by Rick Reed
“Jack. Help your brother. God knows he would help you. That’s what families do, Jack. They take care of each other.”
“I know, Mom. I’ll call him as soon as we hang up. I promise, Mom.” He knew he would go to hell for lying to his mother, but sometimes it was the only way to get her off the phone. The last thing he needed was Kevin setting him up on a date. He shuddered at the thought of some feminine academic hauling him to stuffy conventions. Look what that type of atmosphere had done to Einstein’s hair.
“And how is my little Katie?” she asked.
Jack cringed at the mention of his ex-wife because that was followed by his mom extolling Katie’s virtues and saying how much his dad had loved her, and how could Jack have let her get away and so on and so forth.
“You’re just like your father, God rest his soul. He never spent enough time with his family,” she said. And then came the final dig, “Katie calls me all the time, Jack. More than my own sons.”
Point taken. He knew he should call his mom more than he did. Life always seemed to get in the way. Her last remark was also meant to prompt him to ask what she and Katie talked about. He didn’t dare open that can of worms. She had always hoped Jack and Katie could get back together. He hadn’t told her that had almost happened a while back. This was before he and an attractive state trooper had almost been killed by two psycho mercenaries, and Katie had caught Jack in the trooper’s hospital room. It wasn’t his fault if Katie had walked in and saw him being tongue raped by a woman who was grateful Jack had saved her life.
“Mom, I’m busy on an important case. This isn’t a good time.”
“It’s never a good time. That’s what your father always said. Aren’t there other detectives? You worry me. You always worried Katie. She’d die if she knew I told you this, but she calls me worrying about you being hurt. She’s a saint, that one.”
“I’m working on a serial rapist case, Mom. I have to get back to work.”
“You call your brother like you promised your mother. You should never break a promise to your mother, Jack.”
“I’ll call Kevin. I will, Mom. Oh. Here comes the captain. Gotta go,” he lied and gently placed the phone in the cradle.
A detective stuck his head in Jack’s office. “Bank robbery. National City downtown.”
The detectives’ office had become a beehive of activity in the short time he was on the phone. He shoved his portable in his back pocket and hurried from the office. Liddell met him in the hallway.
“Banks don’t open for another half hour,” Liddell commented, as he and Jack got in Liddell’s Crown Vic and sped away from headquarters.
“These might be the ‘takeover’ robbers,” Jack said. The detectives’ office had received a memo from the local FBI telling them about a team of bank robbers who were forcing their way into banks before the bank opened. They would catch an employee going inside and put a gun to his or her head. The FBI said they working their way across the country. The last Jack had heard, they were in Florida.
Most bank robbers were numbnuts. They would go in during business hours when the lobby was full, make a ruckus, and end up with the bait money—a package of bills loaded with an explosive dye pack, and all the serial numbers had been recorded so ithey could be traced. The dye was red and most of these idiots were literally caught red-handed.
This team, if the FBI was correct, had already robbed more than a dozen banks and netted close to half a million. They didn’t stay in the bank long enough to worry about the bait money. Even if the dye pack went off, they were gone before the police got to the scene. The FBI had only been able to track them by the red-dyed money they had passed, but the robbers didn’t stay in one place long enough to be caught. They were heavily armed and wore body armor like SWAT teams.
Jack’s Kevlar vest was at home in the top of a closet. It was too tight and hot, and it made him itch. He wished he had it now. He looked over at Liddell and remarked, “You’re wearing body armor.”
Liddell chortled. “You?”
“Body armor’s for pussies and old women,” Jack answered.
“Well, here’s to old ladies,” Liddell said, and stomped the gas pedal.
Chapter Three
As they were arriving they saw several official vehicles leaving the bank’s perimeter. One police car remained in front. A uniformed sergeant was in it. Liddell pulled up to the car and windows were powered down.
“False alarm,” the sergeant said. “The manager accidentally set it off.” He looked pissed off. “I spilled hot coffee all over my crotch. Shit!”
Liddell grinned and said, “You should sue McDonald’s. Everyone else does.”
The officer said, “Blasphemy. This is Donut Bank coffee. I drink the big boy stuff.”
Donut Bank Bakery was Copland. No self-respecting police officer would drink a brew from anywhere else.
Liddell said to Jack, “Speaking of which . . .”
Five minutes later they were standing at the counter of the Donut Bank on St. Joseph Avenue. A girl of about sixteen beamed a smile at Jack. She held a tray with two plates and two ceramic mugs. One plate held a chocolate long john with a thick strip of sweetened bacon lying across the icing. The other was heaped like a pyramid of pastries. “One Millionaire Bacon long john for you, Detective Murphy. And a diabetic coma platter for you, Detective Blanchard.”
“Make that two more glazed donuts for my partner, Cindy,” Jack said. Liddell nudged him and Jack said, “Better make that three more, Cindy. My partner here is eating for eight.”
He started to get out his wallet and Cindy said, “The owner says your food is always on the house.” She filled a wax paper sack with glazed donuts. “Better have some for the road, Detective Blanchard.”
“Call me Liddell. Detective Blanchard makes me sound old.”
Jack handed the girl a twenty and said, “For the tip jar, Cindy,” which earned him another huge smile.
Jack’s portable cued and the dispatcher said, “All cars. Bank alarm at First Union Bank on Red Bank Road. All cars. Bank robbery in progress. Alarm confirmed.” She repeated the dispatch, and a dozen cars responded they were headed to the robbery.
For the second time in less than an hour they were running for their car. Jack keyed the radio. “Two David 5-2 and Two David 5-3 responding,” he said and climbed in the passenger side. Liddell peeled out of the parking lot and tweaked the siren to get around a car that wouldn’t budge. He jumped the curb and rode with the right-side wheels on the sidewalk to make the right turn. “Sorry” he said, seeing he had startled the other driver, and then stomped on the gas, heading west, engine screaming. Traffic was light for this time of morning, as people were already at work or sleeping after a late shift. They sped down Highway 62, no emergency equipment operating. Only in the movies do the police run with lights and sirens all the way up to the crime scene and then get into a gunfight.
They neared the intersection at Red Bank Road. Jack held on to the strap above his window and swiveled his head, searching for backup. “Looks like we’re on our own, Bigfoot.”
“Three civilian cars in the bank lot. Look at that one there,” Liddell said, and Jack saw the vehicle Bigfoot was talking about. It was a primer-red Pontiac GTO muscle car. It was backed in right in front of the bank’s doors. A figure in all black clothing sat in the driver’s seat.
“That’s got to be them,” Jack said. Liddell skidded sideways into the lot, as three black-clad figures ran out of the bank toward the GTO. They were dressed in SWAT gear with balaclavas covering their heads and all were armed. One was a giant, maybe bigger than Liddell, and carrying a large duffel bag in one hand and a stubby assault rifle in the other. The other two were slightly built and armed with handguns; web belts loaded with ordnance crisscrossed their chests. It gave them the appearance of Mexican bandits in a Western movie. Several black spherical objects hung from one of the web belts. The objects looked like flash bang grenades to Jack.
“Arms
inside the vehicle at all times, children,” Liddell muttered, aimed the car for the passenger door of the GTO, and floored it.
The GTO driver’s head swiveled in their direction. The three running figures slowed and raised their weapons toward the kamikaze detectives’ car. Jack saw muzzle flashes exploding from the barrels of the robbers’ weapons, and bullets stitched lines up the Crown Vic’s hood. Then Liddell slammed their car into the GTO’s passenger side.
The Crown Vic’s air bags deployed and Jack was hit in the chest and face. The inside of the car was suddenly filled with dusty white powder. Jack pushed the air bag out of his face and asked Liddell. “You okay, Bigfoot?”
Liddell grunted. “You?”
Jack tested his arms and legs. He was okay, but there were still three perps out there and they were armed. Jack and Liddell popped their seatbelts and bailed out, guns in hands, eyes and ears searching for targets.
The GTO lay over on the driver’s side, Jack and Liddell moved up to the undercarriage for cover. Jack peeked down inside the GTO and said, “The driver’s not moving.”
Jack heard a groan and sensed movement on the other side of the car. He peeked around the bumper and dropped to his stomach, gun thrust in front. He saw the big guy lying on his back only a few feet away, but still moving. He couldn’t see the other two, but he kept his gun pointed at the big one.
“I got one straight ahead. Ten feet. The big one with the rifle,” Jack yelled to Liddell. To the robber he said, “Don’t move. Just lie there.”
Liddell peeked around the other side of the overturned car. “I got nothing,” he said. “Where the hell is our backup?”
The big guy quit moaning and began to get up, first to his knees, then to his feet. He still held the stubby assault rifle. Jack could see two banana clips taped together and fed into the gun.
Jack aimed center mass at the big one and yelled, “Police. Drop the gun! Drop the gun!” He automatically scanned the field of fire, looking behind the robber and to the sides. There was nothing but the brick side of the bank building. No sign of the other two.
The giant looked at the rifle in his hand and seemed surprised it was still there. His head came up and his eyes fixed on the smashed-up getaway car. His head swiveled right, then left. Jack could hear a guttural sound like a growl coming from him.
“Do you see the other two?” Jack asked, Liddell.
“Nada,” Liddell said.
The robber’s head swiveled back toward Jack and even with the balaclava hiding most of his features, Jack could see a look of calm settle in his eyes. The growling stopped and the rifle barrel began to climb toward Jack and Liddell.
“Oh, shit!” Jack fired twice. Both shots struck the gunman in the chest. Jack could see their impact. But the giant just shook them off and the rifle spat death in Jack’s direction. Jack dropped to the ground as the robber sprayed the car from left to right. If the driver wasn’t dead before, he probably was now.
The firing stopped. Jack rolled out in the clear and saw the gunman ejecting the empty banana clip. Jack aimed and shot him in the face. The head snapped back and he slumped to the ground.
“This one’s down,” Jack said and rolled back behind the GTO.
Liddell had ducked for cover when bullets tore through the car’s roof. His eyes were fixed on the ground and for a moment Jack thought a stray bullet had hit him. Liddell pointed down. Jack looked. A black boot attached to a leg stuck out from under the car. The GTO must have rolled onto one of the robbers.
“One to go,” Jack said and looked around.
Liddell said, “Jack. Left side of the bank.”
Jack caught a glimpse of a black-clad figure disappearing between the bank and several large Dumpsters.
“Cover me,” Liddell said, but Jack stopped him.
“You haven’t shot anyone yet. Call it in. I’ve got this one.” Jack sprinted after the remaining robber. No use in both of them being suspended. He ran to the front of the bank and glued his back to the wall. Carefully he began to peek around the side just as something green came rolling toward him. He dropped to the ground, squeezed his eyes shut, and was able to throw his arms over his head before the ground rocked beneath him. The explosion was so close his hands were burned from the heat. His ears weren’t just ringing. They were playing show tunes on dog whistles.
He lifted his head and looked at his arms. No cuts. No shrapnel. No blood. It was a concussion grenade. What police call a flash bang. First there is a burst of white light and then a blast of heat, The purpose was to disorient wrongdoers until police could subdue them. It was working. He was disoriented, a little nauseous, and he knew he needed a bigger gun.
He gritted his teeth and tried to stand, but he was unsteady. He tried to focus his eyes, and some of his vision returned but he couldn’t hear. The side of his face felt sunburned. He touched it, and his hand came away sticky with blood. He traced the blood to his ear. The explosion must have ruptured his eardrum.
He thought he heard sirens but they were far away. He gripped his .45 in both hands and ran into the alleyway. The robber was ten feet in front of him, standing by a Dumpster. A duffel bag was clenched in one hand and a semiautomatic handgun in the other. The eyes inside the balaclava grew wide, the mouth opened and closed, and then the lips clamped together in steely determination.
Jack said, “Don’t be stupid.” Or at least that’s what he thought he said, but that’s when the duffel bag exploded. A cloud of stinging red smoke and gas enveloped the robber. The bag hit the ground. Jack heard coughing and retching. When the smoke cleared he could see the suspect’s gun coming up.
Jack fired twice. Once again the bullets impacted close together on the robber’s chest. This one wasn’t as big as the last. This one went down like a dishrag and lay still.
Jack waited for the cloud of tear gas to dissipate before he stepped forward. The robber’s ballistic vest had stopped his bullets. This one would live. He kicked their gun away, rolled the perp over, and slapped on a pair of handcuffs. Then he felt for a pulse. It was strong. He rolled the robber over roughly and said, “Wakey, wakey, asshole.”
The eyes behind the mask popped open and the mouth gulped air.
Jack said, “You’ve just had the wind knocked out of you. Slow down. Take shallow breaths. You’ll live . . . if I don’t kill you first. So don’t move.” Jack reached down and pulled the ski mask off.
“What the . . . ?”
It was a girl, barely a teenager. “You shot me!” she said, and spat in his face.
* * *
Jack and Liddell sat on cots in the back of an ambulance while a paramedic checked them out. The getaway driver looked dead but had somehow survived the crash and the car being shot up by his partner and was on his way to the hospital. He looked about 40 or 50 years old. The giant was young, a little older than the girl maybe, but he would never get any older. The one crushed to death like the Wicked Witch of the West turned out to be a woman in her forties. The grenade-tossing girl was in another ambulance, handcuffed to both sides of the gurney and screaming obscenities while paramedics attended to her. None of them had any identification. The GTO’s VIN plate had been removed, and any other identifying numbers had been destroyed. The license plate was stolen from Florida. It would be impossible to trace.
“You think there’s a family resemblance?” Liddell asked Jack.
Jack heard Liddell, but his ears were ringing and hurting like a bitch.
“We’ll be on Oprah now,” Liddell said.
“Jerry Springer more likely,” Jack said much too loudly.
The news media was closing in like a pack of wolves. A Channel 6 helicopter hovered overhead to bring the bloodshed directly into the audience’s homes. All that was missing was the street vendors and clowns. And speaking of clowns, Liddell pointed at the yellow crime scene tape where the arrival of a shiny black SUV was causing quite a stir.
“Don’t look now but I think the eagle has landed,” Liddell said.
Deputy Chief of Police Richard Dick, otherwise known as Double Dick, eased himself out of the back of the SUV, brushing at imaginary lint. The SUV was a brand-new Cadillac Escalade that had been seized during a drug bust and claimed by Double Dick for his permanent police vehicle. His driver, Captain Dewey Duncan, held the door open and stood at attention.
Double Dick hadn’t been nicknamed so because he had two first names. Rather, because of his reputation for handing out overly harsh punishments for the slightest perceived wrongs. And he didn’t stop there. He dicked the same officers over and over again. Hence the name, Double Dick.
Captain Duncan shut the back door of the SUV and stood at parade rest as Double Dick made his way to a spot just inside the crime scene tape. He turned and stood tall, watching the media and curious rubberneckers jostle each other for positions. He was in his dress blue uniform with silver piping on the cuffs, shiny black Cor-fam dress shoes, and a chest full of ribbons he had undoubtedly bestowed upon himself. Carefully positioned on his precisely cut head of hair was a pimped-out police commander’s hat. Dick was blond-haired, blue-eyed, tall and lean, and every bit the Aryan poster child. He cleared his throat and spread his arms out like a maestro calling for quiet.
Liddell pointed to the Escalade and said, “There stands a police captain whose only purpose in life is to be a chauffeur for the commandant.” He nudged Jack. “Did I ever tell you that when Double Dick had his hemorrhoids removed he promoted them to captain and made them his driver?”
Jack forced a chuckle even though he’d heard this line a hundred times. He would have felt a little sorry for the captain, but the man had never worked outside of an office in his life. He was a born gentleman’s gentleman. Why he had become a policeman was anyone’s guess.
A paramedic stepped in the back of the ambulance. “Let me take a look,” he said loud enough for Jack to hear. The medic lifted the blood-soaked gauze pad from Jack’s right ear.