San Francisco Slaughter

by Jack Badelaire

  “Friendly comin’ in,” Lynch whispered.

  The man was trembling with fear. “I heard ‘em out there, man. This time I know I heard ‘em. That wasn’t no dream.”

  Lynch held his hands up in a peaceful gesture and stepped closer. “You’re not dreaming it, brother. I got ‘em both, but there’s going to be more. It’s not safe around here tonight, you dig me?”

  The young man nodded.

  Lynch pulled some cash from his pocket, perhaps forty or fifty bucks. Moving slowly, he held it out to the vet, who eyed the money warily.

  “What’s your name and unit, soldier?” Lynch asked.

  The man slowly rose to his feet and lowered the knife. “Private Hillerman, Delta Company, 3rd Brigade, 82nd Airborne.”

  Lynch nodded. “Okay, Private. I can’t give you my name, but I used to be a Green Beret. Before that, I earned my third stripe taking the Hill in ‘69 with the 101st. So one paratrooper to another, you need to fucking di di mau. You got me?”

  Hillerman nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Lynch held the money out again. “Take this. Don’t show it around, or someone’ll fight you for it. Go sleep at a shelter for the next couple of nights. That’s an order.”

  Hillerman took the wad of cash with a shaking hand. Pocketing the money, he quickly bundled up his blanket and grabbed his old Army rucksack. He turned to go, but paused and looked back at Lynch.

  “I know this ain’t ‘Nam,” he said. “I know it when I’m awake, but when I sleep, I’m back there again, and when I wake up, it takes me a while to remember where I am. I’m not crazy, Sergeant. I just can’t help it. When I close my eyes, I’m back in the war.”

  Lynch nodded. “I know, brother. It happens to me too.”

  Hillerman looked to the west, as if he could still see the jungle. “Part of me ain’t ever coming back home.”

  With that, Hillerman turned and slipped through the brush, moving without a sound. Lynch took a moment to wipe tears from his cheeks, and then he checked his watch. It was 2315. Time to move.

  SEVENTEEN

  At 2330 hours, Lynch crouched in the brush near the northwest corner of the chain-link fence surrounding Kezar Stadium. Using his binoculars, he scanned the grounds for Cranston’s men. So far he’d seen two figures walking the perimeter inside the fence. Neither man was smoking or using a flashlight, and Lynch didn’t see any long guns.

  He keyed his radio. “Cowboy, status.”

  “At my jump-off. You’re late, over.”

  “Had to stomp on a couple of rats, over.”

  “Big rats?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Typical. Okay, you see our welcome committee, over?”

  “Affirmative, over.”

  “All right. Jumping off in five. Switching channels, checking back in 25 mikes, over.”

  “Roger that. Hangman over and out.”

  Lynch clipped the radio to his belt again and changed the channel several clicks. Immediately, a voice cut in over the air.

  “-ering the park now. Sure hope you assholes are listening.”

  Lynch smiled. Blake was wearing a compact surveillance radio transmitter. The radio wasn’t much bigger than a pack of smokes, and Blake had hid it in his underwear, nestling the radio next to his groin because, as Blake had said, even the pros didn’t like to touch another man’s dick. The mic wire, which doubled as the antenna, ran under his shirt, the microphone taped to his chest. Lynch and Richard could hear Blake, but couldn’t reply back.

  Raising his binoculars again, Lynch scanned the fence. There was no sign of movement. Seeing his chance, he dropped the binoculars back into the musette bag, slung the duffel across his back, and moved slowly and steadily in a low crouch to the fence. Although security lights were set up at intervals along the perimeter, whoever planned their distribution skimped a little on the coverage, and Lynch found a short length of fence in relative shadow. He reached the fence and went right over, making the climb and hitting the ground on the other side in less than ten seconds. Scanning around him, he saw no signs of Cranston’s men. Lynch crawled across the open ground until he reached the stadium’s outer wall. There, he then slunk along in a crouch until he tucked himself into the shadowed doorway of a maintenance entrance.

  Unzipping the duffel, Lynch pulled out his pry bar. The maintenance door was secured by a hasp and padlock, but the hasp was screwed into a wooden doorframe, and the wood was aged and soft, the paint peeling. Lynch used the tip of his hunting knife to work away some of the wood where the hasp screwed into the doorframe, then sheathed the knife and wedged the pry bar under the metal hasp. Working slowly and carefully, he pried the hasp free of the doorframe, the screws tearing out of the wood without much noise.

  Putting the pry bar away, Lynch turned the doorknob and eased the door open. Thankfully, the hinges didn’t squeal, and he quickly slipped inside. The hasp remained horizontal as it hung loose from the door, held in place by the padlock, and in the dark, Lynch hoped it would go unnoticed. He shut the door and stood in the darkness, listening for a minute before he risked the red-lensed penlight. The room was small, containing several trash barrels, a rack on the wall with shovels and rakes, and a few bags of grass seed stacked along the wall. Another door was on the opposite side of the room.

  Lynch moved to the other door, putting his ear against it and listening. After a couple of minutes, he heard nothing, and he tested the knob. The door was unlocked. Lynch pocketed the penlight and opened the door a crack. There was a long, dimly-let curving corridor, illuminated by security lights every fifty feet. Lynch shut the door and slipped the duffel bag from his shoulders. Unzipping it, he pulled out the M76 submachine gun and the four spare magazines. Two mags went into each of his jacket’s large outer pockets. He unfolded the weapon’s U-shaped wire stock and locked it open. Zipping the duffel back up, he slung it on his back again, then collected the SMG and locked back the bolt, making the weapon ready to fire. If he ran into anyone at this point, Lynch would have no choice but to start shooting. He opened the door again, listened for a moment, then stepped out into the corridor.

  Two years ago, the big pro football teams stopped using the stadium, and although it was used now and then for school games and other events, the stadium went unused for long periods of time. Blake had drawn Richard and Lynch a map that evening, and the two men had memorized all the building’s major features. Lynch padded along silently, heading for the concourse that would get him to the stadium seating.

  “Okay boys, I’m in the stadium,” Blake’s voice whispered in Lynch’s ear.

  “You the guy?” another voice asked. One of Cranston’s men.

  “Yeah, think I’m carrying this suitcase with me for fun?” Blake replied.

  “Don’t get fucking cute,” the man answered. There was the sound of the gate squealing as it opened. “We gotta check you for a piece.”

  “Alright,” Blake answered.

  Lynch found a stairwell leading up. Moving quickly, he ascended the steps and peeked out. Some of the stadium lights were on, just enough to keep the field illuminated, probably for security purposes. He was right near the twenty yard line, with the fifty to his left, and the goal post to his right. Getting down on his belly, Lynch crawled to where he could use the bleachers as cover and peek out around them towards the dark tunnel to his right that served as the entrance onto the field.

  Slipping the duffel bag over his shoulders, he put it in front of him and laid out two of the extra magazines for his M76. He pulled the binoculars from the musette bag and started scanning the stadium. Immediately, he saw a figure in the shadow of the field entrance. Reaching down, he pulled the radio free and changed channels.

  “Hangman in position, over.”

  “Cowboy in position. I count one duck, over.”

  “Roger that. Good hunting, over.”

  “Cowboy out.”

  Lynch clicked the channel switch back to Blake’s frequency.

  “-otta lot
of balls coming out here on your own, buddy.” an unfamiliar voice spoke.

  “Philip is an old friend, I’m sure things’ll go smoothly.” It was Blake.

  The other man chuckled. “Yeah, smooth as warm butter. Okay, friend. Fifty yard line. Get walking.”

  Lynch saw Blake emerge from the dark tunnel and begin walking out onto the field. Even at this distance, the big man exuded confidence. You’d never think he was walking out into a kill zone, Lynch mused.

  “I hope you sons of bitches shoot straight,” Blake whispered into his mic.

  In a minute, he reached the fifty yard line and turned, facing back the way he’d came. Lynch shifted the binoculars and saw two more figures standing at the mouth of the entrance. One of them emerged onto the field, and Lynch got his first good look at Philip Cranston. He was thin, medium height, wearing a black suit and white shirt with a thin black tie. His black hair was swept back from his forehead in a widow’s peak, and he wore a pair of horn-rim glasses. He had a thin, weasel-like face and a sharp nose and chin, and he moved with an oily grace. To Lynch, Cranston looked more like a seedy undertaker or an untrustworthy accountant than a homicidal ex-cop.

  Cranston stopped ten feet from Blake, but even at that distance, the mic picked him up clearly.

  “Hello John, long time no see. You haven’t changed much. A little more grey, looks like. A few more pounds around the middle, too. Strange, that. I’d think without Mary you’d be eating less, lose a little weight. Or was she a bad cook? I honestly can’t recall.”

  Lynch could hear the snide tone in Cranston’s voice. He wanted to shoot him now just to shut him up. He couldn’t imagine how Blake remained calm.

  “Show me the kid, Phillip.”

  Lynch saw Cranston turn and wave his hand. Two figures stepped out of the entrance and into the light. Lynch focused his binoculars and saw a big, meaty-looking guy holding a thin, timid-looking man in front of him. Roth had a gag in his mouth and his hands were bound behind him.

  “How’d you find him?” Blake asked.

  Cranston laughed. “Good old fashioned detective work. You remember that, don’t you? I had my boys case delivery joints near every low-end hotel in town. Showed them a picture of Roth, asked if the guy had ordered from them, maybe the same order to the same hotel room several nights in a row. Got lucky this morning and hit the jackpot.”

  “I’d hoped Roth was smarter than that,” Blake said.

  “You’d be wrong, John. These brainy types, they’re geniuses at one thing, but idiots about the real world.” Cranston shook his head. “He ordered from the same Chinese restaurant three nights in a row. The proprietor was a little reluctant to say where Roth was, though. He saw through my boys and knew they weren’t cops, but once they broke three of his fingers with a ball peen hammer, he found the gift of gab, all right. It’s a shame about the kitchen fire that burned the place down and killed the owner after my boys left. All those greasy noodles, I suppose.”

  “You’re a psychopath, Philip, a rabid dog. Someone needs to put you down.”

  “That may be, John, but not today. Not while I’ve got your golden goose all tied up back there.”

  “Did you break any of his fingers?” Blake asked.

  “He’s just fine, John. I’m going to give you back your runaway,” Cranston said, “but I’m going to keep that prototype. You see, I know who wants it. My associates in Vegas told me how they found a buyer. I take your money for Roth, I give them the prototype, and they give me a cut of their deal as a finder’s fee. It’s all hands washing each other, John.”

  “You really must think you’re some kind of criminal mastermind, Philip,” Blake said.

  “I do all right for myself, John. Just like you did, it seems. Tell me, do you like the choice of venue? It seemed appropriate. When it came out, I watched Dirty Harry six times. Reminded me of the good old days, back when we were on the force together.”

  “I’ve seen the movie too, asshole. Callahan wasn’t shaking down pushers and pimps for cash, then killing them when the heat got too close.”

  “He took out the trash, John, just like I did. I was just smart enough to make a profit from my labors. Pushers will always sling dope. Pimps will always peddle pussy. You kill one, two more take their place. All any cop’ll get for his troubles is a ruined liver, a failed marriage, a cheap gold watch, and a yearning to eat the barrel of his gun.

  “But I made the system work for me, John. Those little shits feared me. Big tough guy like you comes knocking, they tell you to fuck off. Little ol’ me shows up, they sing like fucking canaries. Those last few years, I did more good on the streets than you did your entire career!”

  “By doing what, Philip?” Blake fired back. “Piling up bodies? Pocketing protection money? The badge means you have the power to enforce the law, it doesn’t put you above it.”

  Cranston laughed. “You’re right John. This puts me above the law.” Lynch saw Cranston pull back the edge of his suit coat. He saw the butt of a gun behind Cranston’s right hip. “It worked for Callahan, too. Remember that shot he made, right here in the movie? Must have been fifty yards, but he hit that scumbag right where he was aiming.”

  “All this jerking off about the movie, I’m surprised you don’t have a .44 Magnum yourself,” Blake replied.

  “I don’t need a hand-cannon like that to get the job done, John. This Model 10 is all I need. Speaking of which,” Cranston said, all humor gone from his voice, “open that case and show me the fifty grand.”

  Blake crouched down and set the case down on the ground. He turned it to face Cranston and opened it. Stacks of banded bills were piled into the case. Suddenly, as if by magic, Cranston’s right hand contained a revolver. Lynch blinked; he hadn’t even seen the draw.

  “Now, back up ten paces, John. You so much as twitch wrong and I put a bullet in your heart.”

  Blake backed up and stood there. Cranston walked forward and knelt. He pulled several bundles of bills at random, holding them up in front of him and thumbing through them, never taking his eyes off Blake. Finally he was satisfied. He reached down, closed and latched the case, then picked it up and stood.

  “Alright John, we’re almost done here. I’m going to walk back now. If you stay put and don’t do anything stupid, when I get halfway to the entrance, my guy will let Roth go. By the time he gets to you, I’ll be gone.”

  Cranston backed away for a dozen paces, his revolver steady as a rock and trained on Blake. Finally he turned and proceeded to walk away. As he drew abreast of Lynch’s position, Cranston waved to his man, and Roth was shoved out onto the field. The two approached each other, and Cranston stopped Roth and said something to him before continuing on. Roth quickened his pace and soon reached Blake, just as Roth reached the entrance to the field.

  Lynch could hear Roth’s heavy breathing over the radio as Blake pulled the gag from Roth’s mouth.

  “What did he say to you just then?” Blake asked.

  “He said to tell you, if Callahan could do it, so can he. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  A pistol shot rang out, and Roth pitched forward, a bullet in his back.

  EIGHTEEN

  Lynch dropped the binoculars and snatched up the submachine gun. He tucked the stock into his shoulder and squeezed the trigger, sending half of the weapon’s thirty-six round magazine into the tunnel entrance. At the same time, the roar of a second automatic weapon came from the other side of the stadium as Richard opened fire.

  “That fucking asshole! That treacherous cocksucker!” Blake growled as he ran. As soon as Roth had hit the ground, Blake had taken off at a run, cutting down the fifty-yard line towards Lynch’s position. Several more shots rang out from the entrance, but with two submachine guns laying down suppressing fire, Cranston’s aim was spoiled, and Blake scrambled over the lip of the stadium and into the lower bleachers.

  He wasn’t a moment too soon. A long tongue of flame leapt from the stadium seats above the tunnel entrance,
and Lynch heard the blast of the Thompson as it roared away. The heavy .45 caliber slugs chopped into the wooden bleacher seats all around Blake, sending splinters of wood and concrete chips flying. The big man dived for cover, trying to get down and out of the Thompson’s murderous hail. Lynch shifted his aim and fired the last of his magazine in the direction of the Thompson’s muzzle flash, but the gunman was on the move, probably firing across the field from the hip, the shots hammering up the stadium towards Lynch. He tucked his head down and reloaded his empty weapon as Richard took up the slack, raking the end of the stadium with short bursts of auto-fire.

  The Thompson went silent for a moment, and Blake shot to his feet, barreling up the stairs, breath roaring like a bellows in Lynch’s earpiece. Lynch snapped home a spare magazine and handed Blake his revolver. The big man barely slowed down; he rushed past and headed inside the stadium, towards the concourse. Lynch changed channels on his walkie-talkie and followed.

  “Come in Cowboy, Come in Cowboy, over.”

  “What is Gunny’s status? Is he hit?”

  “Negative. Flank them and head for the entrance.”

  “Hangman, we need to make an exit, now. Half the cops in the city are gonna be here any second.”

  Lynch caught up to Blake, who was charging down the concourse like an enraged bull.

  “We need to get the fuck out of here!” Lynch shouted. “Chasing Cranston down isn’t the priority right now. We need to fall back before we get plugged by some over-eager flatfoot!”

  Blake didn’t even reply, he just pounded ahead even faster. Lynch kept pace, and then pulled ahead. He threw out an arm and tried to slow Blake down.

  Gunfire erupted from the concourse ahead of them, ricochets whining past their ears. Someone ahead was firing down the curving tunnel between them, trying to bounce home a lucky slug. Lynch felt a bullet tear through the duffel bag next to his head. He brought up the submachine gun and tore off a long burst in reply. A second later, a hand holding an automatic poked around the edge of a doorway and fired blindly at them. Lynch and Blake hit the ground, and Blake cocked back the hammer of his revolver and took careful aim before squeezing off a single shot. The gunman’s severed hand leapt into the air, still clutching the pistol and throwing out a spray of blood before hitting the floor. Ears ringing from the muzzle blast, Lynch jumped to his feet and ran around the corner. The gunman was slumped against the doorway, clutching the mangled stump of his wrist. Lynch brought up the submachine gun and tore the man’s face apart with a burst of slugs.