by Ty Patterson
Several hard-faced men at the door, along with the uniformed usher. One of them took his invite and ran it through a bar-code reader. Another man wanded him, while a third patted him down.
‘Your phone, sir,’ the usher said, presenting a tray. ‘You can collect it as you leave.’
Cutter placed his throwaway in it and went inside the club. He nodded to a few other members and headed to the bar. Ordered a drink and made a pretense of drinking it while he checked out The Elitist.
There were already more than a hundred people, and it wasn’t even six pm. All of them white, ranging from the young to the old. A few women, but the crowd was predominantly male. The event wasn’t free. Each attendee had to shell out three hundred dollars. Tizzard’s got appeal and a fan following who will pay. A range of attire was on display, from the formal to Tees and jeans. Fancy tattoos and haircuts proudly displayed, along with a few flags. No Lions ink, but they’ll be here. He peered over the heads of those around him to see if he could detect Nails or Knowles, but there were too many people.
At seven pm the chandeliers lit up and a gasp swept through the room at their majestic glow.
Cutter took his seat to the side of the crowd as the host appeared. He checked out the staircase, just behind him. It was cordoned off, a security guard watching impassively. The balcony was dark and empty. Escape route’s clear.
A drumroll from the band on the stage and the program began. A comedian took the spotlight and soon had the crowd in stitches. Cutter couldn’t help grinning at some of the gags. None of them are racist. So far.
The band played light music at the change of program. Several attendees went to the bar and helped themselves to drinks. The lights dimmed again and another speaker came up. A well-known nationalist, not as prominent as Tizzard. The smaller guns are coming out to warm up the crowd. Cutter clapped and got a grin from the man beside him.
‘Quite a show, huh?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You been to any of these before?’
‘A couple of Tizzard’s rallies.’
It was true. He had attended some of the man’s speeches around the country. Once was out of curiosity, to see what his appeal was, the other was during an assignment.
The back of his neck prickled when a shadow drifted up his side. He recognized the man immediately. A hitter who hung out with Nails, one of his trusted men. The thug wore a loose jacket as he checked out the seated attendees. He met Cutter’s eyes, nodded politely and moved on.
They’re looking for me.
He searched the hall and found more men around the hall, making their way up and down the edges of the room, sizing up the attendees. Many had cell phones cupped to their ears. None of the security guards challenged them, and participants seemed to take them for organizers.
At nine pm, the main act arrived, to loud cheers and applause.
Eric Tizzard cocked his head and mock-frowned. ‘Is that all you got? Are you being politically correct?’
The accompanying roar and clapping were thunderous.
He’s a good speaker. Reads a crowd well. It showed, as the supremacist soon had the attendees eating out of his hand. He trotted out familiar tropes and sound bites, none of them new, but that didn’t matter to the crowd. They cheered and yelled their support at every punchline.
Dinner break. Cutter joined the line for the side tables, made casual conversation with those around him. More thugs passed him, standing out easily from the way they dressed and carried themselves. None recognized him.
He didn’t see Sheller. He’ll be in disguise as well, though there’s nothing he can do about his size. But he didn’t see anyone who came close to the Lions’ founder’s shape. There were large men, bald heads, pink and sweaty faces, eyes gleaming in excitement, but none was the ruthless killer from ADX.
It happened as Tizzard was winding down his second act.
75
A commotion at their backs, where the entrance was located. Loud voices burst out, and a ripple swept through the crowd as a scuffle broke out.
Cutter turned to see several protesters, young men and women, holding placards and banners, resisting the security guards.
‘Here come the do-gooders,’ Tizzard sneered. ‘They can’t hold their own rallies. The food’s over there!’ he shouted, to loud laughter.
The fights should have been subdued quickly when the thugs joined the guards, but men rose suddenly from their chairs, and several whipped out placards, revealing who they were. Protesters masquerading as attendees.
Their presence among the seated crowd lit a fuse. A burly man threw a punch. His target ducked and flung his chair. A woman screamed as brawls broke out.
‘That’s it for the night, folks,’ Tizzard called out hurriedly as a bunch of men swarmed around him and took him away.
Cutter edged to the side and watched in amazement as a free-for-all broke out in the hall. He ducked when a missile, a fork, came his way and disappeared behind him.
‘You’re on which side?’ a sneering face challenged him, with fist cocked.
‘Mine.’ He took out the man with the hard edge of his palm and followed it up by jabbing hard with his cane in the man’s belly. The attacker wheezed as he went down and was in danger of being trampled as the fight swept across the hall.
Cutter yanked the man assaulting him and shoved him to the sidelines, to safety. He stepped back as men and women flailed with the protesters, whose numbers seemed to have taken the organizers and the Lions by surprise.
But the nationalists prevailed, and in a matter of minutes, the intruders were bundled out. Excited chatter burst out as the attendees mopped their faces.
Why hadn’t the cops come in? Did the Lions block their way?
That couldn’t be it. Maybe the fight was over faster than they could respond. Or, he thought bleakly, Tizzard and the Lions had an agreement with the dirty cops. The supremacists would deal with the protesters themselves.
‘That was the icing!’ a man exclaimed. ‘I’d heard Tizzard’s rallies turned violent. I was hoping something like that would happen here, too.’
Cutter looked contemptuously at him. Checked the hall again, his eyes sweeping it in tight sections. Nope. There was no one who looked like Sheller.
A trap for me, but he didn’t show up.
He was sure that if he had appeared as himself or in his heavyset disguise, he would have been captured.
He headed to the bathroom at the far end.
A long line of porcelain sinks in front of a large mirror. A row of stalls behind. A bunch of people, talking, laughing.
Gangbangers, judging by their outfits. He recognized a few from before, when they had been checking the crowd from the sides. They must be from other cells. Haven’t seen any of them with Nails.
He didn’t miss a step. Put on a polite smile and went to the far stall. The thugs made way for him. An old man with a cane? No threat.
He emerged from the stall and went to the sink. Was washing his hands when a large man came up on his left. The stranger bent his face to the tap and pushed back the cap on his head.
Cutter froze inside.
That’s Sheller.
76
The stranger had a jowly face and a broken nose, but Cutter made him out from the way he moved. There was no mistaking the man’s powerful build, the way he cocked his head, the sheer menace he exuded, for anyone else. His time at ADX had imprinted every aspect of the killer in his brain.
Jeff Sheller was beside him. And he had showed himself!
He was at the back of the stage during the change of sets! Moving furniture, Cutter realized.
He had appeared and disappeared so fast, his presence hadn’t registered.
‘You had a good evening?’ The convict seemed to sense his scrutiny.
‘Got my money’s worth.’ Cutter chuckled as he wiped his face with a soft towel.
The Lions’ man patted him on the back and went to the exit.
Take him d
own?
How?
He’s got his men. I’m alone; don’t even have my Glock.
And by the time he had finished arguing with himself, the ex-con had left the room and was surrounded by his men in the hallway.
All but one of them.
Clint Knowles stood near the door, smiling at him.
Cutter recognized the hood immediately from the file Meghan had sent him.
‘That a lion?’
‘Huh?’ he asked, nonplussed.
‘That tatt on your neck?
‘That? Yeah.’ It appeared his collar had slid back to reveal the ink he had drawn on himself.
‘Lions,’ Knowles grinned. ‘They’re everywhere.’
‘Common enough drawing.’
‘That’s all it is to you? An animal?’
Cutter faced him squarely, his cane in his left hand. ‘Depends on who’s asking. To many, they are just that. To some, they’re a sign.’
‘A sign?’
‘Of a return?’
‘Like a rising?’
He’s verifying me. To see if I’ve heard of the gang.
‘That’s right.’
‘I didn’t know they were around in your time.’
‘Son,’ Cutter said contemptuously, ‘You weren’t born when I performed my first … what do they call it now? Hate crime? Yeah. That. I beat up—’
‘You are one of us,’ Knowles breathed.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You don’t know who was here, do you? That man next to you?’
‘A Tizzard fan, like me?’
‘Tizzard fan? Heck, Tizzard is a fan of him! That was Gunn—say, who initiated you?’
‘That was Gunner?’ Cutter asked in awe. He took a step forward.
‘Who inducted you into the gang?’
‘I’ve always wanted to meet him.’ He frowned and took another step. ‘But I thought he died.’
‘I’m asking you—’
Cutter punched him savagely in the throat.
Knowles’s eyes went wide, and then he wheezed and gasped and groaned as he doubled over.
Have just a few seconds before someone comes in.
It was a big risk, questioning the hitter in the bathroom. He couldn’t escape if more thugs arrived through the door. He had to grab the opportunity, however.
Cutter grabbed him by his Tee and hauled him up. Jabbed the point of his cane in the thug’s belly.
‘Where’s Gunner?’ he whispered. ‘Where does he hang out?’
Knowles shook his head, blindly clawing at his throat, wheezing.
‘WHERE IS HE?’ Cutter shook the thug, but the man was panting for breath.
He swore and dragged him to the farthest stall and shoved him inside. Searching the thug, found his gun, a Sig Sauer, and pocketed it. Straightened his clothing, patted his hair into place and went out of the bathroom.
Spotted some of the thugs hurrying back.
They’re looking for him.
Cutter sped up, his cane clacking on the floor as he headed towards the staircase. The hall was emptying as attendees went for the exit. Chairs tipped over, placards trampled, broken china—all the signs of a fight, but no sign of Sheller.
‘HEY! YOU!’
Cutter didn’t turn around at the shout.
They found Knowles.
‘IT’S HIM!’
He glanced back. Four men, one of them pointing at him, a good thirty feet away. Several attendees between them and him. To his left was the staircase.
‘THAT’S HIM. THE OLD GUY.’
Cutter drew the gun at their approach and fired over their heads.
Screams burst out. The orderly exit turned into a stampede. The rushing thugs were blocked by the fleeing attendees.
He fired at the chandeliers. The largest one exploded and showered glass and crystal onto the floor. Cutter flung his cane away and sprinted. Whirled for an instant when he reached the steps and emptied the magazine at the lighting and then over the heads of the fleeing people. The Lions who had spotted him were trapped between the bathroom and the mass of people. Other thugs were jammed at the entrance. A gun went off wildly.
Cutter raced up and went to the crate he had stored earlier.
He had planned for buying some time and hoped his methods would work.
He opened the box and brought out several smoke bombs and fake grenades. He tossed them into the hall and down the stairway, where they detonated satisfyingly and added to the chaos.
He removed the bundle of fabric next, and emptied the bottle of lighter fluid over it. He lit one end of it, and as it whooshed into flame he ran to the edge of the stairs and threw it down the steps. The curtain lining burst into flame and burned brightly as it rolled down and settled over the lower steps.
Panic, smoke and fire.
That got him the time he needed.
He went to the crate and extracted the last item he would need for his escape.
A base-jumping wingsuit.
He climbed into it, conscious of the passing seconds. Several stray shots came his way as the thugs sought cover from the explosions and the thick smoke. No shooter had a clear line of fire at him, and all their rounds went wide.
They’ll soon find out that isn’t tear gas and those aren’t grenades. They would surge forward then, and the fire wouldn’t be a significant obstacle.
He shattered the window with Knowles’s gun barrel and grabbed the Glock he had stowed in the crate. He threw the thug’s weapon as far as he could in the general direction of the bathroom and turned to the window.
It was a tight fit, but he managed to squeeze through without ripping his suit. Cool air bathed him. The loud sound of sirens on the street and escaping attendees shouting.
He ran down the sloping roof and launched himself from its edge just as he heard thugs shouting and yelling from the stairs.
A shot sounded, but the bullet came nowhere near him, and then he was away, flying over the streets of the city, navigating between highrises and office buildings.
There was the taste of sour ash in his mouth as he escaped.
He had gotten away, but so had Sheller.
I didn’t recognize him when he came on stage.
77
‘Where are you?’ Difiore called him at three am, her voice tight, clipped.
‘Central Park,’ he told her.
He had landed near Grand Central, and while he had drawn a few strange looks from passersby, no one commented. Even the sight of someone base-jumping and landing near one of the busiest train stations in the city didn’t faze New Yorkers.
He had ducked into an alley and shrugged out of his wingsuit, which he stuffed into a trashcan. He went to a hotel in his elderly person disguise and checked into the room he had rented previously.
‘What are you doing there? This time of night?’ Difiore asked.
‘Running.’
That was true. He had left the hotel in his running gear and backpack and was cooling down when she called.
‘Come to Columbus Circle. We’ll meet you there.’
They drove up in her Chevy, came out and leaned against the car while he leapt over the railing and joined them.
Quindica and the detective in their suits. No creases in their clothing, nothing astray, despite the late hour. Only a faint shadow beneath their eyes revealed their tiredness.
‘What’s up?’ he asked. Casual. Friendly. Like he always was with cops.
‘Where were you this evening?’ Difiore asked peremptorily. As she always was with him.
‘Hanging out with some friends, not far from here.’
Beth and Meghan had worked their magic to show his phone was in their office. They said they would back him up if they were questioned. He had frowned at that, but they had waved his protests down. ‘It’s nothing,’ the elder twin had assured him. ‘We’ll be your alibis.’
‘Don’t get killed,’ Beth had warned him.
‘All night?
’ the cop asked him suspiciously.
He uncapped a bottle of water and took a generous swallow. ‘What’s this about?’ He wiped his mouth. ‘I’m sure you’ve checked my phone, placed its location.’
‘Heard of The Elitist?’ Quindica looked at a cruiser which raced past, siren wailing.
‘Nope. What’s that?’
‘A private club on West 45th.’
‘Never heard of it. The only clubs I go to are gyms, and those rarely.’
‘It’s a men-only establishment. For the super-rich and connected.’
‘Is this going somewhere?’
‘Eric Tizzard gave a speech last night,’—she glanced at her watch—‘nine pm. Protesters burst into the building, heckled him, fights broke out.’
‘That’s standard for his rallies, isn’t it?’
‘There were shots this time. The club nearly burned down.’
‘And I am involved, how?’
‘Grogan,’ Difiore broke in before the SAC could speak. ‘You know a lot more than you let on. You’ve got some contacts we would love to talk to. WHAT THE HECK’S GOING ON?’
He shrugged helplessly and looked at Quindica with a what’s she talking about expression.
‘We found the gun that killed Crump. It was in the club,’ the FBI agent explained. ‘We also found a body. Clint Knowles. His throat was crushed. He was a hardened criminal; his prints were on the gun. We think he was the shooter.’
He’s dead? Did I punch him that hard?
‘You got Crump’s killer? That’s great. Why the long faces?’
‘We think Sheller was there. Witnesses say an elderly man was in the bathroom with Knowles. He came out shooting—grenades, tear gas, fire, the works.’
‘Sounds like he started a war,’ Cutter grinned and immediately wiped the smile from his face when the detective glared at him.
‘That’s what witnesses say. The grenades were dummies. They gave off a loud bang. The smoke was just that. Not tear gas. The fire was real, though.’
‘I wasn’t there, if that’s what you’re thinking. I was with my friends. Beth and Meghan Petersen, at their office on Columbus Avenue.’