by Ty Patterson
Jared Twinnings, Building Inspector. Nope.
Kayla Hart, Insurance Clerk. She wasn’t part of the gang.
Pieter Ditchman, Sales Rep. Cray had never seen the man in his life, and he knew every member of Nails’ gang.
He ran down the entire list and sat back, defeated, when every one of them had been crossed out.
What else could he do?
He swept his arm across his desk in frustration, scattering the printouts to the floor. Swept his hand through his hair and composed himself. Rage and anger clouded thinking. He had to be more like Gunner, who rarely lost his cool.
He bent and picked up the photographs and returned to the table. Sat down abruptly when the uppermost one seemed to ring a bell.
Carmel Ward. Clerk in a law firm on Grand Street. Not far from Grogan’s office. Facial rec had identified her from an internet moms’ group.
What was it about her that pinged his radar? There were no women in Nails’ gang. Heck, none in all the Lions’ cells.
Ward.
Wasn’t there someone—
Darrell Ward!
That disposable kid in the gang.
Carmel Ward was his mother.
93
Gunner’s massive fists opened and closed as he took in Cray’s account. He kept looking at the photographs of the mom and the kid.
‘I called you last night, boss,’ the hacker said apologetically.
‘I was asleep.’
‘I called Peels. He agreed to open the club this early for us—’
‘Stop talking.’
It was only the two of them in the Bronx club. The Lions’ founder sipped the coffee Peels had brewed for him before he left the two alone.
‘He’s a disposable.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Why did his mother go to Grogan?’
‘No idea, boss. But it’s not a coincidence. Darrell knew about the holdup. He was the lookout for the hit. He must have used some other phone to—’
‘Cray,’ Gunner said softly, ‘I can think for myself.’
Silence fell in the bar.
The Lions’ founder closed his eyes momentarily as the fury rose in him. A vein in his neck ticked angrily. ‘Where is he?’ he asked roughly.
‘At home. I placed his phone there.’
‘His mom?’
‘She’s at home, too. It’s seven am.’
‘Lift them.’
* * *
Darrell hadn’t slept well. He had been jumpy and nervous the previous day as he had watched the cops take down the extra hitters Gunner had sent. He hadn’t seen what went down in the store until he caught the NYPD press conference on TV in a storefront.
Cutter’s alive!
Relief had swept over him as he headed home. Fear had replaced it soon after. What would happen to the gang? How would he get intel?
The recording he had made the previous night was unclear. All he could make out was a bald head, a large shape and a few indistinct voices.
There was no doubt the mystery man was key. The way Nails had deferred to him made it clear he was the boss.
Maybe the gang will dissolve, he thought as he buttoned his shirt. That would be ideal. It would free him immediately, and his life could return to normal.
Cheered up, he went to the living room and surprised his mom by hugging her tightly.
‘What brought that on?’ she said, laughing and ruffling his hair.
The buzzer sounded before he could reply.
‘Yeah?’
‘Delivery for Ms. Ward,’ a tinny voice sounded.
‘You expecting something, Mama?’
‘It’s from the law office.’ The man seemed to have heard them.
‘Must be some case papers,’ his mother frowned. ‘Why would they—’
Darrell opened the door before his mom finished and fell back with a yell when the hitters barged in and whipped him with a gun, and the last memory he had was of his mama screaming.
94
Gunner paced the eleventh floor in the Melrose building. Scaffolding around it. Bags of concrete, cables, tools, wooden planks strewn untidily. The builders had left in a hurry when the city had served them with a Stop Order for violating several codes. It had remained incomplete, abandoned, until Rubin’s company had acquired it. The Lions’ boss had urged him to leave it unfinished, to be used as a meeting place and interrogation center.
He went to the edge of the floor and peered down. Melrose Avenue to his right. East 154th ahead of him; another high-rise, completed and occupied, beyond. He wasn’t worried about being spotted. He had guards on the ground and several escape routes. Besides, he and his men would be hardly visible from anyone watching from the other building.
He turned at a sound.
The mother had come to. She looked at him, dazed, and then at his men. Cray among the ten of them.
‘What—? Who are you?’ Her scratchy voice gathered strength. ‘Why are we here? WHO ARE YOU? LET US GO!’ She ended with a shout as she found she and her son were tied up.
Darrell’s eyes flickered at her voice. He shook his head groggily and licked his lips when awareness returned.
‘Mrs. Ward,’ Gunner rasped. ‘Don’t waste your breath. No one can hear you.’
‘WHO ARE YOU?’
‘Why don’t you ask your son.’
‘DARRELL! WHAT DOES HE MEAN BY THAT? WHO ARE THESE MEN? WHY HAVE THEY BROUGHT US HERE?’
‘Mama,’ the boy began. He trembled and broke away from her eyes. His shoulders shook as he sobbed. ‘I’m sorry, Mama—’
‘Mrs. Ward,’ Gunner said emotionlessly, ‘It looks like your son has kept you in the dark. He’s part of my gang. We are the Rising Lions. No,’ he spotted the surprised expression on the teenager. ‘You haven’t heard that name. Very few have. All you know is Nails—’
‘DARRELL, IS THAT TRUE?’ the mother cut in. ‘HAVE YOU BEEN IN THIS GANG?’ Her lips curled spitefully. ‘WITH THESE MEN?’
Gunner chuckled mirthlessly and backhanded her casually. She fell to the floor with a scream. The boy shouted in anger and struggled, but he was bound tightly to his chair and all he could do was swear and curse balefully.
‘Some respect, Mrs. Ward.’ The gang founder went to the fallen woman and righted her chair. ‘Your life and your son’s are in my hands. Yeah. That’s the answer to your questions. Your precious boy has been working with us. Running errands, hustling drugs, keeping watch, like the good disposable that he is. But he wasn’t that good. Were you, Darrell?’
Gunner punched the teenager in the belly and followed it up with a slap that broke his lips.
‘This was on your phone.’ He held up the cell and played the recording on it. His meeting with Nails. ‘You were the snitch. You informed on us to Grogan. There’s only one reason you’re alive. Who else has gotten this? Who knows what about us?’
He grabbed the boy’s hair and forced him to look at him.
‘TALK!’
The teenager was struck dumb with fear. His eyes darted here and there, landed on his mother and flitted away in shame.
‘Jude?’
‘Yes, boss?’ One of his hitters stepped forward.
‘You told me once you always wanted a black woman. There she is. Take her.’
Carmel Ward screamed. Darrell lunged forward in fury and fell back when Gunner hit him in the chest. Jude, a swarthy man, stepped in front of the mother and unzipped his jeans.
‘Don’t be afraid, babe,’ he crooned.
‘DARRELL!’
‘CUTTER’S GOT IT. HE’S GOT EVERYTHING. YOUR MEETING WITH NAILS. WHERE YOU LIVE. EVERYTHING.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ Gunner watched as the mother flinched and shuddered when Jude cupped her face. ‘Why don’t we watch your mama? That’s what you call her? It’ll be a good show.’
‘NO. PLEASE. I’M TELLING THE TRUTH. CALL HIM. DON’T TOUCH HER.’
‘Go ahead, Jude. You shy?’
‘No, boss. I been want
ing something like this a long time.’ The thug kicked off his jeans and paraded in his underwear.
‘Please don’t do this,’ Carmel Ward sobbed as she tried to shrink from the advancing man. ‘He told you. Let us go—’
‘He lied to you. How do I know he’s telling the truth?’
‘I am,’ Darrell pleaded. ‘You’ve got to believe me. I swear—’
Gunner punched him so hard that he toppled sideways. His mother shrieked and tried to rise but fell back when Jude shoved her down.
The Lions’ boss grabbed the teenager and righted him. Clicked his tongue impatiently when he found the boy was out.
‘Cray, you believe him?’
‘It’s possible, boss.’
‘Jude, stop. Dress up.’
‘But—’
‘You’ll get your chance. I promise you.’
‘Cray?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Call Grogan.’
95
‘We’re good to go.’ Quindica swallowed a mouthful of French omelet and leaned back with a sigh. ‘As soon as you brew some more of that coffee.’
Cutter grinned as he filled their mugs and presented them with a flourish. He had whipped up breakfast while they went out for their surveillance run. The place was ideal; that was their summary when they returned.
‘Yeah,’ he agreed as Difiore toyed with her phone.
‘Let’s do it,’ she said as she finished her coffee. She was thumbing a number just as Cutter’s phone rang.
‘One moment.’ He held up a finger and checked the number. Darrell. Should I take the call in front of them? It won’t matter if I don’t mention his name.
‘What’s up, buddy?’ he answered cheerfully.
‘Grogan. It’s been a long time.’
He froze for a moment. Checked the caller ID and returned it to his ear.
‘I hear you’re looking for me,’ the voice rasped.
Who is it? Difiore lipped, reading his body language. Quindica stood up and checked the street through the windows, alert for any threat.
‘You’re thinking how I got this phone. Where Darrell is—’
Difiore snatched the phone from his hand, put it on speaker and placed it on the island.
‘Stop wondering.’ There was a sound of flesh striking flesh and a voice screamed.
‘CUTTER, HE’S GOT US. MAMA AND ME!’
‘You heard the boy, Grogan—’
‘What do you want?’
‘You. I have been looking for you, too. But not just you. Bring the recordings from Darrell’s phone. Everything.’
What recording?
‘You may choose not to come. Or you may bring cops along.’ A slap followed by a woman’s shriek. ‘You can guess what will happen. We’ll disappear. My boys will play with Mrs. Ward before I cut her and her boy to pieces. And then we’ll hunt you.’
‘Where do I meet you?’
‘I’ll tell you where.’
Cutter gripped the edges of the marble top so tight that his fingers turned white. There was a roaring in his ears … it was Difiore, who was yelling at him furiously.
‘THAT WAS SHELLER! WHO DOES HE HAVE? WHAT RECORDING DO YOU HAVE? WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON?’
‘His name is Darrell,’ Cutter responded dully. He slumped in his chair and told them about Darrell and how it had started. There was nothing to play for by holding back information from them.
Difiore and Quindica stared at him for long seconds when he had finished.
‘You could have come to us. We would have found a way to—’
‘He doesn’t trust cops, Difiore,’ he said wearily. ‘Don’t you get it? Going to you was the first advice I gave him. He asked—’
‘Enough,’ Quindica slammed her palm on the island. ‘We can get him. Where’s this recording?’
‘I don’t have it. I don’t know what he’s talking about.’
He raised his hands helplessly at their expressions. ‘It’s true. Darrell must have caught Sheller on his phone.’
‘He bought time.’ Quindica caught on fast. ‘By saying he’s given it to you.’
‘When this is over,’ Difiore said venomously, ‘I’m going to—’ She caught herself and put on her game face. ‘We’ll wire you. Fake some recording—’
‘I have something,’ he told them about the cloning software and The Elitist and waited for the storm to break, Difiore’s fury to rage.
She surprised him. She didn’t shout, yell or come at him physically. She and the SAC traded glances.
They’re amused?
‘We suspected you knew more than you were letting on,’ Quindica waved vaguely. ‘All that for later. Our tech people might be able to track his phone.’
They won’t. If Beth and Meg can’t, no one can.
He kept his silence, however; he logged into his laptop and phone and turned over everything he had to them.
Difiore made calls and joined Quindica at the island. They listened to the recordings from the software and made notes.
‘Sheller can find this place.’ The detective raised her head. ‘He’s got your number.’
‘He can’t. My calls get forwarded, bounced …’ he trailed off.
‘You duped us. When you were at the club.’
He shrugged. Those events felt like a million years ago. They didn’t feel relevant, not with the taste of defeat in his mouth.
He paced and brooded while they spoke softly, made notes, and established timelines. Difiore’s right. I should have ignored Darrell. I should have gone to her. He was cursing himself for his negligence when the buzzer sounded.
‘That’ll be our team.’ Quindica started to rise.
He waved her down and went to the door. He needed an outlet for his self-directed anger, and any physical movement helped.
It was how he was feeling, he would say later, the bitterness inside him that made him ignore the video monitor at the door.
He opened it. Felt his radar ping, but it was too late.
A blow knocked him out.
96
The sound of soft voices. Footsteps shuffling. Bright lighting. Something squeaking … a chair. The feeling of being restrained.
Sounds, impressions and smells came to Cutter as he regained consciousness. He kept his head bowed, his eyes open a fraction as he checked out his surroundings.
He was tied to a chair. Dirty concrete floor. Several people present. He could see feet at the edge of his vision. Difiore’s shoes.
They’re here, too.
He didn’t curse himself. There would be time for self-recrimination later.
If we live.
Someone sobbed in the distance.
That’s Carmel. Darrell should be here, too.
It felt like they were somewhere high up, with a breeze playing. The distant sounds of traffic. We’re in the city, but somewhere remote.
He gasped and shuddered when cold water fell on him.
‘Wake up, Grogan, and join the party.’
Jeff Sheller stood in front of him, his thumbs hooked in his waistband as a flunky came from behind Cutter and placed an empty bucket on the floor.
He’s huge.
That was his first impression. The Lions’ founder dominated with his presence. Taller and broader than everyone else around him. His command over his men apparent from the way they deferred to him. His eyes were small, slitted. Light shone off his shaven head. The loose shirt he wore didn’t conceal the flex of powerful muscles.
‘It’s been a long time, Grogan. I wish it was longer. I wish I’d killed you in ADX. Never mind. You aren’t going anywhere tonight.’
Cutter rocked back in his chair and fell when the slap struck him. It wasn’t a hard blow, but he wanted to make it look like it was.
He lay gasping on the floor and groaned when the ex-con grasped his Tee and righted his chair roughly.
He coughed and wheezed and shook his head.
‘Come now, Grogan.’ Sheller chuckled. ‘I didn’
t hit you that hard. I was worried my men put you into a coma at that fancy place, you were out for so long.’
Ten men. One of them working on a laptop. Everyone else armed. We’re on the floor of some under-construction building. Wired up for ceiling lights.
He could see the night through the open structure, which had no walls. He was to the left of the remaining prisoners: Difiore, Quindica, Darrell and then Carmel Ward. The boy and his mother were looking on with shock and fear; the detective and the SAC were impassive.
His gut tightened when he noticed the mother’s ripped shirt.
‘There’s no escape, Grogan,’ Sheller continued. ‘Heck, I’ll even tell you where we are. Melrose. In a deserted building. Eleventh floor. No getting away from here. That high-rise over there.’ He jerked his head toward a property that seemed to be across the street. ‘None of their residents will be able to see clearly. They might with binos, but I’ve got people on the ground. They’ll warn me. Besides’—he leered at Difiore and Quindica—‘we have other informants.’
‘Let them go,’ Cutter told him. ‘You’ve got me. Your beef’s with me.’
He didn’t have to pretend anymore when Sheller’s fist crashed into his belly. He groaned and fell over and lay dazed on the floor until the Lions’ man picked him up and straightened his chair.
‘None of you are going anywhere.’
‘I’m a cop,’ Difiore said sharply. ‘She’s an FBI agent. You touch us, every LEO will be looking for you.’
Sheller looked at her the way a hawk watched a mouse. His left hand struck her on the face and sent her sprawling to the floor.
‘That’s how much I think of cops.’ He spat at her as a thug went to her chair and set it upright. ‘Cray?’
‘Yes, boss?’ the man with the laptop replied.
‘What have you got?’
‘Nothing much on Grogan’s phone, boss. Just those recordings. Your call with Nails. That snippet at the club.’
‘His laptop?’