It was 3pm and the traffic was beginning to build. Forrest turned down a tree lined side street, his eyes darting between the mirrors and the windows, looking for irregularities, which he knew were so often indicators of impending danger. But there didn’t appear to be any. He rounded a corner into a suburban street, multi-story apartments and parked cars on either side, as well as scattered trees. Then he saw it – a glaring irregularity. It looked like a shiny new speed hump on the road ahead.
“Oh shit, here we go,” he said, and stopped the car.
“What is it?” Jenkins asked.
“Spike strip.”
Jenkins looked up ahead. “You sure it’s not a speed hump?”
“It’s no speed hump,” Forrest said.
They surveyed the surrounding area.
“There’s no one here, man, I think it’s just a speed hump.”
Forrest mounted the curb and drove onto the sidewalk, past the spike strip and back onto the road. When the white van rounded the corner ahead and blocked the road, he hit the brakes.
“Motherfucker!” Forrest said, switching to reverse and stomping his foot, tires screeching.
Mitch’s heart sank and his eyes widened in horror as three armed men in black clothing and ski masks leapt from the van. Jenkins shoved Mitch onto the floor an instant before the first gunshot cracked the front windshield, followed by a storm of shotgun pellets and glass fragments, which rained upon them.
Turner got on the radio but before he could speak, another shot shattered his lower jaw and hand. He clutched his face and gurgled as blood filled his lungs.
Jenkins leaned out his window, firing back, but the masked men advanced behind the cover of trees and parked cars. He took aim at the white van, pumping multiple shots into the bulletproof windshield and the grill.
His face and chest bloodied, Forrest stayed focused on driving and attempted to reverse up over the curb to go around the speed hump. He got one of the back wheels over, but the other went over the hump and the stinger spikes were deployed, puncturing the tire. The gunshots continued, the windshield speckled with holes and cracks.
Forrest kept trying to climb the curb, but the punctured back tire made it impossible and spun the rubber into a cloud of black smoke.
Lying on the floor, Mitch looked up to see a blast of bloody buckshot rip through the headrest of Forrest’s seat and tear Jenkins’s face to pieces. Forrest moaned and slumped forward onto the wheel, the horn blaring. Mitch opened the back door and climbed out over Jenkins, whose pistol was on the ground. Mitch grabbed it and fled through a storm of gunfire.
A car tore out from a gated apartment block nearby and Mitch seized the opportunity and ran inside as the gates were closing.
“He’s gone into the parking lot,” one of the gunman yelled.
The three assassins converged onto the unmarked police car and unloaded a few more rounds to make sure the cops were dead.
Mitch followed the L-shaped car park around until he reached an eleven-foot fence.
The three hitmen sprinted to the gate of the apartments, climbing over. One of them was short and stocky, the other was average height and heavy, and the third was over six feet tall and built like a pro wrestler.
“I’ll take the gate, you two go ahead,” the stocky guy said, standing guard inside the front gate.
Mitch climbed on top of a rubbish bin and reached for the railing of a second floor balcony. He managed to grab it and pulled his leg up to the concrete floor, then hoisted himself up and stood outside the railing. He climbed over and dropped onto the balcony, lying flat. There was a waist-high concrete wall at the front, and railing on either side of the balcony. One set of railing looked over the car park, the other looked over a small garden and the fence.
***
Betts drove with haste, careful to avoid revving the engine too high, lest Canella and company hear it. He had the radio switched off and the air conditioner on, hoping the white noise it created would drown out the traffic noise and distant police sirens.
Having spent most of the previous night thinking through his options, Betts had dismissed the possibility of warning his fellow cops about the planned hit, knowing he would be killed before any message he made could be sent. He had come to the conclusion that the best he could do was be there when the hit went down and provide backup. Doc and Canella would probably hear gunfire through the chest-cam, but maybe he could surprise the hitmen, coming from the rear or the side. Maybe he could take a couple down before he got fried. If things went well, the cops might emerge victorious. If things went really well, Betts might even come out alive. But he wasn’t counting on it.
He turned down a backstreet to find the shoot-out taking place at the end of the street. Betts pulled over and pulled out his binoculars. Down the street he could see cops, maybe four or five, in a firefight with the masked hitman outside the apartment building. It was over in seconds, the guy hitting the floor with multiple head wounds.
The cops split up, three of them heading into the apartment parking lot, the other two staying put. The unmarked police car nearby had been Bonnie-and-Clyded, and the same went for its occupants: Forrest, Jenkins and Turner. One of the cops went to their aid, but Betts knew it was no good. The cop took the radio hand-piece. Betts plugged some headphones into the radio jack and turned up the volume.
“…repeat, triple zero, three officers down. No sign of the Walker kid.”
For a brief moment Betts wondered how the hell Walker had managed to get out of the car and the three cops hadn’t. There were more gunshots coming from the car park and Betts knew Walker was probably already dead.
Then he curled over the wheel, suddenly nauseated with sadness for the loss of his colleagues. He had worked with Jenkins for years. He was a good cop, and a decent, upstanding young man. He had a wife and had recently become a father. The nausea turned to pain, like he’d been kicked in the guts. Teeth gritted and fists clenched, his forearms trembled with tension, wanting badly to yell, barely holding it in. He’d lost colleagues before, but never three at once, and never in such a malicious, premeditated way. They were massacred so three scumbags could escape jail time. Betts had prided himself on being professional, never getting emotionally involved with work, but now he squinted, overcome with a feeling that was alien to him: a hunger for bloody, murderous revenge.
Chapter 54
Still lying on the balcony, Mitch peered through the rails as the two gunmen came around the back, checking between and beneath the parked cars. Distant police sirens gave Mitch hope. But not for long.
“I don’t care how many cops come, we stay till we kill him,” one of the gunmen said.
Mitch took the gun and held it flat against the floor, pointed towards the car park, his hand shaking. The two men continued the search, drawing closer. Mitch looked behind him through the slide glass door. The apartment was dark inside. He put a foot against the door and pushed it, sliding it open an inch. Unlocked! The breeze blew the blinds inwards and Mitch looked back at the gunmen, less than twenty yards away now. Feet first, Mitch edged his way inside the apartment, inch by inch.
The gunmen searched under the last few cars. One of them checked inside the rubbish bin on the ground below the balcony. Then the other noticed the blinds blowing in the breeze on the balcony above. He gave the other a look and they understood each other.
Mitch was only a few feet away from the gunmen, edging further inside, eyes on the car park. His legs were inside when he saw the policeman standing ten yards away in the car park, gun aimed below the balcony.
“Freeze!” called the officer.
Mitch could see three cops, guns poised, aimed at someone below the balcony. He turned to the other railing and through the bars he could see the gunman’s masked face. Mitch watched in frozen horror as the man pulled a sawn-off shotgun up between the rails in Mitch’s direction.
BANG!
The masked man buckled, shot by one of the cops.
“Drop
it!”
But he didn’t. He raised his shaking weapon at Mitch, but was blown off the balcony by a blizzard of bullets. Gunfire thundered below and Mitch scurried through the slide door and into the apartment.
Half a dozen cops gathered around the two gunmen lay who lay dead in the garden.
“They were trying to get onto the balcony,” a cop said. “Back door’s open, could be another one inside.”
“Let’s check it out,” another said.
Three of the officers were hoisted up onto the balcony by the others and they cautiously entered the dark apartment. One of them went to down a hallway and saw light beneath a door. He sprang it open to see Mitch sitting on the toilet reading a magazine, which concealed his handcuffs.
Mitch reacted like an unsuspecting person in his predicament might, with wide-eyed panic.
“What the hell?”
“Sorry to interrupt you sir, there’s been a shooting. I suggest you stay right there, sir.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Mitch said.
“I’ll have to take your details and a statement.”
“Yeah, alright. Can you give me a minute?”
“Of course. Take your time.”
“I’ll be about five or ten minutes, okay?”
“No problem, sir,” said the cop, and closed the door.
Mitch pulled his pants up and searched the bathroom, soon finding what he was after: a hairpin. He frantically went to work, bending it various ways and twisting and turning it inside the cuff lock, with no success. Several minutes passed when there was a knock at the door.
“Sir,” came the voice behind the door, “when you’re ready, you’ll find us out the front of the building. Report to any one of the officers, okay?”
“Okay, no worries,” Mitch said.
***
A little later, Mitch ventured out into the living room. The cops had left. He went to the kitchen and found an electric knife and tried to cut the chain, only to ruin the blade.
Under the sink he found a box of tools and pulled out a set of bolt cutters. He put them on the floor, placing the handcuff chain between them, and tried to operate them with his feet. After several failed attempts, he finally managed to cut the chain.
Now to get the hell out of here!
On a hook beside the door was a set of car keys to a Nissan. Mitch grabbed them and walked out into the corridor. He took the stairs down to the car park, which was crawling with cops. While none of them had noticed him, he walked past the cars, searching in quiet desperation for a Nissan and clicking the alarm immobilizer on the keys. A cop noticed him just as the Nissan nearby beeped. He made a line for the sports car and climbed in.
“Excuse me, sir,” the cop called.
“I already made a statement,” Mitch said. The cop nodded, but kept looking at him.
Mitch shut the door, started the engine and made for the front gate. When he got to it he realized he would need a remote to open it and searched the console. Not there. With the car idling inside the gate, a couple of the cops outside began to notice him. He checked the floor, no remote. Glove box – bingo! He held it up and clicked it and the gates opened. Mitch drove through the front gate, straight past the police officers, the news crews and the crowd of residents that had gathered. With the steel cuffs pulled up under his sleeves of his suit, nobody gave him a second look.
Chapter 55
Betts parked outside his apartment and was about to get out when an elderly neighbor walking a dog spotted him and began approaching, intent on having a conversation. Betts picked up his phone and moved his mouth like he was speaking. She kept coming anyway, calling out to him and waving. With a piercing frown he looked at her and pointed at his cell phone. Accustomed to his usual friendliness, she was a little startled and wounded and went on her way.
Inside Betts stalked to his bed, plugged his cell phone into the charger keeping the earphones on, and crawled under the blankets. He thought if he didn’t show some signs of movement he would surely arouse suspicion, if he hadn’t already, and started peeling the tape off the lens on his chest.
Chapter 56
Canella and Cakes sat at the desk watching the television as Captain Braun was being interviewed.
“Despite our best efforts to make arrests, the three gunmen have been shot and killed. I want to emphasize that my officers had absolutely no choice. These masked men opened fire with intent to kill police officers and put the local residents in grave danger,” Braun said.
“And what about the other passenger, the hospital patient?” the journalist asked.
“I can’t say any more about that,” Braun said.
“Can you confirm that it was Mitch Walker, who was on his way to Court on a heroin importation charge?”
“I am not able to say any more at this point. Thanks for your co-operation,” Braun said, and turned away from the cameras.
The journalist turned to the camera. “A source has informed our news team that the hospital patient was indeed Mitch Walker, a young man who was recently arrested trying to smuggle heroin into the country. Our source also confirmed that Walker did, in fact, escape.”
“Son of a bitch,” Cakes said, “it’s like they wanted to kill everyone except the Walker kid.”
“Look, our cop is stirring,” Canella said, noticing the vision from Betts’s camera, which showed him staggering to the bathroom and sitting down on the throne. Cakes muted the volume.
“We need audio,” Canella said.
“You don’t want to hear this, believe me,” Doc said.
“Turn it on.”
“You wanna hear shit pouring out of the guy like a fucking geyser?”
“Watch your tongue!”
“I don’t wanna hear that. In fact, I don’t want to see or hear him at all. We don’t need him now, do we?”
“We’ve been over this,” Canella said.
***
Betts sat on the toilet holding his cell phone by his side, listening to Cakes and Canella through his earphones. He was relieved to learn that the sound had been muted, but decided it best to assume it would return at any minute without warning.
***
“So what now?” Cakes asked. “Mexico?”
“No,” Canella said. “The Walker kid is on the lam. We need to bring him in,” she said.
“How? With the sister?” Cakes asked.
“And the nephew,” she answered.
“You know, that was the last of Doc’s crew. I’d better get Doc on it, it’s his fucking mess, right?”
“We’re knee deep in this shit now, thanks to you. You had to be involved with your father’s business, didn’t you? How many times did I tell you…?”
“Alright, alright.”
“You go with him, make sure it’s done properly.”
“Alright, I’ll get the kid. But if this goes the way I think it will, I’m not the one doing the dirty work.”
“What’s the matter, haven’t you ever drowned a kitten before?”
“You sure as hell have, and that was my fucking kitten too.”
“Poor Cakes, still cut up about that?” she mocked.
“If it’s so fucking easy, you do the kid,” Cakes said, as painful childhood memories played out in his mind.
“Alright,” she said. “If you’re still too soft, mommy will do it.”
Cakes knew it would probably be used against him down the track, but he didn’t care. He did not have it in him to kill a child, though he knew his mother was more than capable.
***
The murderous thoughts intensified in Betts. It’s not enough to kill Walker, they’re going to slaughter his sister and nephew as well!
He knew that killing them would mean he was going to cross over a threshold he would never return from, but he didn’t care. He went through the motions of finishing his business in the toilet, then went back to bed, crawled under the blanket and taped up the lens again.
A few minutes later he was back in his car,
on his way to Lauren’s place.
Chapter 57
Doc was sleeping when the cell phone on his bedside table rang. He rubbed his eyes and grabbed it. “What?!”
“You’re needed.”
“Are you serious? I been up the whole fucking night!”
“It’s your fucking mess we’re cleaning up!”
“You can’t keep playing that card.”
“Your associates failed to complete your clean up job, and have retired permanently.
“Alright, alright. I’ll see you soon. Same place.”
Chapter 58
In the morgue, Captain Braun stood by a young woman as the technician pulled the sheet back off the head of a corpse: Jenkins. Pieces of his head had been blown away. His widow sobbed and Braun caught her as she collapsed.
“We will get these animals, I promise you,” Braun said. He walked her out and was greeted by Vance in the corridor.
“You’ll be hearing from us very soon,” Braun said to the young widow. “If there’s anything you need, you call me, okay?”
“I need to sit down,” she said.
Braun helped her onto a chair.
“Sir, could I have a word?”
Braun led Vance back into the morgue.
***
“Why the fuck would Betts make contact with Canella? And if he was helping her, why would he call on a cell phone which he knows is being tapped?”
“There are ways of avoiding the taps. Maybe he thought he was safe,” Jenkins said.
“So what did he say?”
“It was cryptic. Something like, ‘are you enjoying this?’”
“Are you enjoying this?” Betts, repeated. “And did Canella respond?”
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