by Joseph Lewis
Pete kept up a running commentary of bullshit, repeating “two guys” often enough that Dahlke was bound to understand, wouldn’t he? But would he tell the kid with the gun he was going to walk in on? How would he react?
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
O’Connor and Eiselmann stood in the hallway knowing that behind one of three doors, a guard lay in bed sleeping.
Hopefully.
And then there was always the possibility that there was more than one guard sleeping behind those doors. Eiselmann moved to the next door and softly tried the knob. Locked. As he did before, he inserted the key quietly and then stood off to the side and pushed the door open.
Two shots from what sounded like a .38 blasted from the darkness of the room and harmlessly into the hallway, hitting neither Eiselmann nor O’Connor. Pat signaled that he’d watch the hallway to see if there were any other guards in either of the two rooms across the hallway, while Paul would deal with the shooter in the room.
While O’Connor moved away from the open door and crouched low facing the two unopened doors, Eiselmann concentrated on the man with the gun in the dark bedroom. How to flush the guy out?
“Look, there are more of us than you have bullets, so why don’t you just . . .”
Two shots in rapid succession rang out and into the door and wall across the hallway just like the first two shots, far away from either officer.
“We have all night, Asshole. In about five minutes, this building will be crawling with FBI so . . .”
One more shot rang out.
“How stupid are you?” Eiselmann asked.
There was silence.
“It doesn’t have to end like this, Dumb Shit. Really, it doesn’t.”
It wasn’t textbook negotiation, but at this point, Eiselmann didn’t care. He just wanted it done. This was met with silence. It stretched on and on. No one came out of either door. There was no sound in the building other than slight movement from inside the open bedroom door and distant sirens that came gradually louder and closer.
“Buddy, the posse is almost here. We don’t have much time. We can end this with flash bang grenades and a full out fire fight, but . . .”
A single shot rang out, followed by a thud from inside the room, along with metallic clatter as if a gun had fallen to the floor. O’Connor and Eiselmann looked at each other and knew it was over, other than to check the other two rooms.
Eiselmann snaked his arm around the doorway and found the light switch and flipped on the lights. No shots. No sound. O’Connor chanced a glance into the room from the low right side of the doorway and saw the man lying in his underwear on the floor. Blood pooled around the man’s head in a crimson satanic halo.
He shook his head at Eiselmann and motioned that the man was prone, down on the floor, and chopped his hand in a way to convey it is over, done. Eiselmann took a quick look into the room, then took his time and entered the room slowly, cautiously.
It was over in Los Angeles.
* * *
Jamie and Fitz heard Pete’s chatter. Two of the three guards had him on the stairs and were headed to the third floor. Some way, somehow, he had to help protect those kids and Pete.
“Skip, did you copy that?”
“Yeah . . . so, what do you want me to do?”
Jamie looked at Fitz who seemed to be sweating as much as he was bleeding. He was in a bad way. With his good hand, Fitz waved Jamie off as if to say, ‘Go help Pete’.
“What did Chet say about the cavalry?” Jamie asked.
“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”
A hell of a lot can happen in fifteen or twenty minutes.
“Skip, you can’t let that door open. One of them might have a key, and they’re going to use Pete as a shield. You cannot fire until he’s clear. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I get that. I’ll hold them off until you or somebody gets here,” he said solemnly.
“Fitz, I’m going to follow up the stairs, so I can help Pete. You gonna be all right down here?”
Fitz nodded and waved him off again. No, Jamie thought, Fitz is not going to be all right unless somebody gets here quickly.
He got up from between the van and the Camaro and moved in a quick walk towards the stairs when the first of two shots rang out slamming into the back concrete wall, just missing him. He was able to duck back between the garage door and the broken down office.
They had to have come from the other side of the garage towards the front of the building, meaning: sleeping guard number three was wide awake and shooting. That also still left the possibility of two other guards roaming the building. Jamie got onto his belly and waited for any sound that might give the guard away.
“Skip and Pete, Fitz and I are pinned down. I’ll get to you as soon as I can. Guys, be careful.”
* * *
Skip and Brett had come up with a plan. Or actually, Brett came up with the plan, and Skip reluctantly agreed because it sounded half-way plausible, but a whole lot dangerous. Skip stayed in a room where he could see both ends of the hallway, yet closer to the back end where he knew Pete would come through the door. Brett stayed half in, half out of the room where the red-haired man was. His right hand carried the .45 with the safety off, finger slightly on the trigger, not visible from the back door. Brett was to move out of the way, so Skip could get a good shot at the two guards.
Brett heard the key slide in the lock and saw the knob begin to turn. He had time to shut his eyes, breathe deeply and let it out slowly. Pete came in with his hands in the air and stopped short, eyes wide in horror as he saw the boy. Luckily, he was shoved forward, which gave Brett and Skip the room they needed.
“Kid, what are you doin’ out here?” the guard asked.
Brett knew him as Ace.
“Butch told me to fetch one of you as soon as you showed up.”
As the two guards lowered their guns, Brett stepped fully into the hallway, pulled his gun up with both hands and took out Ace with two shots to the chest. It took only a second before the other guard registered that the kid had a gun, which didn’t make sense to him, but for that guard, it was a second too long. As he swung his gun up, Brett shot him first in the stomach, then in the chest. The guard got off one shot spinning Brett around, knocking him to the floor.
Before Pete could react, Skip put three shots into the guard and a fourth in the wall high and to the right.
“Jesus Fucking Christ!” Pete yelled as he ran to the boy and knelt down. “Brett . . . Brett, you okay?”
No answer but moans and groans. Blood everywhere. Brett held his shoulder, blood oozing out of the wound and between his fingers. He rolled slowly around on the floor, finally stopping, and curled up in a fetal position.
“Skip, I need help . . . now!”
Dahlke came on a run, dropping his rifle on the floor, kneeling down beside the boy.
“I need something for bandages. Quickly! Water, if possible.”
“Is he going to be all right?” Pete asked desperately.
“How the hell do I know?” Skip shouted. “I work on dead people!”
Brett looked up at both men, but his eyes didn’t register or focus. He tried to smile, but the pain was too intense. He began to shiver. Skip ran to the bedroom and grabbed the blanket and pillow off the bed and wrapped the boy in it, laying his head on the pillow. Pete had run off to find anything that could be used as bandages.
“Kid, hang in there. This doesn’t look that bad,” Skip lied. “But you have to fight, okay?”
He didn’t know if Brett had heard or had understood him as there was no reaction from him. Brett had shut his eyes and had become pasty-white. Skip recognized that at the least, he was going into shock. Hopefully, he wasn’t dying.
Pete pulled out his cell and dialed up Chet.
“We need two ambulances, maybe three . . . NOW!” he yelled running back to Skip with an armful of sheets. “We need the cavalry NOW, goddammit!”
He didn’t wait for Chet�
��s reply but clicked off the phone and shoved it back into his pocket. Skip had already taken off his shirt and was tearing it in strips.
“Can’t use sheets, Pete. Too risky given what was done on them,” Skip said calmly. “Go help Jamie. I got this.”
As Pete was leaving, he added, “We need to wrap this up in a hurry,” nodding at the boy.
“Pete, if you’re coming, use the front stairs. That way, we’ll have the asshole between us. Just don’t get caught in my crossfire. And remember, there might be more than one guard down here.”
Jamie had often made fun of shows where cops storm buildings from more than one entrance. It never really happened that way in real life because of the possibility of shots being fired at each other. It was always better to seal one exit and enter through a different one. That way, there wouldn’t be the possibility of anyone getting shot with friendly fire.
Pete took one last look at Brett who seemed so small wrapped in the blanket. Skip packed the wound with strips of his shirt trying to stem the flow of blood. Brett, the little boy who had acted so tough, but was so gentle helping the other boys. The little boy who had been through so much. No way can he die when he and the other kids were so close to going home. No way.
Pete picked up the rifle Skip had used and took off down the hallway on a run, checking his ammunition. He burst through the door and onto the third floor landing, stopped at the second door, opened it up cautiously, shut it quietly behind him and then ran down the stairs as cautiously, quickly and as quietly as he could to the first floor.
“Jamie, I’m at the door. Give a couple of bursts to keep the asshole down. I’ll come through low and to the right. I’d prefer not to get shot.”
“I’ll see what I can do. On my count.”
Jamie let loose a burst of gun fire, five or six shots and said, “One . . . two . . .” and he let out another burst of fire. “Three!”
Pete stayed as low as he could and opened the door quietly, looking around to see as much as he could, as he dared. He found himself on a landing, six steps from the garage floor. He shut the door quietly behind him.
In the distance, sirens.
“Hey, Asshole!” Jamie yelled. “You don’t have much time. Hear those sirens? They’re coming our way.”
A shot rang out below and to Pete’s left. In the semi-darkness, the muzzle flash was bright. The problem was that it was too bright, and it left an imprint on Pete’s eyes. He shut them briefly and then opened them up, and while still present, the imprint was dimmer.
He saw movement in the general vicinity of where the gunfire had come from. He looked around for something, anything, to throw and had to settle for twenty-three cents he had in his front pocket. He threw the coins against the wall opposite him.
The guard stood up and fired three shots in rapid succession and that was all Pete needed. He opened fire in a general spray pattern, saw the man get lifted up off his feet and over a barrel.
“Pete, you okay?”
He didn’t answer right away, but instead fired another spray in that direction.
“Pete?”
“I think he’s down. No movement.”
“Stay where you are. I’ll come up the far wall. Where do you think he is exactly?”
“From your position, one o’clock, ten yards from my position on the landing.”
“Got it.”
Jamie moved in a crouch up the far wall, and Pete saw him coming. He’d stop every so often behind a barrel or a pile of one thing or another, until he was maybe fifteen yards from the position of the guard.
“There’s been no movement,” Pete said.
“On the wall by the last step are light switches. Turn them on, and I’ll cover you.”
Pete took the last six steps very quietly, slowly, then flicked on all three lights and suddenly, the entire garage was filled with light.
Sprawled over a barrel on his back spread-eagle, a man lay still and unmoving. Both Jamie and Pete approached him warily, guns at the ready. He was almost cut in two. In fact, the only thing keeping him together was his torn shirt which was dripping with blood and various internal organs. The sirens drew ever nearer and that was when Pete’s phone chirped.
“This is FBI Agent Vincent Cochrane of the Chicago Field Office. We have two ambulances on stand-by with EMTs, with a third ambulance handy in case we need it. We also caught two armed men as they ran out the front of the building. We have the perimeter secured, and we’re waiting for your go ahead.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Once the duct tape came off Luke Clyborne’s mouth, he couldn’t talk fast enough. The same could be said for the two remaining guards at the motel in Kansas City. They had hoped that by cooperating with the FBI, their role in the prostitution of the boys at the motel might be minimized. Together, they provided contacts, e-mail addresses, account numbers, and turned over money, photos, and DVDs. The manager was so sleazy that he probably would have pointed a finger at his own mother had she been involved. Fortunately, she wasn’t involved because she had been dead for two years after crawling into a bottle of gin seven years previous.
Albrecht, Coffey and Kaupert had given statements to the KC FBI, which were accepted verbatim. Because it was a shooting, their weapons were taken and would be held until the review was completed. Old and well-worn territory for these three vets. Paramedics had taken Ronnie Desotel to the hospital despite his protests because he had wanted to be there with the rest of his team.
As the gurney carrying the black body bag containing Detective Paul Gates was pushed out of the motel room, Albrecht, Coffey and Kaupert stopped talking and turned and watched in silence.
“A wife and a young son,” Albrecht said softly.
No one responded.
* * *
Pat O’Connor and Paul Eiselmann sat next to each other on the floor in the third floor hallway drinking Coke. Both of them had wanted something much stronger but had accepted the Coke gratefully from one of the cops sent by his boss to a convenient store. The harder stuff would be waiting for them later.
O’Connor had his eyes shut, but he was alert to every sound and foot fall. FBI from the LA office scurried around collecting any evidence Charlie Chan might have missed, which meant they hadn’t and wouldn’t find anything.
Chan lugged a heavy, dark green, canvas duffle wherever he went, never leaving it outside of his reach. Thick red evidence tape sealed the bag, and he wasn’t about to lose chain of custody until it was delivered to the federal attorney.
Gavin Reilly sat down next to Eiselmann. O’Connor and Eiselmann knew he was pissed about not being part of the siege team inside the building, but they also knew that the building had to be covered on the outside as a precaution. Deep down, Reilly did too. Eiselmann reached out and slapped his leg playfully.
“You okay?”
Reilly grunted something Eiselmann didn’t understand, but he didn’t care. He was exhausted as was everyone else, and more importantly, the kids were safe, and everyone was heading home, except one pervert who chose to blow his brains out.
Good riddance, Fuck Head! No one will miss your sorry ass, and the world will be that much safer for kids! he thought to himself.
As if reading his mind, O’Connor turned to his two teammates, smiled and said, “Not a bad night’s work, huh? All the kids go home. No bullets. No blood. Everyone safe.”
He took a sip of Coke, leaned his head back against the wall, shut his eyes and repeated, “Not a bad night’s work.”
* * *
Pete and Jamie had huddled briefly just outside the control room after letting the FBI team, led by Vince Cochrane, into the building. Jamie decided he didn’t do ‘Feeb-speak’ very well, so with a pat on the back and a smirk, Jamie walked down the hallway to get out of the way and to help Skip Dahlke with Brett.
“Smart ass!” Pete called after him.
Jamie didn’t turn around or even break stride, but waved a hand as he kept on walking.
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sp; Agents ran around everywhere. Four paramedics jogged through the door pushing a gurney and lugging bags of equipment. Pete stood in the center of the hallway and pointed towards the other end. He grabbed the fourth man by the arm as he was about to pass.
“You treat that kid as if he were the president. He’s the real hero here. He saved our asses, and if it weren’t for him, we’d be dead and those kids wouldn’t be going home.” He paused and added, “Understand?”
“Yessir.”
One of the agents came up to Pete and said, “What’s with the guy with his dick fried and a nightstick sticking out of his ass?”
Pete stared at the guy, not having any idea what the guy was talking about. He chose to say nothing because he didn’t have anything to say. The agent motioned to Pete to follow him.
He stopped outside the room where they had found the man raping Tim. Pete entered and saw the cop, Robert Manville, on the floor in obvious discomfort, if not agony, with the electrodes to a tazer clamped on his penis, which was now the color of a grilled hotdog and the handle of his nightstick sticking out of his ass.
Pete almost laughed, bit his tongue and said, “I have no fucking clue.”
Jamie came over to see what was happening, stuck his head in the door, and laughed. “What, a copcycle?”
Pete did laugh and said, “No fucking clue.”
Vince Cochrane came over, took a look, shut the door behind them and with a smirk said, “I think we need to talk.”
The four of them huddled and decided that no one knew what had happened, though Pete had a pretty good idea as did Jamie, but neither of them had volunteered anything.
Instead, Cochrane grabbed a wipe from the box on the nightstand, wiped down the handle of the nightstick, none too gently, but didn’t remove it. Then he went to the tazer gun and wiped that down, too. After a minute or two, he radioed down and called up another set of paramedics to transport Manville to the hospital.