by David DeLee
“Can’t resist a party,” Flynn said.
Calderon shook hands with Flynn, then Levy. “Sure was some Sherlock Holmes shit, you linking these knuckleheads to Detroit.”
“Credit goes to you, really,” Flynn said. “If you hadn’t IDed Cruz on the subway cam, we’d never have found him to talk to.”
“Just glad it worked out. These fuckers have gotta go down.” Calderon slapped Toro on the back. “This little pipsqueak fill you in yet?”
“Just getting to it.” Toro handed Levy his cell phone. On the screen was the mugshot of Tyrell Haywood. It had been included in the packet of files Detective Gillot had forwarded to them the night before.
“You’ve both seen these?” Toro asked.
Flynn and Levy had both looked through the packet Gillot sent.
Levy nodded. “Yes.”
Still she scrolled through to the second picture, taking a second look at Haywood and then his friend, Jayden Walker. Her memory refreshed, she handed the phone back.
“Once we had names to go on,” Calderon said, “I was able to put more pressure on Cruz, Dragon, and some of the other Pit King Spades to get me something. One of them, his sister was jammed up on a small-time possession charge. I told him I’d smooth it over with the arresting officer and the DA, if he had anything for us. If not, little sis was going away for two-to-five. He told me about a couple of out-of-towners who were looking for a set of wheels so they can get out of town. Said he heard one of them went by the name Howzer.”
“Haywood,” Flynn confirmed. “Gillot told me that was his street name.”
“Whatever the fuck that means,” Calderon said.
“Since the local Avis isn’t an option for our boys,” Toro said, “they were directed to the guy runs the scrapyard around the corner. A full-service chop shop as it turns out. He told ’em he could get ’em a vehicle, one freshly snatched from JFK’s long-term parking. They’re due to pick it up…” He checked the time on his cell phone. “Any minute.”
As if on cue, Calderon’s handheld radio crackled with static, followed by a low voice. “Show time. Two mopes fitting the targets’ descriptions just strolled through the front gate. Like they ain’t got a care in the world.”
“Roger that,” Toro said. “We’re getting into position now.”
Shotgun certified, Flynn grabbed the Mossberg 590 he kept in the trunk. He slammed the lid closed, carrying the weapon by its fourteen-inch barrel.
“What’s the lay-out of the salvage yard?” Levy asked.
“The place is huge, half a city block big,” Lovato said. “Completely fenced in, chain link all around, with privacy slats so there’s limited visibility from the outside. Other than the open main gate, it’s been a bitch trying to get eyes on the place.”
“I’ve got a guy on the roof across the street with binoculars.” Calderon waved his radio. “He’s who called. Just eyes, he’s not sniper support.”
Lovato continued, “The main entrance is a double-wide driveway. Gates open, so getting in’s easy, but the place is a jumble of car bodies, scrap metal, piles of tires and other junk.”
“What else do we have for support?” Flynn asked.
“We’re light, Calderon admitted. “These riots have stretched us thin. I’ve got a couple of uniforms in an RMP on Rockaway Parkway, along the right side of the yard.”
“Other than that, you’re looking at it,” Toro said.
Calderon pointed to the two patrolmen with them. “Tom and Pete will head out to cover the rear, but here’s the kicker. The salvage yard doesn’t back onto another street. Behind it are a set of old train tracks. It’s tree-lined on either side of the tracks along with a grassy berm. If anyone makes it over the back fence, there’s a ton of places to hide. Not to mention if they get to the businesses across the tracks, they’re as good as gone.”
The gang cop gave the two uniforms a nod.
They jumped into their cruiser and backed out of the beer distributor’s parking lot. Running silent, they drove down the street to get into position.
The rest of them headed on foot down the block and a half toward the entrance of the salvage yard. The day was bright and the sun was high in the sky, but the air was cold.
“Our advantage is surprise,” Toro said. “They’ve no idea we’re coming for ’em.”
Calderon tossed his cigar to a puddle ahead of them then ground it out under his shoe. “We’re going to have to split up. The place is a maze. Aisles and aisles of junk cars stacked up ten high, twenty feet.” He held his hand over his head to demonstrate. “Car parts and scrap metal everywhere.”
Levy asked, “Besides our two targets, who else is in there?”
Toro shrugged.
“The yard’s run by a couple low-life shits,” Calderon said. “They’ve got rap sheets the length of your arms but all non-violent stuff: auto theft, burglary, shoplifting beefs.”
“Doesn’t mean they’ll stay non-violent,” Toro said.
Calderon nodded. “For sure. As far as my guy across the way has seen, it’s just the two of them. He’s been there an hour and a half. I do know there’s a third skell works for humpty and dumpty, but we ain’t seen him so far today.”
“But two for sure?” Flynn asked. “Plus Walker and Haywood.”
“Best we can tell, yeah.”
Flynn didn’t like it. They had them outnumbered sure, but ESU should’ve dispatched a squad. Two of the targets were already cop killers. They had nothing to lose shooting it out. He glanced at Levy. From her expression he got the sense she felt the same way.
Half the damn force should’ve mobilized for this. But the city was grappling with a level of rioting and violence it hadn’t experienced in decades. If the department had only been stretched thin and short-staffed, that would’ve been considered a luxury. So, what choice did they have? If they didn’t grab Haywood and Walker here, now, the two of them would be in Ohio by nightfall and back in Detroit by day’s end, or somewhere else entirely.
He got it. They didn’t have time to put together a proper op. They had to act. Still it didn’t mean he had to like it.
They reached the open salvage yard gate.
Flynn and Toro would go straight in, down the path formed by a pile of old, discarded engine blocks and dismantled transmissions on one side and a row of crushed car bodies stacked five high.
Levy would cover the right. She’d clear the two aisles created by another three rows of stacked, demolished cars. At the right end of the yard she’d need to check the racks of flattened cars along the property’s fence running parallel with Rockaway Parkway, where Calderon had a cruiser parked on the other side. She’d loop around to the right side of the chop shop, deal with anyone she found before moving along the cinderblock wall of the shop to rejoin Flynn and Toro before they made their way inside the open bay entrance.
If the coast was clear.
At the same time, Calderon and Lovato would advance toward the building by making their way along the left fence. There was a wide area between the building and the fence, wide enough to accommodate a large vehicle. Their Intel told them that in addition to the open bay door facing the main entrance, the single-story cinderblock building had a man-size side door on the left. Calderon and Lovato were to make sure no one slipped out from that door and made a break for it by hopping the fence in the back.
A junkyard was a dangerous place to clear even with a full complement of trained officers. A place like this could have dozens of pre-arranged escape routes set up. They usually did. A skell could hide behind practically anything. Lay in wait on top of the many rows of junk and bide their time, mow the cops down at their leisure.
Happy thoughts.
Toro held each of them with a gaze. “Ready?”
They were.
Toro keyed his radio. “We’re a go!”
As one, the five of them, all in police windbreakers, poured through the main opening, guns at the ready. Levy darted across the opening. Stayin
g low, she jogged down the length of crushed vehicles stacked in rows over her head. Her Glock in a two-handed grip, she remained conscious of what might be above her.
Flynn soon lost sight of her behind a row of stacked car frames. He and Toro charged straight toward the shop. Bright sun shone overhead, making the interior of the shop a dark hole. Pitch black except for a grinder that shot a fan of bright yellow and white sparks across the opening. A Mercedes S-class sedan with its hood up and no wheels sat in the center of the bay, its front end extended out of the bay opening.
A tall, thin man with dark skin wearing gray coveralls stood near the Mercedes driver’s side door. The windshield had been removed. The man was using the grinder to obliterate the VIN number stamped in the metal in an attempt to make the car untraceable.
Parked outside was a green Camry with New Jersey plates. This had to be the stolen car Haywood and Walker were there to buy.
As Flynn crept closer, he saw a window in the back cast an opaque glow of light over a rear workbench littered with car parts. Difficult to make out, Flynn saw two figures in the back. Concealed in shadows in the darkness, all he could tell was one sat at a desk. He appeared to be a rather large man. The other person stood next to him. They were arguing but Flynn couldn’t make out over what.
The buzz of the grinder continued.
Careful where he planted his feet for fear of kicking a loose a piece of metal or something, Flynn passed the last row of crushed cars on his right. He gave it a quick glance and saw Levy making her way along the length of the chop shop. She ducked under a grime-covered window and mouthed the word clear.
To his left, Flynn noticed Lovato and Calderon dart from a pile of scrap metal to the corner of the building. He held the butt of the shotgun pressed into the pocket of his shoulder. He signaled to Toro to advance toward the bay door.
The most dangerous part for them would be actually entering the building, crossing from the bright sunlight into a dark abyss. They’d be practically blind.
Levy cried out. “Shit!”
A figure emerged from the left side of the bay opening.
Flynn swung the shotgun barrel in that direction. It was Tyrell Haywood. Flynn recognized him from his mugshot. He wore the same black puffy coat and dark hoodie he had on in the security footage from the F train.
Haywood’s arm was extended. He held a silver-plated semi-automatic. The gun was pointed at Levy. Haywood’s attention was on Levy. He pulled the trigger. Twice.
The shot split the cold air.
Toro charged toward Haywood, his Glock firing. Four shots.
Haywood’s body jerked with each round that hit him. He dropped the gun and collapsed into an unmoving pile. With his face pressed against the gritty concrete floor of the shop, his eyes remained open, wide with surprise.
“Christine!” Flynn ran toward his partner.
She’d fallen onto her back. With one hand held to her side she gasped, trying to get air into her lungs. Her blue eyes were wide with pain and panicked surprise as she struggled to breathe. She gulped for air, looking like a fish out of water.
He cried out again. “Christine!”
She waved him off. “I’m fine…vest…shit! That hurts.” She pulled her portable radio out and keyed it. “Shots fired! 10-33! Officers need assistance!” She called out the address of the salvage yard between sucking gasps.
Reluctantly, Flynn left her and charged into the shop. “Police! Everybody freeze!”
Toro had kicked the gun away from Haywood’s dead hand and checked for a pulse.
The man grinding away VIN numbers had dropped his grinder into the engine compartment of the car and was already on the floor, face down. His arms and legs spread wide. The thin figure in the back was making a beeline for the side door while the fat one sitting at the desk had his hands in the air.
“My hands are raised! My hands are raised!”
“Runner!” Flynn shouted as loud as he could, hoping Calderon and Lovato would hear him. He kept the shotgun trained on the fat man. “Anyone else here? Tell me!”
“No. No. My hands are raised.”
Flynn shook his head. “Shut the fuck up.”
He heard sirens approaching as he looked over at Toro who still had his hand on Haywood’s neck. He shook his head. Haywood was dead. Shit.
“Cuff this one,” Flynn said, indicating the one on the ground. He walked straight at the fat man. “No one else here? You lie to me I’ll blow you the fuck away.”
“No. No. I swear.”
Flynn grabbed one arm and twisted the man around in his chair and cuffed him to the heavy steel piping supporting the workbench that ran along the back length of the shop. With both men secure and one dead, Flynn was going back to check on Levy when he stopped in midstride.
Gunfire. It came from behind the shop.
“Stay here,” he shouted to Toro and tossed him the shotgun. Flynn drew his Glock and ran for the side door. Rusted and warped, it hung half open.
Flynn slipped through the opening, smooth and low. The space between the building and fence was about twelve feet wide. It had been paved at one point, but that had been many years ago. Clumps of grass and weeds and dirt had erupted through the macadam. The chain links were covered over with green privacy mesh tied to the metal poles and links with zip ties. Tattered and weather worn, the material gapped between the ties and in places had been cut, torn, or had simply frayed over the years. Discarded junk had been thrown against the fence. Fenders, muffler systems, tires, a refrigerator, a broken desk with only one three legs, everything including an actual kitchen sink.
But the space was empty of people.
Flynn jogged toward the rear of the building.
As he reached the corner of the building, he slowed and carefully looked around.
Lovato sat on the ground, his back against a discarded engine block. He held his hand to his right shoulder. His hand was stained red with blood. His right hand lay in his lap, still holding his service weapon. He was alive. Wincing in pain, but alive.
Calderon was about a dozen feet away. He stood hunched over a body draped across more discarded junk. One arm was splayed out across the scraggily dead grass and dirt. A gun, farther away, had been kicked out of reach. A tear of clothing hung from the fence above Calderon. It matched the jacket on the body lying on the ground.
Flynn moved closer. As he suspected, the body on the ground was Walker. Like Haywood, he was dead, too. “What the hell happened?”
Calderon turned, bringing his weapon up.
“Easy, Detective,” Flynn said.
Calderon looked down at the gun in his own hand. He lowered it.
Flynn looked from him to Lovato. “What happened?”
“He was up there,” Lovato said, jutting his chin toward the scrap of clothing hanging from the top of the fence. “Must’ve got hung up or whatever. We come around the corner, and the little prick starts firing.” He looked down at his bleeding shoulder. “Would’ve got me good if Hector hadn’t shoved me to the side.”
“I returned fire. Hit him twice.” Calderon nodded at Walker. “Landed there.”
“Fuck.”
Flynn heard ear-splitting sirens as cruisers bounced into the salvage yard. They snapped off and in the sudden quiet, the sound was replaced by car doors opening and slamming shut, by the crackle of commands over radio static.
Flynn dropped down to one knee beside Lovato. “You okay, buddy?”
“Will be. It’s a through and through. Hurts like hell, but everything moves.” He rotated his shoulder and grimaced. “Just gotta stop the bleeding.”
Flynn looked down the alley between the building and the ratty fence and saw a kaleidoscope of flashing lights out front. “Help’s here.”
“Everybody okay up front?” Lovato asked, meaning Levy and Toro.
Flynn nodded.
“You get Haywood?”
“He’s dead,” Flynn said.
“Shit.”
“Yeah,
” Flynn agreed. “Shit.” He called out to Calderon. “You okay, Detective?”
The burly man stood staring down at Walker. At the young man he’d just shot and killed. He blinked and looked over at Flynn. “What?”
Flynn patted Lovato on the leg and walked over to Calderon. “Your first?”
“Yeah.”
Flynn grabbed his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “From what you and Lovato said, it’s a clean shoot. You’re gonna be fine.”
Calderon nodded. “Yeah. That what you told Stokes?”
There was malice but no judgment in the comment. Calderon simply knew how it was going to be. At best his life was going to be hell for the foreseeable future. Everything he’d ever done in his entire life—career, personal, whatever—would be examined, dissected, and ripped apart. Everybody and their brother would question and second guess his split-second decision to shoot.
The same would go for Danny Toro, too.
“Keep an eye on him,” Flynn said, indicating Lovato. “I’ll get the EMTs back here forthwith.”
“Yeah. Sure,” Calderon said. “Go.”
By the time Flynn returned to the front, four cruisers were haphazardly parked around the entrance. There was an ambulance inside the yard, and two unmarked sedans parked on the street. Flynn counted no less than seven uniformed cops and three detectives, along with two EMTs.
Inside the shop, three uniforms escorted the now properly handcuffed fat man and thin coverall wearing grinder out to the waiting patrol cars. Toro was in the middle of the yard already talking with a detective who wore black-rimmed Clark Kent glasses. A second detective was bagging Toro’s service weapon. Flynn saw his unfired shotgun leaning against the front grill of a blue and white.
He grabbed the arm of one of the EMTs. “We’ve got an officer in the back. He took a round in the shoulder. It’s not life threatening, but bleeding like a bitch.”
The young man nodded and trotted off in the direction Flynn pointed, carrying a softshell red medical trauma kit. He called to his partner who was crouched beside Levy. “Jerry, back here!”