“Lawyer.”
Berlin spun the dealer around to face him. “You really wanna go down this road?” The pusher stood tall, his chin pointing up. He tried to make himself look tough, but Berlin could tell that that would have been a lie. His eyes were beginning to water, glistening in the afternoon light. “You got allergies or something, ‘cuz your eyes are watering, kid.”
The pusher sniffled and repeated his message, “Lawyer.”
“Not so tough now, eh?” Berlin cast an eye over his shoulder quickly at Mitchell. “You find anything, Mitch?”
“Nah, maybe he ran out.”
“Typical,” Berlin snarled.
“See? What I tell you, I ain’t done nuthin’ wrong.”
“Shut up,” Berlin said, applying pressure on his back. “Mitch, take out your cuffs. We’re gonna bring him in. Throw him in the box for a while.”
“You think—” Mitchell started, but Berlin silenced him with a glare. “All right, turn back around, son. We’re gonna do this nice and easy, okay?”
Once the handcuffs were snapped tight, they turned him around and the pusher wailed, “You two, you a piece of work, you know that? It’s gonna be a short visit. You’ll see. I got friends.”
“Is that so? Well, bring ’em on down. The more the merrier,” Berlin taunted him. He took hold of his arm and led him down the sidewalk next to the carousel building, Mitchell trailing not far behind.
Within minutes they were back at the car. They threw the pusher, who they now knew as Antony, into the back. Berlin slammed the door shut.
“You really think this is a good idea?” Mitchell asked, his hand resting on top of the hood. He peered inside at Antony, squirming in the back seat.
“What?” Berlin asked.
Mitchell frowned. “What’s gotten into you? We can’t be just grabbin’ folks off the street.”
Berlin opened the driver’s side door. “The hell we can’t. We’re cops, Mitch. We do cop things.”
Mitchell stood in place outside his door. “This isn’t our jurisdiction, man. And don’t be coy with me. I know how it works. I ain’t stupid. But this isn’t right. Just because this used to be your old stomping ground doesn’t give you the right to just swoop in and do whatever the heck you feel like.”
Berlin hesitated and looked down at the pavement, then to Antony in the back seat. Finally, his eyes met Mitchell’s and he said something that he wouldn’t have dreamed of saying a few days ago. “Yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”
In a way he regretted that he said it almost immediately after he uttered the words, but there was no going back now. His thoughts weighed heavily on him—the pressure, the case, the unknown and uncertainty of it all. It was beginning to get to be too much. Too much for one man to handle. His blood boiled under the surface.
Mitchell narrowed his eyes, taken aback. “What are you trying to prove?”
Berlin brushed him off. “I’m not trying to prove anything, Mitch. We’ll throw him in the box and break him. Find out who he knows. This is how you get things done when you’re not getting ahead. You don’t like it, find a new partner.”
He really needed to stop lying to himself.
CHAPTER 38
‘This is how you get things done when you’re not getting ahead.’
Was he right? Or, was he kidding himself?
No, this is the way.
This is how you get things done.
The adrenaline was kicking in, fueling the fire in his belly. It was like he had found a piece of himself that had been lying dormant. Like he had awoken the sleeping giant, except he didn’t need any music to be played in order to wake him.
No, he was clearheaded and finally had it together.
Mitchell now cleared his throat, breaking the deafening silence. Berlin had been waiting for it. “I know you mean well, but—”
“Save it, Mitch. I don’t know how you guys played things in Vice, but sometimes you have to dig a little and get your hands dirty.”
“Dirty is right. I see you,” Antony chirped from the back seat.
“If you open that mouth of yours one more time, I’m pulling over,” Berlin said, eyeing the rearview mirror. “And trust me, you don’t want that. Not after the day I’ve been having.”
Antony kept his cool and relaxed.
They headed up the one-way street, away from the carousel, pulling to a stop at the sign on Lock and Main. Berlin cocked the wheel left.
“There’s got to be an easier way,” Mitchell said. “We’re better than this. You’re better than this.”
Berlin slowly shook his head. No. His mind was made up. This is what he wanted to do. They needed action and they needed it quick. “This is who I need to be right now, Mitch. It feels right.”
Mitchell started again, dissatisfied. “I think you need to go see that Doct—”
It happened in a flash. For a fraction of a second, everything went quiet. Nothing moved. Mitchell had his mouth open, but the words would not come. Berlin thought he heard a scream, but he couldn’t be sure. It could have just as easily been the cars. A high-pitched wail reverberated in his eardrums.
Mitchell’s window burst open, small glass particles raining in and falling onto his lap and down near his feet. Both of their heads snapped back, as if in unison. Antony fell sideways, then forward, his head bouncing off the back of Berlin’s seat.
The car shifted on its side, propelled by the unrelenting exertion from the other vehicle. The roar of the impact was unbearable. Tires screeched, metal squealed, and onlookers ran for safety with cries of anguish and distress. The airbags deployed a second later, cocooning the two detectives with a burst of energy. The car fell back on its four tires and settled, rocking back and forth.
Moments later, more sounds—the other car (a black SUV), reversed, littering the ground with broken and mangled car parts. They dinged and pinged onto the pavement below like someone had dropped a bag of nails and plastic Christmas ornaments.
Berlin came to within seconds, dazed and disoriented, bleeding from the head.
What’s happened…
“Oh, God!” screamed a woman from the corner of the intersection.
Berlin opened and closed his eyes. He blinked profusely as his eyes had trouble, adjusting to the gray mist swirling around inside the car. He struggled to move his body. His left hand reached out, fumbling in the mist for anything. It found the door handle. He gave it a yank and, much to his surprise, the door opened. With his right hand he began to push and punch at the airbag, trying to cave it in. It began to collapse back onto itself and Berlin got his first good look at the wreckage.
The black SUV had come down the hill through the intersection and T-boned them. Mitchell had gotten the worst of it. He lay against the airbag, slouched to his right, a streak of crimson leaking from somewhere. The airbag was soaked with his blood.
His blood.
What have you done?
He was unconscious.
This can’t be happening.
Who?
He reached for the radio and kept his head low. “Dispatch. Delta 2317 here. I got a Code 10-33. Lock and Main. I repeat, officer in need of assistance.”
The radio squawked as dispatch relayed back that they were en route.
It was then that he saw the SUV, parked no more than twelve feet away from them. He couldn’t believe it. It was the same SUV. It had to be. The one that took a run at them earlier.
“He’s got a gun!” a voice called from the nearby patio of Highlanders.
He had to move. He looked through Mitchell’s missing window at the SUV. A young black man had exited the driver side with a pistol in his hand. Two others exited now and sequestered themselves at the rear of the vehicle. He had only seen their backsides.
It’s now or never.
Berlin sat up straight, as best as he could, anyway, and tugged at his seatbelt. He heaved and wrenched it from side to side, but it wouldn’t give. Why wouldn’t it let go?
“Somebody call 911! Somebody do something!”
“Dammit,” Berlin muttered to himself.
Move, you idiot!
“Let me go, damn you.” The buckle unclasped and his body began to move. His body slithered out of his seat and he collapsed onto the wet pavement outside the door.
What? Please don’t tell me.
Too late, the smell of gasoline hit his nostrils and the pungent odor filled the air. He looked underneath the car to inspect it, but he couldn’t tell you why because he knew what he’d find. The smell was a dead giveaway. Then he saw movement, looking past the puddles and the broken car parts. A pair of feet approached Mitchell on the opposite side. He imagined that the man was taking aim on Mitchell.
Outta time. Gotta move.
The gunman crept closer. He could hear his footsteps. Tap, tap, and crunch.
React, dammit.
“Police! Drop your weapons. Now,” he called from behind the vehicle. “Get back!” He called to the onlookers still from the ground, waving his hand frantically. They became a blur, one long streak of color and objects.
Focus.
He blinked and washed the cloudiness away in time to see them, scrambling back inside the pub down the street, away from the carnage playing out. Berlin slid to the front wheel well, crouching low to the ground. With his back pressed up against it, he pulled out his Glock 17. Sweat ran down his face. He wiped it away with his free hand and clenched his teeth. He held tight to the Glock and braced himself. He came up fast.
The gun-carrying man raised his weapon at Berlin and fired.
Without hesitation, Berlin fired two quick bursts of his own. The bullets ripped into the gunman’s flesh, hitting him twice in the chest. The gunman staggered back, faltering on his steps, then went down. Next he heard the pitter-patter of feet, moving quickly. He knew that the two remaining men were now on the move.
“He got Tyrone!” he heard one of them yell.
Sorry about your luck, Tyrone.
They began to retaliate next, storming Berlin with guns blazing. He went down, shielding himself behind the car. The bullets ripped into the frame, bouncing off the hood, the front end, and eventually pierced the front tire. The car sank. They continued to fire, puncturing glass, littering the street with broken shards and shell casings.
What are they doing?
Berlin waited a moment, before coming back up and returning fire. He leaned on the hood and let loose a few more blasts. He clipped one of the men in the knee and he went down, screaming in agony.
“Mitch! Wake up,” Berlin called as he went back into hiding. He peered inside at Mitchell. He still hadn’t moved. Berlin went to touch him, saying, “Come on, Mitch.” But then the gunfire erupted again, the back window exploding on his side in a boom. Berlin shielded his eyes with his arm as the glass came down all around him. Berlin brushed the glass off of him and tended to Mitchell. “Dammit,” Berlin said. “Come on, guy.”
He needed to get him out of here. He was too exposed.
Berlin caught movement out of the corner of his eye. One of them was creeping closer, possibly to finish Mitch. Berlin slinked away, sliding on the pavement, the glass jabbing into the palm of his left hand.
Make it quick.
Make it count.
Take him out.
Berlin listened closely. He adjusted his position, leaning on his seat cushion for support, and pointed his Glock through Mitchell’s missing window. As long as Mitchell didn’t wake up or move, Berlin would have a clear shot.
Mitchell opened his eyes. “Berlin?”
Berlin looked into his eyes and saw the confusion. “Shhh. Stay still,” he whispered.
Mitchell licked his lips and tried to swallow. The blood was running down into his left eye. “What…wha—happened?” Shadows crept over Mitchell’s dumbfounded face.
Please don’t move.
“Berl—”
The gunman came into view.
There’s your shot.
Take it.
Berlin took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger, praying and hoping for the best. The gunman took it in the neck. Blood spurted out in a quick burst. He clutched at it with his free hand and fell out of view.
Berlin exhaled and relaxed his arms. “Mitch?”
“Ye—ah?” Mitchell said.
Berlin reached in and wiped his brow, preventing the blood from running into his eye. “Listen to me. You’re gonna be all right, partner. Just sit tight.” He stood up, his knees cracking, and made his way around the now-mangled car. He walked over to the gunman who was sprawled on the ground. He thrashed and gurgled on the pavement, choking on his own blood. His right hand was pressed to his neck while his left desperately searched for his weapon.
“Nuh-uh,” Berlin said, kicking the gun out of reach. Berlin knelt down over top of him and stared into his eyes. He saw panic. Desperation. What was going through his head right now? “Here, let me help you,” he said, pulling the gunman’s hand away from his neck. The blood seeped out, creating a pool of liquid just shy of Berlin’s feet.
“How old are you?” Berlin asked him, knowing full well that he couldn’t be more than twenty years old.
The gunman gurgled, choking on his last bit of life.
“Was it worth it?” Berlin asked, still kneeling over top of him. The life faded from his eyes and Berlin watched him die in the street.
“Ber—lin?”
Berlin stood and went back to the car. “I’m here, buddy. You’re all right.”
“Is it…bad?” Mitchell asked.
It was then that he saw Antony in the back seat. He was sitting upright, but there was no denying that he had seen the worst of it. There was so much blood. “Damn.”
“What? What is it?” Mitchell said.
“Quiet, Mitch. I just gotta check something,” Berlin said, heading to the back of the car. He leaned into the open window, brushing away the broken glass with the arm of his coat and got as close as he could to the pusher in the back seat. “Antony?”
Antony coughed up blood. “You…you did this to me.”
“You brought this on yourself, kid.”
Antony ignored him and closed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Lord, I know that I have broken your laws…” He coughed. “…and my sins have separated me from you. I am truly sorry—”
“Hey,” Berlin interrupted him. “You want to repent, you repent to me. Give me something, Antony.”
Antony opened his eyes and gazed at Berlin. “What?”
“Give me something. Right here, right now.”
Antony remained quiet, his head sagging left and then right.
Was he too late?
“Who were these guys? Clay’s men?” Berlin barked at him.
“No…” Antony whispered. His eyes opened, but they gave the impression that there wasn’t anybody home. “Not…anymore.”
“What does that mean? Come on, man.”
“The nose. He had Band…aid…”
“Band-Aid? Simmons? Is that what you’re trying to say? How do you know?”
But it was too late. He was gone. His eyes remained open, staring back at Berlin with that blank and emotionless look on his face.
Dammit.
Mitchell didn’t leave him any time to think, asking, “What’s going on, partner? Where are you?”
Berlin came back over to him. “Sorry, bud. I just had to do something real quick.”
Mitchell pushed himself up off the airbag and brought a hand up to his head. “What happened…? I heard gunfire. Shouting.” Mitchell chuckled to himself. “Ow.”
“I bet you did. I took two of them out.”
“For real?”
Wait. Two? What about the third? There were three men.
“Crap, be right back.”
Berlin circled back around the SUV. A trail of blood told him that he was headed in the right direction.
Huh.
He found the third man splayed out on the pavemen
t. He was dead. Berlin noticed a pool of blood underneath him and the shattered kneecap. He was a big guy with dark skin, like the others, pushing well over 200 pounds. Berlin kicked his gun away for good measure. Looking down at the dead man, he noticed that his shirt was stained a deep red in the stomach area.
Gut shot.
“Guess I got you, too,” Berlin said.
“Ber—lin?” Mitchell said.
“Yeah?” Berlin turned to look back at Mitchell.
“I think you better get me someone,” Mitchell managed, before collapsing back into the airbag.
CHAPTER 39
“Run through it one more time for me, Detective,” the man named Peter Grant, from Internal Affairs Division, said.
“It’s like I told you, they ambushed us,” Berlin said. “What’s so hard to understand about that?”
Seated across from Berlin at the long table in the boardroom were Peter Grant (IAD), Deputy Chief James Ecker, and Berlin’s old CO from Port, David Norton. All three men wore somber expressions on their faces. Ecker was the oldest of the bunch. But Norton, with his thick dark mustache, appeared the most grizzled. Like life had taken its toll on him.
Berlin knew Norton from his days in Port. He had been his former Commanding Officer, but, ever since the events that had brought on his leave of absence, things had not ended well between the two of them. Norton saw him as a loose cannon. Hard to control. Hard to keep in line.
“And what of Mr. White?” Grant asked, shuffling his paperwork.
Mr. White was, in fact, Antony White, the dealer they had picked up at the carousel. He died from his wounds in the back seat of Berlin’s car.
Berlin shook his head. “They took him out. He died in the crossfire. These guys…they don’t play by the rules. They’re used to taking what they want. Maybe they figured that he’d spill the beans.”
David Norton stared at him. “Right. And talk he did, according to you. You seem awfully adamant that, and I quote, ‘Simmons is behind this’. Tell me, why should we believe that this dealer just happened to utter, what was it again? Four words to you and you somehow came to the conclusion that he was obviously talking about Detective Simmons. This is quite the story, Detective.”
Eyes of the Dead: A Crime and Suspense Thriller (The Gardens Book 1) Page 21