Omega Blue

by Mel Odom

  “You do get around, don’t you?”

  “If you made this bust on trumped-up charges, the defense lawyers are going to make mincemeat out of you.”

  “That’s my problem, isn’t it?”

  “I may be looking into the situation myself.”

  “Look all you want.” Reaching into the SensiSkin, Wilson took out a thin folder. With the camou programming turned off, the shadowsuit was a uniform charcoal gray. The bullet holes in the outer layer of material revealed the Kevlar body armor underneath. He knew the photographers would cue in on those. In fact, he was counting on it. Signs of violence would lead the reporters to reflect more on that than on the legalities involved. That was also why he didn’t make a move to wipe the blood from his face. “Those are sworn depositions from people who’ve been assaulted by leg breakers in Fat Gerry’s employ.”

  “This was a case for the Boston Police Department, if anything.”

  “Wrong. Some of the monies I’m tracing back from the jackal network wound up in Fat Gerry’s cash flow. There’s also enough cocaine on hand to freeze all the assets connected with this operation and confiscate them.” The T-jack clicked for attention in Wilson’s ear. “Go.”

  “The reporters are getting restless,” Scuderi said, “and I saw Isaacs make his grand entrance.”

  “Send them,” Wilson replied. “Should make for a good show about now.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Isaacs demanded.

  “Straighten your tie,” Wilson said. “You’re about to be interviewed.”

  Isaacs reached for his tie. “This isn’t finished.”

  “I’m counting on that, and on your help .”

  “Hell will freeze over first,” Isaacs promised. “I’m not going to be part of any harebrained shenanigans you’re pulling.”

  The three reporters filed through the doorway after Scuderi. Two of them were women. An equal number of photographers trailed behind them. The room was suddenly lit up by the floodlights from the camcorders.

  Scuderi raised her eyebrows when she saw the fresh blood leaking down Wilson’s chin.

  Wilson didn’t answer her unasked question. The reporters were too alert for body language, and he didn’t want to give the idea that he and Isaacs were anything other than compatriots.

  As the questions flowed, Wilson answered them succinctly, aiming to give the electronic media people sound bites of information that would be readily replayed over the next few hours, adding momentum to the investigation, and hopefully a little more solidity as well. He sketched in a story about how diligent work on the part of a number of FBI agents had unearthed the bookmaking operation after acting on tips supplied by people who’d been hurt over the years by the people who ran it. Gradually the questions went away, and interest turned to the police commissioner.

  “Did you know anything about the bookmaking business located here, Commissioner Isaacs?” Kelly Lange of Station 29 asked. She was a redhead with a smattering of freckles that makeup couldn’t hide. Her questions had been direct and to the point.

  “No comment,” Isaacs said.

  “Actually,” Wilson interjected. “Cy was just telling me that the file I gave him duplicated a lot of work his detectives had already conducted, it’s just that we were able to get the witnesses to come forward. After we explained to them how the tragedy down in Miami was connected to the bookmaking business here, most of them said they felt obligated to come forward.” He reached inside the SensiSkin again and took out more papers. “And, as every good vice cop knows, the bookmaking didn’t just go on here. There were dozens of outlets scattered over the city. Too many for the small FBI squad assigned here to cover.”

  “You expect more arrests to follow, Agent Wilson?” Lange asked, extending her mike toward him.

  “Yeah,” Wilson said. He passed copies of the papers he had out to the reporters. “Police Commissioner Isaacs has volunteered his department to finish bringing these people in.”

  When he handed the paper to Isaacs, the police commissioner looked like a man who’d just stepped in something noxious.

  Addressing the reporters again, Wilson said, “The list you have there is a duplicate of the one Commissioner Isaacs has. It has every known contributor to this bookmaking operation on it. I’m sure you may be able to work out some arrangements with the commissioner to cover some of the arrests as sidebar material.”

  Instantly, with the promise of possibly filming actual arrests being made, the reporters turned their full attention to Isaacs.

  Before the commissioner could act, Wilson seized the man’s hand, shook it, and said, “Good hunting. Let me know if I can be any help.” He left the room before Isaacs could untangle himself from the reporters.

  “Now that,” Scuderi said as they headed down the hallway to rejoin the rest of the team, “is what I call poetic justice. Forcing Isaacs to bust the very people he’s been protecting.”

  “At least it’s some kind of justice,” Wilson replied. “And if Valentine can come up with the goods-”

  “He will.”

  “-it’ll just be the appetizer for what’s to come.”

  *

  Cuddy’s Warehouse and Storage was in the heart of the Combat Zone in Boston’s theater district. Just off of Tremont Street and Boylston Street, the building was a ramshackle three stories with peeling paint exterior and boarded windows. The neon of the red-light district provided soft, glowing bubbles against the harsh and angular shadows of the neighborhood. Only a short distance to the west, the Colonial Theatre was hosting a Broadway tryout that-Scuderi had mentioned-was getting good reviews.

  Pausing at a ten-foot-high chain-link fence topped off with strands of barbwire running across a small alley between two office buildings, Slade Wilson let the SensiSkin soak up the night. The camou program even emulated the look of the fence behind him.

  He pulled back a glove and checked the time. It was 10:45 P.M. Only twenty minutes had passed since they’d left the bookie’s place of business.

  The T-jack crackled in his ear. “Go.”

  “We’re green here,” Quinn Valentine said.

  “What did we get?”

  “Warrants for search and seizure for property or properties stolen and transported across state lines. John Doe warrants for whoever may be on that building’s grounds, and for Michael Flynn and Carmine Zender, who are the registered owners of Cuddy’s.”

  “Anything from Vache?’’

  “Yeah. He mentioned that a lower profile at this point might allow you to stay in the game longer. Also judge Shoemake doesn’t look favorably on the possibility of his being interrupted all evening long.”‘

  Wilson used the night glasses to search the warehouse grounds again. Cuddy’s was sandwiched in behind a defunct transmission-repair shop and a six-story pay-by-the-week apartment boarding house. Graffiti in neon-colored spray paint stained the walls. There were only three ways into the building, discounting the possibility of someone inside prying the boards off the windows and allowing them to dive through. Wilson didn’t think that would happen. He’d checked the windows himself and found they were securely covered.

  The dock area at the back of the building allowed trucks to unload easily. Three eighteen-wheelers were parked there now, with nine men working around them to offload the freight using hand trucks. Forklifts were out of the question, Wilson supposed, because that would have given the impression that Cuddy’s Warehouse Storage was a lot more profitable than it was meant to be.

  The light coming from inside the warehouse was subdued and didn’t extend much past the edge of the dock. Insects pinged off the bulbs and hoods covering them.

  “Okay,” Wilson said, hooking his fingers into the fence. “Move in.” He scrambled over the fence lithely, and the SensiSkin mimicked the play of moonlight and shadow. On his feet again, he drew the Striker .12-gauge from the holster across his back and rushed for the nearest truck. He came up hard against the bumper of the tractor and kept his
back to it as he slid toward the docking area. His left-hand glove was off so the SeekNFire programming would respond to the chipped information in the shotgun’s pistol grip. He blew into the T-jack’s mike. “Rawley.”

  “Go.”

  “Are you in position?”

  “Me and God,” the man replied, “we got your back door.”

  Wilson went on. This wasn’t like the assault on the bookmaker. The warehouse crew had a standing guard meant to protect the area from the smash-and-grab artists roaming the Combat Zone. The flesh peddlers held sway in the area, but burglary was still considered a big step above prostitution. And armed robbery of the sex-for-sale crowd was a favorite pastime that saw the professionals through the lean periods between big scores.

  “I’ve got movement,” Darnell January called out.

  Freezing in place, Wilson glanced down at the bottom of the target eighteen-wheeler’s trailer as light sprayed out around the tires over the pavement. Rubber purred as it rolled across the docking area. “Can you take it out?”

  “Negative. Not without being seen on the approach.”

  “I’ve got it,” Valentine said.

  “No,” Wilson ordered. “Stand down. Mac?”

  “I’m on it,” McDonald answered.

  Valentine cursed softly. ”I could’ve taken one lousy driver.”

  “You hold your position,” Wilson said. “You’re the only guy I trust with the computer records during these strikes, and I need you in one piece to do me any good. Unless you have something constructive to say, stay out of the comm loop.”

  The big truck rolled down the alley, the diesel engine clattering like some prehistoric monster with indigestion.

  Wilson caught a glimpse of Mac springing from the shadows and catching a ride on the tractor. The man’s SensiSkin blended him in with the striped paint job almost immediately. “Mac?”

  “Go.”

  “Leave the truck in the alley. If any of the others try to go mobile from this point, they’ll be blocked.”

  “Roger.”

  The truck’s door came open, and Mac whipped around the side with his pistol in his fist. A heartbeat later the truck’s forward momentum stopped and the engine shivered and died.

  An orange glowing dot appeared at the side of the trailer by the dock as Wilson edged back silently. He identified it as a cigar by the acrid scent in the air. Before the potbellied man standing there saw him, he reached up, caught the guy by the belt, and spilled him to the hard ground.

  The guy groaned from the impact and fought to get to his feet.

  Wilson put the barrel of his Striker under the man’s chin. “FBI. Spread ‘em and you get to stay around after we bring down the curtain.”

  The man complied, eyes wide with fear.

  Using disposable cuffs and a roll of ordnance tape from the pockets concealed in the shadowsuit, Wilson chained the guy to the undercarriage of the eighteen-wheeler and gagged him.

  Shuffling feet came out onto the dock, louder than the squeak of the hand truck wheels. “What is the matter with Bobby?” someone asked.

  Wilson saw four men as silhouettes against the lighted mouth of the warehouse. He fell into position beside the four-foot-high dock and shouted, “FBI! You’re all under arrest!”

  “Raid!” one of the men yelled. “It’s a raid!”

  The four silhouettes shifted, and hard-edged weapons came into view.

  Wilson raided one of the concealed pockets on the shadowsuit and came away with a M470 Magnum concussion grenade. He pulled the pin and tossed it onto the dock, where it went skittering inside the warehouse behind the men.

  “Fire in the hole!” he said into the T-jack’s mike to warn the team. He covered his eyes and ducked as bullets chipped flakes from the concrete edges.

  The grenade went off with a thunderous boom and a brief nova flare that turned everything stark white and shadow.

  Wilson swung back, coming up over the edge of the dock and seeing the last fiery wisps of the cardboard shrapnel go spinning away and wink out of existence. The gunfire from the warehouse guards picked up again, and a ricochet bounced off the body armor covering Wilson’s chest. He squeezed the shotgun’s trigger and saw one of the men go down.

  The other three staggered and were slapped away as if by a giant hand. A moment later, and the booming echoes of Rawley’s .50-cal sniping rifle rolled over the alley.

  Wilson pulled himself up onto the dock, negotiated the crumpled bodies of the men there, and charged into the warehouse. In places the concrete flooring still reflected the overhead lights, but most of it had been worn away by years of constant usage that had left deep scars furrowed along the heavily trafficked areas.

  Using a stack of wooden crates as cover, Wilson surveyed the interior of the warehouse. They’d already pulled the blueprints from Boston courthouse records and power company files, so he was familiar with most of the layout. He accessed the T-jack and found out that Scuderi, January, and Valentine were inside the building. Sporadic gunfire rolled around him.

  He gazed through the tops of the stacks around him and found the office built at a height that would have been the second floor if the structure had had a second floor. A narrow flight of wooden stairs crawled up to the flimsy door. Two men were running up the steps.

  Wilson shoved himself into a run for the office, knowing the men intended to erase all records of the illegally received goods from the computer memory. As he crossed a walkway formed between stacks of crates, a burst of autofire chewed the corner from a large wooden box. Splinters snowed out ahead of him and he threw himself into a baseball slide to go under the danger area.

  17

  Before Wilson could get to his feet, the gunner came racing around the corner.

  Lying on his back, Wilson squeezed the Striker’s trigger, aiming for the guy’s legs because he was unable to get a clear shot and didn’t want to take a chance on the guy wearing Kevlar. The double-ought pellets took the gunner below the knees and dumped him to the concrete.

  Wilson got to his feet and kicked the Uzi out of the man’s hand, then sprinted for the office.

  The lead man was already working on the door as Wilson placed his foot on the first step. The gunner covering his back was a big, beefy guy wearing Kevlar and a bulletproof security helmet.

  Gray scars screamed across the walls beside Wilson’s head, and concrete dust became a fog in front of him. He flipped the shotgun’s buttstock out and pulled the Striker into his shoulder. The SeekNFire programming found target acquisition and he went with it, pulling the trigger as he worked his way up the steps. He kept the shotgun centered on the man’s chest. The fabric covering the Kevlar armor was torn away and left a pitted black surface beneath. The gunner shuddered as each charge hit him, taking steps backward till he was pinned against the wall of the office. The MAC-10 machine pistol in his hand etched a line of fire across the ceiling.

  After the sixth round, Wilson held his fire.

  For a moment the gunner stood in place, then his arms dropped and he fell forward, knocked unconscious by the sustained bursts.

  Wilson went over the man’s body as it sprawled across the steps. He hit the door at the top of the landing and jarred it free of the frame.

  The man inside was working frantically at the computer keyboard.

  Wilson aimed at the monitor sitting on top of the desk and fired. The monitor evaporated in an explosion of glass and plastic and electrical sparks.

  “On the ground!” he commanded.

  The man dropped out of the swivel chair immediately.

  Accessing the T-jack, Wilson said, “Valentine.”

  “Go.”

  “I’ve got the computer system in the office. Get a move on.” Peering through the huge plate-glass window overlooking the warehouse area proper, Wilson saw his team had taken control of the field. Mac, Scuderi, Rawley, and January cycled within the building’s perimeters without resistance. A few of the players would escape the net, but those
were acceptable losses.

  The stairway rattled as Valentine jogged up to the office. The young agent glanced around the room and focused on the smoking mess left of the computer monitor. “Did you leave the computer intact?”

  Wilson knelt and handcuffed his newest prisoner. “It’s okay. I had to take out the monitor to back this guy off.”

  Valentine seated himself at the desk, rummaged through the equipment pack he’d carried, and took out his tablet computer. Working with precision, skill, and the small bag of tools he had with him he spliced his way into the office computer.

  Wilson felt some of the tension inside him ease when the monitor screen on Valentine’s tablet filled with frames of information, increasing as the cybernetics expert opened window after window in his exploration of the files contained within. “Find me something I can work with.” He stared in rapt attention at the tablet as he downloaded the files.

  Wilson pulled his prisoner to his feet and headed the man out the door. Two strikes were down out of the possible eight Triumbari had given them. The six that were left would become increasingly harder as DiVarco’s people tightened the ranks. But if Valentine could get a picture of what was going on behind the scenes, busting those other operations could be managed with a larger force than just his team. However it turned out, he knew their maneuvering space was close to running out. If DiVarco didn’t take more violent steps soon, Police Commissioner Isaacs would.

  *

  The secure phone in the van rang as Wilson was headed west on Providence Street. He lifted the receiver when he coasted to a stop at a red light. “Wilson.”

  “Me,” Earl Vache said. “How did the warehouse hit go?”

  “Fine.” Wilson glanced over at the passenger seat where Valentine was working with his tablet, hooked into the ’Net through a satlink. Valentine’s fingers flew over the keyboard and he was totally absorbed in what he was doing. “All the preps are handcuffed and waiting to be picked up by Isaacs’s men.”

  “I take it Isaacs wasn’t too keen on that.”

  “No.”

  “What did you net?”