapon? WMD
?”
“What?” Oz’s eyes were wide in terror. “I don’t know what that is? No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Weapon of Mass Destruction. A bomb.”
“I don’t know. Really, I don’t. He has four busses.”
“Where are the busses?”
“They’re moving them. I don’t know. I swear. I don’t fucking know. Please don’t kill me. Please just take me in. I’ll tell you. Put me in protective care. He’s going to kill me. He’ll kill me for sure.”
The man let go of Oz, who flopped to the floor crying.
“You motherfucker!” Shawnay cried, dropping off the couch as the man stood and walked to the hallway. She rubbed Oz’s face. “Baby, we gonna sue the whole city. They can’t treat us like this.”
“Neither of you move.”
* * * *
Drake Woolf’s hands were shaking. He had lost all control. He had what he needed, but still needed to check the room.
Woolf kicked an orange strip of fuzzy fabric that was stuck to the outside of his shoe as he unlocked the door. Uncooperating, he had to reach down to pull it off, tossing it down, where it landed on a child’s green and gold necklace.
Drake listened at the door before opening it to find complete darkness. Drake felt to the side for a light switch, but flipping it up did nothing.
“Please don’t,” a small voice begged.
Drake pulled his mobile out and pressed it on. The phone shined enough light that he could see a young girl peering out from under the bed, her hand tethered by rope to a bed frame.
“I’m going to get you out of here. I promise.”
“Are you a policeman?”
“I am today. Hang on.”
Drake stormed out of the room to find Oz and his girlfriend sitting on the sofa. There was a flicker of red-and-blue lights on the ceiling inches from the window wall. New noises coming from the outside hall.
Oz stood. “It’s not what it seems.”
Drake grabbed Oz by the neck and fisted a handful of the candy gang leader’s pants, then tossed him through the window glass.
“Freeze,” a female voice shouted.
Before Woolf could turn, he heard three rounds go off in rapid succession. Then a heavy thud to the floor.
As he turned, he first saw Special Agent Tresa Halliday, her gun drawn and pointed away. Drake saw Shawnay lying to her side on the couch, eyes open, but dead. The left side of her head had a bullet entrance wound, the side of her staining with blood. On the ground, a Smith & Wesson revolver. Where that had come from Woolf hadn’t a clue.
Relieved, he smiled. “I’m so glad—”
“Hands where I can see them. Warren Woolf, you’re under arrest.”
Chapter 67
“Slowly, get on the ground,” Halliday ordered. “Fingers locked with hands behind the head.”
Drake stood firm. “There’s a little girl in that room who needs some help.” Woolf nodded to his left.
Halliday turned for a moment to the dark hall and, returning attention to Drake, saw his gun leveled at her.
“We’re not going to do this, Woolf. I’m here to help you guys, but this is not the way. I can’t just stand by and—”
“Sure you can,” Mena interrupted.
Drake saw Mena step from the shadows. She was wearing a raid jacket, but he could see she had Drake’s bulletproof backpack on underneath. Mena had her own weapon leveled at Tresa’s head.
“No, Mena.” Drake lowered his weapon. “I’ll give her the gun. She’s right. And she’s just doing her job.”
Mena remained steadfast. “She’s going to bring the task force down. You guys have already created a colossal constitutional and human rights travesty, and I want no part of that.”
“A little too late for that now,” Tresa added, not helping her own situation. “You were there when we called for backup, bitch. It’s going to look odd to CPD when two nobodies try to leave and a special agent is down.”
“No, it’s Woolf’s weapon. He keeps it in the vest as backup. But after I shoot you, we’ll leave the weapon. This crime scene is a mess. And half of our people don’t exist. I’m not worried. One phone call and I’ll be out.”
“Girls, both of you put the weapons down. We’re all on the same side. I know who we need to go after next, and they’re planning on using kids tomorrow in the parade. All we need to do is stop that, and we go home. At this point, we can even turn that over to the FBI to handle. They’re better equipped than we are.”
“Iran’s generals have used children historically, but as a first-wave attack. There will be a next wave to immediately follow,” Mena cautioned.
Most people would be nearly inconsolable. Halliday, however, was pissed. Drake could see it in her eyes. “Fine, I’m putting my weapon away.” As Tresa turned to holster her weapon, Drake could see her turning the barrel backward.
“You can’t,” he said as Mena started to lower her own weapon.
Drake fired twice at Halliday, sending her into the wall and down into a heap.
Chapter 68
Mena jumped back in surprise. “You shot her.”
Drake holstered his weapon. “Shut up,” was all he could say before dry heaving.
Mena rubbed the back of her neck and thought, You kill all these men, and vomit now. She really was special to you.
Mena stepped back to the open door. She extended her leg backward and closed the door quietly with her foot. You can do this, Mena. You have to do this.
Drake continued to gag and retch and dropped to the side of the couch, coughing. As he supported his weight with the coffee table, his hand rested on Oz’s overturned phone.
Do it now while he’s down, she coaxed herself. The reality of shooting someone she knew versus the scientists who were strangers made a world of difference. Mena swallowed hard, mustering courage.
When Drake stopped coughing, he said, “Let me see what I can get off this junkie’s device before cops get here. You get the girl.” He nodded. “She’s gotta be scared shitless.”
Mena gave a nod but didn’t move.
Drake retrained his attention to the suspect’s phone.
Mena leveled her weapon at Drake. Low caliber. Two in the head. If Drake knows Sebastian put me up to this, I’m dead. It’s not personal, Drake. It’s survival, and you’re just as evil as the men you hunt. She took a step closer.
“Where’s Havens?” he asked.
Mena held her breath, thinking Woolf was about to turn around. He was fast. She was overthinking this. Where would he move if he saw her? He was wedged between the sofa and the table. “He’s outside stalling the Chicago Police. Mojo called 911 and gave Sean the heads-up.” Her hands were sweating. They always sweated before she shot the scientists. She waited too long then and was waiting too long now. Pull the trigger. “He told the police not to come up until his man came out.”
“Smart. He’s a thinker.” Drake looked up.
“I really am sorry, Drake. Sebastian doesn’t need you to save the day. He just needs it to look like you tried. We know the Iranians are involved, but we don’t want them to stop the operation. They need to take full responsibility.”
“You bitch,” said Halliday.
Mena spun to the voice of Tresa.
Drake turned around, firing Shawnay’s .38 into Mena, center mass in the chest.
Halliday fired two to her head.
* * * *
“You killed her!” Drake popped up and jumped the table over to Mena, who lay lifeless on the floor. He dropped to his knees, cradling her head.
“Well, no shit.”
“I shot her vest like I shot you. She was just—” Drake dropped his head. “Fuck. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You naïve girl, Mena.”
Muffled voices slowly approached their position from beyond the
door.
“CPD’s coming down the hall.” Tresa pushed herself up, still breathless from the bullet impacts to her body armor. “She was going to kill you.”
“She should.” Woolf pocketed Mena’s weapon. “Dammit,” he whispered and closed her dark, staring eyes.
Halliday half shrugged and hustled down the hall to check on the young girl.
Woolf continued to an audience of himself. “I’m a fucking sociopath.” He raised his voice, walking to Halliday while checking his six for cops. “You know what I’ve done today. Tonight.”
Halliday bit her lip and pulled her hair over an ear.
“Just take me in, SA Halliday. Fuck it. Take me in. They can lock me up, kill me. I fucking deserve it.”
“She’s gone.”
“CPD! Coming in,” Chicago’s finest called out from the entryway to avoid friendly fire.
Chapter 69
The plainclothes cop was the first to come through the fractured door frame and witness the two dead women. Other officers were queued up behind him, struggling to get a view. “Agent Halliday?” the officer called out.
Woolf froze in the entryway of the master bedroom. He was in between roughly fifteen feet from the officers coming in and from a maintenance stairway in the bedroom’s far end where Halliday had ducked out in search of the girl. Instinctively, Woolf reached to his sidearm.
Detective Neil saw the movement but was still sizing up the man in the dimly lit corridor.
Woolf’s tongue clicked in its usual succession.
“You!”
No way Drake was shooting another cop today, but if there was one thing Drake Woolf knew about the city of Chicago, if by reputation only, he needed to run before he got himself shot.
“Freeze!” the detective yelled before firing.
In anticipation, Drake had jumped from view into the bedroom and leaped around a bed to get to the maintenance staircase opening.
The footfalls and shouts drew closer.