Break

by Ty Patterson

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything. Our people in there might not know of the operation.’

  ‘Why is Grogan interested in you? If it’s him?’ Mease jammed his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels.

  ‘We have history, from ADX.’

  Rubin brooded for several moments when Gunner finished his story. His mind raced as he thought of the campaign implications. Mease was similarly occupied when he looked at his strategist.

  ‘Why now?’ the former accountant asked finally. ‘What’s made him suspicious? You’ve been dead a very long time. A good few years. He was out of prison before you.’

  ‘I know where he works, where he lives. I can get Cray to do some digging.’

  ‘Find out,’ Rubin nodded. ‘Discreetly, without exposing yourself. For all we know, his appearances at that store were coincidental and that undercover man is from some agency.’

  ‘That’s the most likely explanation.’ Mease glanced at his watch and straightened. ‘We’ve been here too long. Stick to the script,’ he warned the Lion. ‘No vengeance run on Grogan. The past is behind us. Information only—that’s what we need on him.’

  ‘What if he’s coming for me?’

  ‘If he was, do you think we would be here? He’s got nothing. Stay low. Don’t go after him. It’ll risk everything we’ve been working on.’

  * * *

  Rubin shook Gunner’s hand warmly, put on his campaign face, and left the bathroom with his strategist in wake.

  ‘What do you think?’ he whispered when they were in his car.

  ‘Let’s see what he comes up with. I don’t think we have anything to worry about.’

  ‘Will Gunner go off the rails?’

  ‘No. He’s too disciplined for that. He’s with us all the way. Even if he does …’

  Rubin nodded in understanding. They wouldn’t have come that far in the campaign without the Lions. However, everyone was expendable, and if push came to shove, even Gunner could be dealt with.

  He’s not the only gang leader we know.

  * * *

  Gunner waited until he heard a discreet knock on the bathroom door. One of his hitters opened it and nodded, indicating the coast was clear.

  He went out through the rear entrance and climbed into his vehicle.

  ‘Lafayette Street,’ he told his driver.

  He wanted to check his enemy out. See where he lived.

  Mease had warned him to back off, but what did the accountant know? He had done time in a cushy prison. Gunner snorted in disgust. The strategist and Rubin, they hadn’t been through what he had.

  Cutter Grogan was the only man who had stood up to him. Had diminished him in ADX.

  The Lion hadn’t forgotten that. He had a code to live up to: destroy enemies.

  Nope. The Fixer wasn’t off-limits, whatever Mease and Rubin said.

  However, he wouldn’t hurry to deliver punishment.

  I’ll find out what he’s up to. Then take him down.

  49

  Pete Martinelli, Cutter decided.

  The cop was the one to look into. If he was a Lions supporter, a white nationalist, then he would have received orders in some way. Find out who had given him the word.

  Track back from there, and it would lead to Sheller.

  He could go after Nails too, since he knew where his gang hung out. I got nowhere when I followed him. And they’ll be prepared now. They’ll be alert for strangers, tails. They’ve lost Davis and several men. They think someone’s undercover and looking into them. Nope, the cop’s easier to go after.

  He wasn’t home when Sheller’s vehicle swept past his building. He was in a Columbus Avenue highrise, jabbing the elevator button, when the Lion looked out of his vehicle at Cutter’s darkened apartment and signaled his driver to take him home.

  Cutter got out at his floor; used a swipe card to enter a darkened office. Motion sensors turned on lights as he progressed. Warm-colored throws on the couches, rugs on the floor. A golfing strip by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the street. A basketball hoop on a wall; baseball bats, balls and gloves; a snooker table.

  It was unlike any office he had visited.

  He went to the pantry and brewed himself a cup of Jamaican and went to a desk. Pressed the keyboard to bring the screen to life and typed in his password.

  Scratched his head when it was accepted but the screen remained blank. A wall of blue with the cursor in the center. No directories, folders or menu of any kind.

  He jabbed several keys. Nothing happened. Looked beneath the desk. Nope, no tower drive. Surely there was a way to access the computer’s secrets, but he couldn’t find it.

  He was hunched over the keyboard when his radar warned him. He wasn’t alone. The screen was the non-reflective kind that didn’t show him who or what was behind him.

  Cutter slid his chair back on its wheels, kept his hands down to indicate he was no threat and turned slowly.

  A large man watching him impassively. Skin gleaming underneath the lights, biceps bulging beneath his sleeves, Tee stretched tight across his chest. He was motionless, an air of menace around him.

  ‘I wasn’t stealing anything.’ Cutter didn’t make any sudden moves.

  No response. Another man came up and stood beside him. Equally large and muscled. Neatly trimmed beard. Hard-faced. Neither of them sporting any weapons. Heck, with their size, why would they need guns?

  Two more men came up. Good-looking, smartly dressed, as if returning from a photo shoot. One older than the other.

  A fifth person joined them. Dark brown hair, clean-shaven, lithe and panther-like as he approached.

  ‘What’s up?’ a woman’s voice came from behind them.

  ‘He steals our coffee,’ the first entrant said.

  Cutter thought he heard the windows reverberate at his growl.

  ‘Then he steals our computer time.’

  ‘Computer time?’ he protested. ‘Is that even a thing?’

  None of the men smiled.

  Three women came up. One of them petite, the others identical-looking twins.

  One of the sisters looked at him, then the screen, and read the scene instantly. ‘Didn’t get anywhere, huh?’

  ‘It isn’t working,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Shall I throw him out?’ the first speaker glowered.

  Cutter got to his feet. It looked like things would turn ugly. ‘About that coffee,’ he tried placatingly, ‘I was thirsty.’

  ‘You could drink water.’

  ‘Why would I, when there was coffee?’

  The speaker had no comeback. His face broke into a wide smile. He came forward and grabbed Cutter in a bone-crushing hug. The second man thumped his back so hard he thought his ribs cracked.

  ‘Move,’ Beth, the woman who had spoken, ordered.

  He gave way for her to occupy his seat while Zeb, the lean operative, shook his hands.

  ‘You’ve become a stranger,’ said Chloe, the petite woman, and she kissed his cheeks.

  ‘I was traveling.’

  ‘Colombia,’ said Roger, the younger of the two men who looked like models, as he fist-bumped him. ‘Broker’—he nodded at the older man—‘and I were talking about it. That was some mission.’

  ‘I was lucky to get away alive.’ He tested his shoulders. They worked, despite Bwana’s hug. He felt his ribs discreetly. Bear’s back-thumps hadn’t cracked any.

  ‘So,’ Meghan, the elder twin, surveyed him quizzically. ‘Why are you stealing our computer time, as Bwana put it?’

  Cutter took them in. Zeb’s team. The most lethal covert operatives he had come across. All of them lounging casually, but he knew those looks were deceptive. They could go from zero to action in the blink of an eye.

  ‘It’s something I’ve been working on.’ He was deliberately vague. They have their own missions. No point in dragging them into my problems.

  ‘And you thought you could come here, check out whatever you were looking for and lea
ve?’ Beth said scornfully.

  ‘Something like that,’ he admitted sheepishly.

  ‘We were out for dinner. We had just finished when the alarms chimed on our cell phones. It wasn’t hard to figure out who had broken in.’

  ‘Break in?’ he protested. ‘You gave me access.’

  He knew if he had been a perp, the reception would have been very different. Bwana wouldn’t have stood there, giving him the hard eye. He would have taken direct action.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Meghan, to the point.

  He hesitated.

  ‘You’re among friends,’ Zeb told him mildly.

  Cutter looked at them searchingly and then decided. Heck, they deal with classified intel all day. They meet President Morgan regularly. He could confide in them.

  ‘I’m looking for a cop. Pete Martinelli.’

  ‘This is related to why you were on TV?’ Chloe guessed.

  ‘Sort of,’ and he launched into an explanation of everything that had happened.

  ‘Hard to imagine someone could carry that out for so long. Playing dead.’ Roger picked up the basketball and twirled it on his forefinger.

  ‘Sheller is no ordinary criminal.’ Cutter turned when a chair squeaked. Beth, rolling herself forward to her screen. Her fingers flew rapidly over the keyboard and a program appeared on the screen.

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘We gave you access to the office,’ she smirked, ‘not to Werner.’

  Werner, their Artificial Intelligence program that seemed to be hooked into every national and international database and could perform wonders, according to the twins’ description.

  ‘Martinelli,’ she mumbled to herself as she typed rapidly.

  ‘This him?’ She pointed at the picture of a cop on the screen. In his forties, thinning hair, leathery face, hands hooked into his belt, swaggering for the camera.

  ‘Yeah.’

  She looked up another file, checked out a few media articles and nodded to herself. ‘That’s him. Seventy-Third Precinct.’ Her fingers danced. Another file came up. ‘Bayside, Queens.’ She wrote down his address and passed him the note. ‘Lives alone in a two-bed. Divorced. His wife’s got custody of his kids. Teenagers, a daughter and son. Doesn’t look like there’s any love there.’

  ‘You got that from his file?’ he gaped at her.

  ‘Ex is in Hempstead. His phone hasn’t traveled to her house in years. Which means he hasn’t visited them.’ She shrugged, as if anyone could have made the deduction. ‘Credit rating is fine. Doesn’t save much. Is on top of the alimony payments to his wife. No unusual transactions in his bank account. No big purchases on his cards either. That’s all you wanted?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said with feeling. ‘That was like magic.’

  ‘That’s what we do every day.’ She grinned cheekily. ‘Doesn’t look like he’s dirty. Not from his financials.’

  ‘If he’s into white nationalism, it isn’t about money.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Zeb agreed from the couch where he was sprawled, deceptively still. ‘Why would Sheller go to all that trouble? Why fake his own death?’

  ‘Beats me.’

  ‘You need backup, bud?’ Bear asked him.

  ‘I’m going to check Martinelli out. Nothing more.’

  ‘Not for him. With Darrell and this Nails and his dudes and the Lions.’

  ‘Nope,’ he grinned. ‘Not looking to raze the city to the ground.’

  He chuckled when Bwana gave him a look of mock disappointment, hugged them, and made to leave.

  Stopped before he reached the door.

  ‘Forgot something,’ he told them and went to the kitchen. Stuffed two coffee bags into his pockets and left.

  ‘Hey, we don’t own the plantations!’ Broker yelled at his back.

  ‘It’s for Arnedra,’ he explained to sarcastic laughter.

  * * *

  ‘You think he needs help?’ Chloe looked at Zeb.

  ‘Cutter? Help? He’s a one-person wrecking team.’

  ‘How’s he holding up?’ Meghan pursed her lips thoughtfully.

  ‘It doesn’t go away.’ Zeb knew she was referring to Riley’s death. ‘You get better at dealing with it, that’s all.’

  They nodded, knowing he was speaking from experience.

  ‘It would’ve been good to have him.’ Bear went to the window to look down the avenue. People were ant-sized figures from this height, making it impossible to recognize anyone.

  ‘I offered. He declined. He’s a loner.’

  ‘Takes one to recognize another.’ Beth smirked.

  Zeb raised his hands. ‘Hey, I’m here with you all, aren’t I?’

  * * *

  The subject of their discussion was having a similar conversation with himself. That office, the team—it brought back good memories. On top of that, Zeb, the twins, all those operatives, they were good friends.

  Did I make a mistake in turning him down?

  He pondered this as he crossed at a light and got to his vehicle.

  He shook his head unconsciously. He had quit the military because he wanted to get away from the order. From others planning his life.

  This is how I want it. Just me.

  50

  Pete Martinelli lived in a quiet neighborhood. Very little traffic on his street. Kids going to school early in the morning. Moms and dads rushing to their workplaces. No hoods hanging around, no loud beats thumping from passing vehicles.

  Seven am the next day. Cutter in his SUV, drinking store-bought coffee and biting into a croissant, a newspaper unrolled on the wheel, giving the impression he was reading it.

  Life in the fast lane for the intrepid Fixer.

  Martinelli came out of his building and nodded to a neighbor. The officer was in plain clothes and lit up the lights of a sedan with his key fob.

  So far, so good. No secret handshakes or gestures with anyone. Which didn’t mean anything. Difiore hadn’t confirmed that the cop was dirty, nor had she told him how the internal investigation had progressed.

  He snorted in his coffee. As if she reveals anything! He placed the cup in its holder and keyed the engine and set out to follow the cop.

  Martinelli drove to the precinct without any stops or detours. He disappeared inside the building and didn’t return until the evening.

  Cutter slept.

  Rest and food. It was drilled into him during his training and reinforced at Fort Bragg. Eat and sleep whenever the opportunity came up.

  He wasn’t in deep slumber. He was conscious of his surroundings and passing traffic. However, he wasn’t alert enough to notice the brown Ford that passed him twice and the curious eyes that looked at him from the rolled-down window on its second pass.

  He woke up instinctively when Martinelli’s car nosed out of the precinct’s lot. He followed the cop to a takeout, grabbed a bag of food and shadowed him home.

  By nine pm, Cutter had had enough. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with the shadowing. He stuffed a bandana into his pocket and strapped on his shoulder holster. Covered it with a dark jacket and stepped out of his vehicle.

  Waited for a resident to card the keypad, made a show of patting his pockets, shrugged and rushed inside before the door closed. He went to the mailboxes and pretended to check for letters while the resident waited for the elevator. He raced up the stairs as soon as the man disappeared into the car.

  Martinelli was on the sixth floor. His apartment the third door from the stairway entrance. Muted sounds of conversation behind one door, a TV playing in another.

  Cutter checked the ceiling. No cameras. He bent his head and tied the bandana across his face. Slipped on a pair of gloves, buzzed the cop’s apartment and moved away from the peephole.

  Muffled footsteps. A faint ‘Who’s there?’

  The footsteps faded.

  He pressed the bell again.

  The cop returned. He seemed to curse and unlatched the door, at which moment Cutter shouldered it; he heard it
slam against Martinelli, who grunted, but by then he was inside, his Glock trained on the cop.

  51

  Martinelli’s eyes widened at his sight.

  ‘What—’

  Cutter jabbed the gun against his chest and pushed him deeper inside the apartment. Alcohol on the man’s breath. The source was a half-empty bottle on a table in the living room. A glass beside it.

  ‘Anyone else?’ he growled in a deep voice.

  ‘Who are you?’ Martinelli lunged toward his cell phone and went sprawling on the floor when Cutter kicked him.

  He grabbed the cop by his collar and flung him onto a couch, which protested against the sudden impact.

  ‘Who else is here?’ he grated.

  ‘NO ONE! DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? I’M A COP—’

  Cutter slapped him hard, a blow that split the officer’s lips.

  ‘I ask the questions. We heard you’ve been talking. We warned you.’

  ‘WHO ARE YOU? WHO TOLD YOU THAT? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?’

  Martinelli cowered when he raised the Glock threateningly.

  ‘Pipe down,’ Cutter warned him. ‘You know what this is about.’

  The cop took in the dark, menacing figure, felt his mouth with trembling fingers and stared at the blood on them.

  ‘Davis?’ he shuddered. ‘Crump sent you?’

  ‘You’ve been talking too much. Making threats. Demands.’

  ‘NO! I’VE KEPT QUIET. I’VE SPOKEN TO NO ONE BUT THE INVESTIGATORS. I STUCK TO THE STORY. I TOLD CRUMP. I KNOW OUR CODE. I’M A LION MYSELF. I HAVEN’T—’

  Pounding footsteps outside the door.

  The animal took over.

  ‘You said you were alone!’ Cutter looked up, whirled toward Martinelli and slapped him again to keep up the pressure. He darted to the window. Backyard. Steep drop.

  The door crashed open. Two hoods shouting, yelling, their faces masked, their guns rising.

  Cutter didn’t stop to talk about the weather.

  He threw himself out of the window just as two rounds blew past him and shattered the glass.