by Ty Patterson
He had dressed down. A hoodie, loose Tee, torn jeans, scuffed shoes. Tattoos that he had painted on his neck with washable ink. No other disguise, because he wanted Posey to recognize him. His Glock was hidden beneath the outer layer, not visible to the practiced eye.
He waited for her to exit when the car arrived at their floor.
‘That’s his.’ She jerked her head left, toward the last apartment on the floor.
Dim lighting, concrete floor, stale air, trash outside a few doors.
‘Thank you, ma’am. I’ll try his phone, first,’ he said and exhaled in relief when she turned right, down the hallway to another apartment. He waited for her to disappear into her residence, then swiftly removed a thin cable that was fastened to his trouser leg. Inserted one end of it to his cell phone and then sent the other beneath the door, through the narrow gap between its edge and the floor. It was a cable camera that drew its power from the phone and fed back images in high definition.
A darkened living room, which was empty. Beats playing on a soundbox. A hallway beyond, which had light dappling on it. A shadow crossed it. Is that the kitchen? Is he there?
There was only one way to know.
He knocked on the door.
The shadow moved again and a head cocked out into the hallway. Yeah, that was Duke Posey, alright.
He pounded the door again, and that got the thug to come into the hallway, wiping his hands on his jeans.
‘Who is it?’
‘Open the door, man. Can’t hear you. Got a thing going down.’ He roughened his voice and stayed out of the peephole’s vision.
‘Trigger? That you?’
A latch clicked. The door opened a sliver and swung back with force when Cutter shoved against it with his shoulder.
‘Hey! That hurt. Why did you—’ Duke trailed off when he recognized his visitor. His eyes widened, fear in them warring with anger. He jumped back and looked around wildly. Dived to a couch, clawed beneath its cushion, and came up with a gun when Cutter crashed into him.
Can’t let him use it.
That would alert the entire floor. Nor did he want to kill the thug. He wanted answers, not a dead body.
Duke was wiry and slippery. He twisted and turned as he tried to escape from Cutter’s grip, kept cursing and snarling and kicking up with his knees in an attempt to dislodge his attacker.
‘I. Don’t. Want. To. Hurt. You.’
The gangbanger wasn’t listening. His neck muscles bulged as he tried to straighten his gun arm and bring it to bear on Cutter, who had one hand clamped around his wrist, forcing it away from him, and the other jammed on the thug’s chest. He was forcing him down on the floor when the hood heaved up suddenly with all his strength.
Cutter slipped. His feet skidded and he lost his leverage. He ducked as Duke’s elbow came up towards his throat. It grazed his neck in a stinging blow, and when the thug reared up for a head blow, he let go to scramble away.
The gangster pushed the couch away, roared in rage and powered up off the floor to attack—just as footsteps thundered to the door.
Didn’t shut it.
Cutter sensed the new threat and rolled away desperately on the floor to come up against the wall.
At the doorway, a figure appeared, took in the scene with an exclamation, and fired three times, hitting Duke in the chest and sending him staggering back.
Cutter dived behind the couch frantically when the newcomer turned in his direction. Rounds thudded into the wall, spraying concrete chips. He drew his Glock and was at the point of firing back when the shooter fled.
Why didn’t he shoot?
The reason became apparent instantly when the hallway exploded in noise. Voices sounded in alarm.
‘GO SHOOT SOMEWHERE ELSE!’ someone raged.
‘Who is Nails’ boss?’ Cutter asked urgently as he bent over Duke, conscious of time slipping away.
All he got was blank eyes, as the light faded in them.
He moved quickly. Checked out the window. No escape from there. Bathroom, kitchen, same result.
Untidy bedroom. Window wide open to let air in.
Yes, that was a possibility.
Thought turned to action. He climbed out and let himself fall as more shouts sounded in the hallway.
Grabbed a lower ledge. Let himself go again, repeating the same escape trick that got him away from Martinelli’s.
He fell on an uneven patch of yard and took stock of his surroundings. He was on the side of the building that faced a children’s park.
He counted back from the time the killer had shot Duke. The shooter had three, maybe four seconds of lead.
He burst into a sprint, crouching low, beneath the line of windows. He ran around the side of the building and slowed when he came to the front. No shooter, no other person visible, though all the windows in the building had lit up and he could hear alarmed cries.
Cutter cut across the small lawn and leapt over the fence, Glock in one hand. Landed on sidewalk. Peered cautiously over a line of parked vehicles.
There!
That was the shooter, walking swiftly, seemingly headed toward a vehicle.
Cutter thought he recognized him from the doorway. He got further confirmation from the way the man held himself, and his gait.
It was Nails!
67
Cutter crouched and ran, using the vehicles as cover. The gangbanger was on the road, a good tactic since that gave him more space to escape. He wasn’t looking left or right, nor was he checking his six.
He’s focused on getting away. Not letting him do that.
He gritted his teeth as he checked through the windows of the cars to place the thug. An SUV seemed to be the Brownsville leader’s target. No shadows moving inside.
He came alone?
The distant wail of sirens.
No time to lose.
Cutter powered off the roof of a low-slung car, using his left hand for leverage, his body swinging up and over it in a tight arc, right hand down his side holding the Glock.
His move alerted Nails, who whirled around, his hand reaching inside his jacket.
Cutter landed smoothly.
He lunged forward as the killer’s gun came out.
His shoulder fell as the barrel turned towards him.
With a roar he crashed into Nails, sending him flailing back. He chopped up with his Glock against the gangster’s wrist, sending his weapon clattering to the ground. But the blow and his uneven stance made him lose his gun, too.
Furious with himself, he slammed the man against the nearest vehicle. They struggled—punching, grappling, each trying to gain dominance.
A pair of headlights turned on and an engine whined, warning of a vehicle’s approach. Cutter looked up momentarily. The dark shape of a car. A shooter lining up through a window.
He reared back and grabbed Nails by his collar, ignoring the neck and belly punches. He swiveled awkwardly and flung the thug in front of the approaching car. Tires squealed as brakes slammed, but he didn’t hang around to watch. He dived over the roof of the car and fell on the sidewalk just as the first round smashed into its side.
He crawled behind the wheel well, swiftly, getting out of the way as more bullets searched for him. There was a protective shield of metal, carbon and rubber between him and the shooters as the line of vehicles gave him cover, and then the shooters were gone after another fusillade of shots.
He scrambled back, slumped against a lamp post and caught his breath. Felt something warm and wet against his cheek and fingered his face. The cut in his temple had opened up.
He looked up when a dog barked. Its owners, a couple, stood at a distance, shocked.
‘Stay back,’ he told them tiredly as the first cruiser rolled up.
68
‘It wasn’t me,’ Cutter told the stoic-looking Difiore and Quindica.
He had already surrendered himself to the cops and had given his initial statement when the two arrived. The detective nodded
to the officers and took charge.
She led him to the children’s park, where he sat on a bench and answered her questions.
‘Witnesses placed you in the apartment,’ the SAC said coldly.
‘Yeah, that was me. I went up the elevator. I was in Duke Posey’s apartment, but I didn’t kill him.’
‘How did you know his name? Where he lived? Why didn’t you call me?’ A staccato burst of questions from Difiore.
‘My street snitch, he told me about him. That he was one of the thugs who invaded my apartment. Calling you? Why should I trust the NYPD? You know you’ve got dirty cops.’
Her rage was so palpable that he thought she would strike him. Quindica placed a hand on the detective’s shoulder, and that seemed to have an effect. Difiore’s face turned wooden. She shrugged off the SAC’s hand and looped her thumbs in her belt.
That’s some control. I would have lashed out in her place.
‘Your gun?’ she demanded.
‘Your people have taken it. They’ll find I didn’t shoot. The bullets in his body won’t match my gun.’
‘Walk us through it again.’
‘I’ve done that three times now.’
‘Once again won’t hurt.’
He sighed theatrically and launched into his recital, describing what happened from the time he had approached the building to the arrival of the cruisers.
‘None of the bullets on the street are from my gun. You could match them to other crimes—’
‘You’re teaching me how to detective?’
That’s not a verb. Going by her expression, the finer points of language wouldn’t interest her or the SAC.
Quindica broke away from her hostile stare and looked up the side of the building.
‘You want us to believe you jumped out of the sixth floor and landed without a scratch?’
‘Believe what you want. Your technicians will find glove marks on those ledges. They will match these.’ He held up his tactical mitts.
Difiore bagged them and handed them over to an officer.
‘Is this the shooter?’ She scrolled through her screen and showed him a photograph.
‘Yeah,’ he recognized it. ‘That’s Nails. He’s taken over the Brownsville gang. I told you about him.’
‘AKA Steve Patchey. He’s got a record. Served several years for assault, burglary—a nasty, vicious piece of work.’
‘Tell me about it,’ he replied with feeling as he kept a straight face. No need to let on I knew who he was. The walking volcano that was Difiore would explode at that.
‘Something funny?’ the detective fumed when his lips twitched.
He summoned anger and glared back at her. ‘You know him, and yet he’s out there on the street.’
She let his comment slide. Looked away broodingly and then turned back to him.
‘What were you really doing there?’
‘I told you. My informant found out about Posey. That he was one of the attackers in my apartment. I wanted to question him. Find out who had sent him and his men.’
‘You get any answers?’
‘Nope,’ he admitted truthfully. ‘He recognized me and went into fight mode. That was when Patchey showed up. Have you placed the other attackers? The ones in my building?’
‘No.’
‘No hurry, now.’
‘What do you mean?’ Quindica asked sharply.
‘Why do you think Patchey came here? He would have killed Posey even if I wasn’t there. Any guesses where he is right now?’
69
‘Yeah, that was Grogan.’ Nails winced and rubbed his neck as he squinted to see the photograph Gunner presented. ‘I recognized him.’
‘He can hit. You should know that by now.’
The founder chewed on a toothpick as he looked at the night over Brownsville. They were in their usual rendezvous, with a security perimeter on the outside.
‘Who jumps out of the sixth floor?’ he snorted.
‘You sound as if you admire him, boss.’
‘I hate his guts. I want to pound his face into pulp. I want to see his eyes as I cut his belly and his intestines flop out,’ Gunner said viciously. ‘But he’s got steel in him. I’ll give him that.’
He straightened, and his command voice came back on. ‘How bad is our exposure?’
‘Grogan will have told the cops about me. I don’t think he saw Marv and Chino. They were in the getaway car and things happened quickly. In any case, they were masked.’
‘Why didn’t you wear one?’
‘Boss, I would have been noticed. And Duke wouldn’t have opened the door if I had my face covered.’
‘Did he talk to Grogan?’
‘No. They were fighting when I arrived.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Kelly and Trigger? The ones who were with Duke at Grogan’s? Dead. I killed them.’
Gunner nodded thoughtfully. Nails had acted swiftly and decisively, and no damage had been done.
‘What about your snitch?’
‘I’m working on it, boss,’ his man said defensively. ‘But I’m not sure if we have one—’
He broke off when Gunner glared at him.
‘I’m investigating,’ he mumbled. ‘It’ll take time.’
Let him do that, but I bet Cray will find out quicker. Then I’ll decide what to do.
He squeezed Nails’ shoulder hard enough to draw a yelp. He was the boss. He had to show it.
‘Make sure the message spreads. Those who screw up, die.’
‘No need for that, boss,’ his man panted. ‘They know it, and when they see we’re short three disposables, that will hammer the message home.’
* * *
‘Grogan was right,’ Difiore said dully as they stood outside the Williamsbridge building and watched the technicians load two bodies into their vehicles. ‘Patchey cleaned up.’
Neighbors had reported gunshots and summoned the cops. They found two dead men in the apartment. Residents said the men went by the street names of Trigger and Kelly, who turned out to have records. Yeah, some of the occupants confirmed, they had seen Posey visit and hang out with the men on occasion.
No further confirmation was needed when the detective and the SAC arrived and matched the faces to the ones from Cutter’s security cameras.
‘We’re too late. Every time,’ she raged beneath her breath. ‘You know what hurts more?’ She turned to Quindica. ‘It’s Grogan. He’s ahead of us—’
‘You think so? He hasn’t gotten any leads, has he?’
‘He isn’t passing them on to us.’
‘Someone sent me that email. About the drug deals in the city. We busted them.’
‘You think that was him? Not his style. He would have called us. In any case, those were small busts. Sure, we got a few street dealers and stopped some powder going out, but nothing more. I’m sure he’s as much in the dark as us. It’s just that he’s able to move quicker than we can because of his … unorthodox ways.’
‘Don’t defend him,’ she fumed.
‘I’m not. But you know he’s our ally.’
Difiore turned away, not wanting to acknowledge that the SAC was right.
‘Check out cameras,’ she snapped at the cops. ‘Go door to door and see if anyone saw Patchey.’
No one will come forward, she thought bleakly. Sheller’s always several steps ahead of us.
70
‘His phone wasn’t on him,’ Beth told Cutter when he called the twins the next day.
He had wondered why his phone hadn’t cloned with Posey’s during that fight, then decided to give his gray cells a rest and reached out to the Petersens.
‘How do you know that?’
‘Check your phone.’
He tapped his screen to bring it to life and saw a photograph of a room. Posey’s bedroom. A side table had the phone, as well as a gun beside it.
‘You got this from the police reports?’
‘Phones can’t clone at
that distance,’ she said, evading his question. ‘On top of that, those walls, the hallway—there’s too much obstruction for the program to work.’
‘Darrell’s phone has cloned just one more device other than those kidnappers, Manuel’s,’ he said in frustration. ‘By now, we should have gotten more.’
‘They might be switching their cells off when they meet. You thought of that?’
‘Guess not.’ Meghan smirked at his silence.
* * *
Darrell’s phone finally yielded something later in the day.
Cutter frowned when he played back the recording of the incoming call on the boy’s phone.
‘Manuel?’
‘Chin—’
‘No names, bro. I thought you knew that.’
‘Yeah, sorry. What’s up?’
‘You and the new one, what’s his name?’
‘Darrell.’
‘Yeah, him. You both will be required at The Elitist in two days’ time.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A private club on 45th West. Between Fifth and Sixth Avenue. A big speech by Eric Tizzard. You heard of him?’
‘Yeah. Isn’t he the—’
‘That’s who he is. Darrell and you, heck, every one of us has to be there. Orders of the boss.’
‘Nails? We were at the hangout today. He didn’t say anything.’
‘His boss. Nails heard it just now. I’m calling everyone.’
‘What do we need to do there?’
‘Help out. Whatever’s required. There’s going to be a big crowd. A surprise guest.’
‘Who is that?’
‘It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you,’ the caller chuckled. ‘It’s someone who has come back from the … nah, that would be giving it away. Be there with the other kid, too.’ He issued a few more instructions before hanging up.
Cutter played back the call again and steepled his fingers when it ended.
The caller was Chino. Who else could it be? Manuel had all but blurted his name.
He looked up The Elitist and found it was an exclusive, men-only private club. Founded a century ago by a wealthy banker, it carefully screened members, who paid thirty grand to join and signed non-disclosure agreements.