The Ghost Syndicate

by K R Hill

  He entered his office and walked to the couch. From the closet he removed a box, pulled the photos of his wife from the wall, and tossed them inside, listening to the glass shatter. In the basement he shoved the entire bunch into the trash container, dusted off his hands, and slammed the lid.

  From then on, three nights a week Lieutenant Deutz changed clothes and drove to Trenchtown, the bar where he had investigated a shooting. He had to go because if he sat and read a book, or watched TV, or allowed himself to relax at all, the pain of separation, and memories of Alona, began to torture him. That Jamaican bar, Trenchtown, was the only place he could go where he felt as though he was abroad, away from his life.

  After several visits, a few patrons began greeting him by name. He danced with women, listened to drunk customers shout politics, and heard countless stories of Jamaica.

  The nights he didn’t go to Trenchtown, he studied computer files concerning individuals he had seen in the bar. While filling in details about an Ethiopian woman, he wrote a note describing her physical characteristics. Before he knew it, his imagination took over and created a fictional world for the woman. Sentences came so quickly, pushed by a driving plot, that he could hardly write one before another came into his mind. His writing was running downhill, trying to jump into the air and fly, and he struggled to keep up.

  He jerked back in his chair and dropped his hands from the keyboard. He hadn’t written like that in years. Two hours had passed in a flash. He had gone to that writer’s place without time, that he used to cherish.

  ***

  The next morning, as Deutz rushed along the office corridor, he knew he was in trouble. The eye-rolls he received from other officers were as good as any verbal warning. He had been a cop too long not to recognize the warning signs. There was no way out, so he paused before his office door, inhaled deeply, and stepped inside.

  The captain was blunt: “I went to your apartment last night. Your neighbor said Alona left. You’re no good to us until you work this through. Take a leave of absence for a month, put your life together. And I better not hear about you doing any surveillance work. Is that clear, Lieutenant?”

  “This work is the only thing keeping me together. I need it to keep going, Ray.”

  The captain clasped his hands together at his chest. “Look, Harry. Are you hiding from your private life?”

  Deutz lowered his head, remembering the day he’d walked in on his wife, followed by the painful, sleepless nights spent torturing himself by replaying the memory. “Maybe, Ray. But this is the only thing keeping me going.” Deutz thought about Alona. At university they used to lock themselves in the apartment and have sex games with whipped cream.

  “Was this your dream, Ray? To be a cop?”

  The captain drew back. His face relaxed. “Hell, no. I wanted to open a little bamboo restaurant in the Caribbean. I was going to wake up every morning and run down the beach and jump into the warm Caribbean. The Caribbean,” he repeated, as though the name held magical power. “And I wanted to—”

  Deutz stood listening, soaking it all up as Ray’s dream took form in his mind. He saw the round hut Ray should have lived in, the bright white sand that squeaked beneath his feet as he ran across it, saw an ocean wave crash over him. He imagined the floorboards of his hut trembling as he made love to a beautiful Island woman.

  “Why didn’t you do it, Ray?”

  The Captain sat staring at the ceiling. Deutz felt awkward and embarrassed and wanted to give his superior time to recover, so he made coffee.

  When Deutz turned with a steaming mug in his hand, the captain reached into the top drawer of the filing cabinet and pulled out a bottle. He poured two glasses half full and downed one without blinking. “Harry, I’m speaking to you as a friend. I’m going to cut through all the crap. Look, if you’re asking for advice, and even if you’re not, I’d tell you to chase your dream, live life, grab the bull by the balls and make the fucker scream. Because once you’re on the down- side, there’s no going back. I’ve seen that look in your eyes. You’re dying inside.”

  Harry Deutz sat there for a minute, then walked over and drank the Scotch. “Thanks for saying it straight,” he said.

  ***

  At 3:18 AM, Deutz woke up on the office couch. He stumbled to the sink and washed his face, then stuck his head under the cool stream of water. When he raised up and looked in the mirror, he imagined a little restaurant with a sand floor, the ocean in the background.

  He dried his face and hair and sat down before his laptop. A million things came to his mind that he should be doing instead, but they faded away when he opened the file entitled Chapter One.

  Chapter 25

  Sweat soaked through Connor’s shirt. He rolled in the bed, listened to the gentle breathing of Tia Alma only a few feet away, and of Bartholomew in the living room. After staring into space for fifteen minutes, he closed his eyes again. Instead of drifting into a gentle tide of sleep, he thought about Ashley and Tia Alma, and about the sniper rifle. Could he still hit a mark? He saw the scarred face of the Russian who attacked him on the streetcar. Schedules, rifles, and the images of people he loved, were tumbling over each other in his head.

  He jumped out of bed, grabbed a jacket, pulled on a pair of shoes, whispered to Ashley: “I got to clear my head,” and left the condo. A few minutes later, he passed a taco cart, enjoyed the aroma of frying chicken, and hurried through the crowd outside a club. The thumping beat of the music spilled into the night around him, and faded as he walked.

  He turned down 4th Street and slowed his pace to look in the windows of trendy vegan restaurants, vintage clothing stores, and kabob stalls. People laughed. Bicycles rattled along. Aromas drifted from eateries.

  “Thank you, have a good night,” a merchant called.

  A scream and a crash drew his attention to the street. A woman lay face down beside a bicycle. Connor hurried over and dropped to his knees beside the woman.

  The instant he touched her shoulder, someone grabbed him from behind. Connor felt a sharp pain in his neck. He fought for a few seconds, long enough to see a syringe drop to the asphalt. Every muscle in his body quivered as he fell.

  ***

  Water dripped. Static crackled on a police scanner. He heard voices, typing, and people moving about. His leg cramped and he fought to straighten it, but found his ankles chained together. Connor leaned back and moved his arms. Handcuffs bit into his wrists. But these weren’t the police handcuffs he remembered, they were thinner and lighter.

  Connor opened his eyes. Leaking pipes covered the ceiling and dripped into puddles on the dirty concrete floor. A hanging light bulb cast a dim glow around the table before him. He tried to swallow but couldn’t.

  A man stood up in a dark corner and moved into the light. His white shirt was rolled up on heavy forearms. A thick layer of blond hair showed above his collar and tie. Connor smelled the training on him. He was military, or ex-military, that was beyond doubt. It showed in every cocky movement, the way he looked at his prisoner and the Doberman walk. This was a man who thrived on physical confrontation.

  Connor knew what was coming, and it wasn’t good. He’d witnessed hundreds of interrogations in the Army, and now he was on the other side of the interrogation table. Every muscle tensed up as he pulled at the handcuffs and rocked back and forth, making his chair creak and hop about. He pulled at his handcuffs until his wrists bled, lunged from side to side, feeling the chair creak and sway beneath him, hoping it would break and free him.

  The man lifted a dagger inches from Connor’s face.

  “It’s easy when you have cuffs on me, uh? You look like you can take care of yourself. Why don’t you take the cuffs off and be a man?”

  Connor looked about. Through the wire mesh in the window beside him, he saw two men hunched over computers, police radios and paperwork. On the wall above them hung maps of Long Beach and the South Bay. The blond woman, he had last seen laying in the street, walked across the room.r />
  “What is all this?” asked Connor.

  “McGrary, Interpol. I’m tracking an international black-market ring, and I have a problem.” He picked up a folder, pulled out some photographs, and spread them out like cards in a poker hand. One was a photograph of Bartholomew at a warehouse. Another photo showed Connor entering his office.

  “I also have this.” The agent held up a paper. “This is a list of your calls. You’ve been chatting with Teddy Ghrazenko, a member of a notorious crime family.”

  He looked at McGrary, then the photos, and laughed. “That’s all? You don’t have shit! And you don’t have it because I haven’t done a damn thing.”

  McGrary drew his head back as though stunned. For a moment he sat on the table, kneading a fist in his hand. Then he stood and walked to the corner. When he came back into the light, he held a baseball bat on his shoulder. He thumped the bat on the table.

  “I don’t have shit, uh?” He struck the table, this time with more force. McGrary’s face was crimson. Veins protruded from his neck. “I don’t have shit?”

  He swung the bat.

  The swing took two legs off the chair, and Connor fell.

  “You’re wrong. I have enough to flush your life.”

  The cold water on the floor seeped into Connor’s hair and felt like ice against his cheek.

  “I have to sleep in rat holes like this while I track these guys. Now I have a chance to take the bastards down. You’re gunna help.”

  Laying on the floor with his head pressed against the concrete, Connor saw movement beneath one of the doors. In that narrow space between door and concrete floor, two pairs of shoes moved about. As he stared, the door rattled in and out. He heard wood splitting, followed by a heavy pounding. The doorframe twisted and bent away from the knob, and the door swung open.

  Into the room ran a tall, skinny man with long red hair. The guy ran past McGrary as though he was not there, stopped at the computer room door, and aimed a shotgun. “Stop,” he shouted

  The technicians jumped from their seats and backed away.

  McGrary spun and reached for his weapon, but froze when he heard the action of an automatic close to his head.

  Dalton slapped McGrary’s hand from the 9mm at the big man’s side, and took the firearm.

  “Hey Lieutenant,” said Connor.

  Dalton pressed a Walther automatic against McGrary’s head. With his other hand he ejected the clip from the Interpol agent’s weapon, and dropped it to the floor. He stepped back and leaned his head to the side. “That looks really uncomfortable, Connor.”

  “Jason Dalton. I know who you are. You’re interfering with an Interpol investigation. You’re going to do hard time with your friend here.” McGrary motioned with his head to a camera on the ceiling.

  “Nick,” shouted Dalton. “Agent flea bag thinks we’re being recorded.”

  “Some fools never believe they got hacked.” Nick laughed.

  “That’s my friend laying there. Handcuff key, now.” Dalton stepped back.

  “I’m an Interpol agent. That’s my prisoner.” McGrary raised one of his hands to his side.

  “Connor?”

  “Yeah Dalton.”

  “Flea bag here raised his arm. I’m guessing he carries a back-up firearm in his belt. Am I correct?”

  “That’s affirmative, sir.”

  Dalton fired the Walther.

  McGrary barked and grabbed his shoulder. “You just brought down the wrath of Interpol on your ass.”

  “That’s a flesh wound, you pussy. You’re not a cop. You work for Redmond.” Dalton knelt and unlocked the handcuffs.

  “Should I do it, boss?” Nick pumped the action on his shotgun.

  The two techs groaned and covered their heads.

  “Yes,” shouted Dalton.

  Nick rushed into the computer room and shoved a thumb drive into one of the terminals, and typed with one hand. The screens broke into jagged lines, and went dark. “You boys are going to need a new system.” He grabbed the thumb drive and backed out of the room.

  “Get your stuff,” said Dalton.

  Connor climbed to his feet, rubbing his wrist. “How did you find me?”

  “Nick put something on your phone.”

  “If this guy is Interpol, what do we do?” asked Connor.

  Dalton laughed. “He’s no more Interpol than I am. He’s a hired gun. Your friend Redmond paid good money to get Demetri here on your ass.”

  “Serious?” asked Connor.

  “Dead serious.”

  “If we let him go, he’ll keep coming.”

  Dalton slipped his firearm into its holster and walked to the door. “You’re right. What should we do?”

  Connor picked up the baseball bat and twisted it in his hands. Suddenly he dropped to one knee and brought the bat down like an axe on McGrary’s foot.

  The hitman dropped like a bag of manure.

  Connor threw the bat into a corner where it hit the wall and bounced about the floor. “He won’t be coming after me with a busted foot.”

  “I got a message from Ted that you needed help.” Dalton shook Connor’s hand.

  “I had everything under control, Lieutenant.”

  “I saw that, handcuffed to a broken ass chair, your face in a puddle.”

  “I was about to make my move.”

  Dalton laughed. “I knew that. Fucking Connor, it’s good to see you.”

  “Good to be seen.”

  “So, this job I sent you is turning sour?”

  “This isn’t one of our Ranger missions. I’m alone out here without support.”

  “What?” Dalton smiled. “Can’t you handle the Russian mob?”

  Connor rolled his eyes. “Hey, they’re not the problem. The Ghrazenkos had a coup, and suddenly I got an elite killer chasing me and my family.”

  “Two little syndicates are slowing you down? I think you’re losing your edge, Sergeant.”

  Connor threw his fists up in the air. “My edge?”

  Dalton laughed, slapped him on the shoulder, backed out the doorway, and said: “Now you have back-up.”

  Connor shook his head. “What? You mean you two? At least you could have sent men with training.”

  Chapter 26

  Connor, Dalton and Nick climbed into a white van and pulled into traffic.

  Dalton, sitting in the passenger seat, latched his seatbelt and turned. “I’m glad you took the job.”

  Connor unbuttoned his shirt and looked up. “Well, not every employer throws in a bonus like you did.”

  “You got a bug in your shirt or something?” asked Dalton.

  Connor shook his head. “No, that stun gun felt like I got kicked in the ribs.”

  “You got injected, not tased. Just be glad you’re alive.”

  “I am. Thanks for coming. Things were getting out of hand.” Connor climbed up on his knees and looked out the windshield. It took him a moment to realize where they were, and once he did, he said: “I got a small condo where the four of us are hiding out. If you want to make a right turn at this next street, we’ll head up there.”

  “No,” said Dalton. “We thought it would be better to stay at the doctor’s garage.”

  “Wait a minute, the doctor? You mean the crazy old German? How do you know about him?”

  “Awkward,” said Nick.

  Dalton tugged his shoulder harness forward and turned. “Look, we’ve been following you for about a week. Once we had an overview of what was going on, we paid the doctor to use his offices.”

  “I knew I was being tailed.”

  “We’ve seen Mad Dog’s men, Ghrazenko’s thugs, and that slimy Zakai. He lost us three times. That takes skill. Standing back and watching told us everything we needed to know about the case.”

  “Damn, you’ve been here for a week. Is it still my case?”

  “Of course, and you’re going to get paid exactly like I said you would, but this is about Sanchez. I wanted to be involved. We’ve w
aited a long time.”

  “Too long.”

  “Now it’s payback time. We get to work one more op together. If we pull this off, maybe you’ll sleep better.”

  Connor looked up. “You know about that?”

  “I knew about it before we followed you to that meeting. Do you think you’re the only one that dreams about it? I played with that kid too, you know.”

  “I guess you did. Listen,” said Connor, scooting forward. “Let me use your phone. I need to call Ashley.”

  ***

  Once they got back to the doctor’s garage, Connor called Ashley.

  “Are you going to make it, baby?” he asked.

  “I got this. I rounded up the special clothes you asked me to wear tomorrow. Are you sure you want me to wear that outfit?”

  “You have to turn heads. That’s the only way to do it.”

  “And you’re sure the doctor will be okay with Tia Alma?”

  “I think so. It’s just a few hours.”

  “And then I return to the condo?”

  “That’s the plan. Can I speak to Bartholomew?”

  “Yeah, Connor, he’s right here.”

  “Hey Bart, I need you over here.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty.”

  When Connor turned off the phone, he hurried around the doctor’s work shop, got everyone together in the office, and spelled out exactly what each person was going to be doing during the heist. He concluded the meeting by saying: “Everybody go to bed and sleep well, because tomorrow we’re taking down an armored car. We get one shot at this. Let’s hope I planned it well. If anybody is feeling uncertain, remember we’re doing it to catch a murderer.”

  ***

  Connor walked about the meeting room after the others had left. He picked up empty water bottles and tossed them in the trash, wiped the white board clean, and was turning off the computer lamp when he heard the garage door open.

  Connor side-stepped around a greasy engine sitting on the floor, and met the doctor and Bartholomew at the door.

  “Hey,” said Connor. “Did anyone follow you?”

  “No, I’m good.” Bartholomew hurried inside and helped the doctor lower the door. “What do you need me for?”