by Ed Naha
Lewis smiled and slid behind the wheel. “Well, get in, pardner, or I’ll take off without you.”
Muttering under his breath, Murphy ran around the fired-up TurboCruiser and jumped in the passenger’s side as Lewis stood on the gas. The car fishtailed away from the burger stand, leaving a plume of dust and grit behind it.
Murphy leaned forward toward the ComLink. “Central, Unit 154 responding.” He stared at the pulsating blue dot zigzagging across the grid of the sector shown on the dash.
The voice of the ComLink dispatcher was calm and efficient. “We copy 154. Suspects are armed and considered extremely dangerous. Use of high explosives in connection with the robbery of . . .”
Murphy’s mind wandered. It suddenly occurred to him that he should have called Jan hours ago. He didn’t exactly know why that occurred to him. Mentally shrugging, he returned his attention to the blathering radio.
Blocks ahead of the TurboCruiser, a battered white van, crowded with men, weapons, and charred sacks of money, roared down the back streets of Old Detroit.
Inside the van, Clarence Boddicker was worried. Lines were etched in his high forehead. He glanced at the feral little man driving the van, a weasel of a human named Emil. He sighed. Emil would never be more than a subhuman. He glanced at his associates huddled in the van. Idiots all. How did he, a man of such savvy, such intelligence, hook up with such an enclave of lowlifes? This was the price one had to pay to be a master thief.
Leon, a tall, shambling man, sat with his knees tucked up under his chin. Joe, a tough young black with an attitude problem, glared at his feet. Chan, a Hong Kong-born patsy whose face looked like a computer course in nervous twitching, tried not to show his fear. Barrel-chested Bobby and clean-cut Dougie glanced at each other nervously.
The smell of burnt paper filled Clarence’s nostrils. Anger welled within him as Emil silently guided the van down side street after side street. Finally, Clarence snapped. He turned to Bobby. “You burnt the fucking money!”
Bobby, whose IQ approximated his belt size, was not cowed. “I hadda blow the door,” he shrugged. “Whaddaya want.”
Clarence, realizing rational give and take was impossible, glared out the front windshield. “It’s as good as marked, now, you asshole. It’s worthless. Worthless.” He allowed the final “s” sound of his sentence to slither through the air, as deadly as an adder.
To punctuate the thought, he reached down to the floor and grasped a handful of burnt bills. He tossed them into Bobby’s face. Bobby shrugged a second time. “Hey. Some days you eat the bear and some days the bear eats you.”
Clarence didn’t have time for anger. Emil was quivering behind the wheel. “Clarence! We got a cop on our tail.”
Clarence glanced out of the side mirror. Indeed, there was a TurboCruiser speeding after the van. Closing fast. “This is not one of my better days,” he muttered. He didn’t mind killing when it was preplanned. Spontaneous slaughter, however, could really be a drag. A real drain of energy that could be used for other, more lucrative endeavors.
“Stand on it, Emil.” He sighed.
Behind the van, Lewis floored the gas pedal. The TurboCruiser sliced through the darkness. Clouds obscured the moon.
“Hit it,” Murphy commanded.
Lewis punched a button and, immediately, the ghetto landscape was illuminated by the pulsating strobes of the Cruiser. The silence of the night was shattered by its screaming siren. Murphy faced the ComLink. “Central, we are in pursuit of possible 211 suspects. Request backup.”
“Fat chance,” Lewis muttered.
In the careening van, Clarence popped one stick of chewing gum after another into his mouth. He chewed furiously. “This is getting bothersome,” he whispered.
Behind him, his gang members sat nervously. Not a backbone in the bunch, Clarence thought. Emil’s teeth were chattering. “This crate ain’t gonna outrun twin turbines,” he pointed out.
Clarence sighed. Obviously, in Emil’s neighborhood, first cousins were encouraged to marry. “Well,” Clarence advised. “Slow it down, then.”
Emil gaped at his leader. “What are you, crazy?”
Clarence flashed a crocodile smile at the little man. “Emil. Please. Shut the fuck up and do as I say. Bobby, get the door.”
The van began to slow down.
Murphy sat in the passenger’s seat of the TurboCruiser. The hairs on the back of his neck slowly began to quiver. This didn’t smell right. He slid his revolver out of its holster. Lewis continued to stand on the gas. “Slow it down a little,” Murphy said.
“Why? We’re gaining on them,” Lewis answered.
Murphy shot her a look. Lewis reacted as if she had been slapped in the face.
In the back of the van, the gang members cradled their shotguns. It looked as if they’d get a couple of more bluecaps tonight. They pointed their guns in the direction of the back door. Bobby sat nearest the door, poised to kick it open with one movement of his dinosaur-sized feet.
Clarence took a deep breath. Four. Three. Two. One. “Now!!” he screamed. “Shoot to kill!”
Bobby kicked the doors open. The men in the van raised their shotguns and fired en masse. Smoke filled the back of the truck as a maelstrom of hot lead exited the speeding vehicle. Clarence blinked into the smoke. He didn’t hear the tinkle of a shattered windshield. He didn’t hear the squealing of tires. He didn’t sense the presence of mangled flesh.
Gradually, the smoke evaporated. Clarence and his men gazed out the back of the van. There wasn’t a police car to be seen. There was nothing there but street. Lots and lots of empty street. Leon, not amused, turned to Emil.
“I thought you said there was a cop back there.”
“He’s there, man. I saw him.”
Before Clarence could get a word in, the TurboCruiser appeared, leaping off the sidewalk on the left side of the street and zipping past the open back of the van.
Behind the wheel, Lewis gritted her teeth as Murphy opened fire on the alabaster truck. Instinctively, Lewis ducked as two volleys of shotgun pellets singed the air. She pulled the TurboCruiser away from the van.
“Are you okay?” she yelled.
“No problem,” Murphy replied. “I think I got one of them.”
In the back of the van, Clarence’s men were in a state of panic. Bobby clutched his bleeding leg. “Aw, shit. I’m hit, man. I’m hit.”
Joe and Chan fired another round at the police car. The TurboCruiser disappeared again.
“Man,” Joe muttered. “This is spooky shit.”
Without warning, the TurboCruiser charged again, this time from the right side of the road. A volley of bullets slammed into the side of the van. Clarence’s men hugged the cheap carpeting as the bullets thwacked harmlessly into the metal.
“My leg,” Bobby cried. “It’s bleeding.”
Clarence sat, fuming. “Shut up, Bobby. I’ve got to think.”
A bullet whizzed by the passenger mirror.
Joe, not thinking, dove across Clarence and fired his shotgun out the window, nearly taking out Clarence’s eardrum. “Sit the fuck down, Joseph,” Clarence said.
Joe glared at Clarence but did as he was told. “Close the back door,” Clarence ordered.
Chan quickly slammed the doors.
Emil continued to speed onward. A smile flashed across Clarence’s face. “Okay. I’ve got an idea.”
“They’ve accelerated again,” Murphy said, from his vantage point in the pursuing vehicle.
“They’re scared,” Lewis cackled. “They’re outclassed.”
She pressed her foot down on the accelerator, picking up speed. There was something about the setup Murphy didn’t like. He silently reloaded, keeping one eye on the van. He was about to voice his doubts to Lewis when his fears became reality.
The back of the van burst open and the screaming form of one Bobby Martin, street punk, assassin, drug user, and rapist, was tossed out toward the street by his former accomplices.
&n
bsp; “Shit,” Lewis hissed, watching the burly body hurtle through space directly toward the speeding TurboCruiser. The body struck the windshield with a sickening thud, shattering the glass and causing both Murphy and Lewis to shield their faces with their hands. Blood and bits of semi-solid matter shot into the TurboCruiser as Bobby’s body continued on its way up and over the Cruiser’s hood. Lewis glanced in the rearview mirror. The stocky thug’s lifeless form spun wildly in the street behind them.
The force of the impact, however, caused Lewis to momentarily lose control of the speeding Cruiser. “Hold on,” she yelled, playing with both the gas and the brakes, trying desperately to avoid a total spinout. The TurboCruiser slid toward the sidewalk. Murphy’s eyes almost popped out of his skull. Before them was a row of a dozen parking meters.
“I hope these are the new plastic jobs,” he muttered as the car plowed onward.
The TurboCruiser smashed, head-on, into the row of meters, neatly ripping them out of their concrete underpinnings. Miraculously, the impact didn’t destroy the car’s motor. “Let’s hear it for plastic,” Lewis said.
Murphy leaned into the ComLink. “Central, we are in pursuit of the suspect vehicle. Shots fired. Suspect has been injured. Request MediVac, Cod 3. 9th and Century. Priority request for backup. Repeat, Central, we are in pursuit.”
Dispatch didn’t reply.
“Thanks a lot,” Murphy added.
Lewis eased the car to a stop.
“What happened to the van?” she asked.
Murphy studied the grid. The blue dot was speeding away from the scene, zigzagging down alleyways. These guys may have blown a heist, but they were pros when it came to inner-city guerrilla warfare.
“Hit it,” Murphy said.
Lewis gunned the twin turbines, sending them screaming into the night. Murphy reached forward and killed the sirens and lights. He was tense now. Adrenaline was flowing. It was an Ahab-Great White Whale situation. If these morons would sacrifice one of their own just to slow down one lousy patrol car, they were capable of anything.
Murphy bent over the ComLink. “Central. We’ve got a heat track on the suspect vehicle. It’s heading west on the Webster Street Bridge.”
Silence was the reply.
Murphy was grinding his teeth now. Bad habit. Jan always nagged him about it. Said he’d cause sparks in bed one night and burn them all to Valhalla. “Turn right on 19th,” he whispered to Lewis. “It’s a shortcut.”
“How do you know?”
“I grew up around here. Down that block. Used to be a nice neighborhood.”
Lewis nodded, determined to catch the van, and executed a screaming right turn.
Murphy looked up toward the sky. The clouds were clearing now. A baleful full moon shone down on the car. It made him feel uneasy. “Even a man who is pure of heart and says his prayers by night,” he began.
“Huh?”
“Just a line I remembered from an old movie. About the full moon.”
“There’s the van,” Lewis whispered.
Next to a sprawling, abandoned warehouse, the white van sat, doors open and empty, in the sickly blue light afforded by the heavens. “Pull up. Slowly,” Murphy advised.
Lewis guided the TurboCruiser past the van. “Nobody’s home,” she said.
“Over there,” Murphy said.
Lewis guided the patrol car to the side of the warehouse and killed the motor. Murphy punched their coordinates into the computerized map linked to Central. A VuScreen came to life: ALL UNITS PRESENTLY ENGAGED—ETA: 20 MINUTES.
Murphy shrugged. “There’s never a cop around when you need one.”
Both the cops put their helmets on. No use taking chances. They activated the ComLink radio in their suits and climbed out of the Cruiser.
Murphy pointed toward the front entrance of the warehouse. Lewis nodded and pointed her gun toward a stairway leading up to the second story. Murphy winked at her.
His ComLink squawked. “Stay in touch,” he said.
Lewis nodded, popping gum under her helmet. “Will do.”
Murphy disappeared in the front door and Lewis gazed at the rickety metal stairs towering before her. She hoped they would hold. With the grace of a cat, she swung up onto the stairway and climbed.
The interior of the warehouse was bathed in darkness. Murphy silently scanned the area. It smelled wonky to him but, hell, they were committed now. Cargo containers stretched before him, a man-made labyrinth. He darted down a row of boxes. He stopped suddenly. Voices. Male. A half-dozen or so. Gripping his gun, he slowed his pace. He looked toward the ceiling. He hoped Lewis was all right. She was tough but, hell, when it came down to it, she was a woman. One-twenty pounds tops. No telling how big or how strong the gorillas hiding in this tomb were. He padded silently down the twisting, turning rows of boxes, listening for the voices.
Murphy took a chance. Climbing up on a stack of crates, he scanned the floor some ten feet below him. Four stacks away, he saw a small red pinprick of light. Someone was smoking. Dumb move. Swiftly and quietly, he leaped from stack to stack until he stood, poised, above two men. They were smoking a joint. The weasel he recognized from the van. It was the driver. A tall, clean-cut guy was toking with him.
Murphy made a move to leap down on them. He hesitated. Somehow, that just didn’t seem the smart thing to do. He retreated along the tops of the crates, climbing down on the other side of the haphazardly constructed wall.
High above him, on the second floor, Lewis crept along a wall. The heat up there was unbearable. She undid her helmet and snapped it on the side of her uniform, keeping the ComLink on beneath her chin. She shook her hair loose. That was better. She glanced around her. She was surrounded by half-packed crates. Somewhere nearby a door opened. Without thinking, she flattened herself against the wall. It was one of those nights she wished she had pursued a career in dental hygiene. She heard the sound of heavy breathing. Close. Very, very close. She hugged the wall. She heard a zipper creak down. She smelled urine. Someone was pissing just around the corner. Sweat rolled down her face as she watched the small river of piss run by her feet. Yeah, dental hygiene seemed like the perfect career right about now.
Lewis waited until the peeing had stopped. She watched a young black man walk toward an open freight elevator. Seeing an opportunity, she ran along a mountain of boxes and positioned herself on the far side of the elevator. The black man, a damp spot still on the crotch of his pants, walked forward to the lift, fiddling with his zipper. Within an instant, Lewis was upon him. She put a gun to his head.
“Freeze,” Lewis ordered in a cool monotone.
The man stopped at the door. His fly was still open.
He glanced at the young female cop. This was embarrassing.
“Okay, let’s see those hands,” Lewis whispered. “Nice and easy.”
Joe used one free hand to jiggle his zipper in an exaggerated manner. “Sure, baby, nice and easy. You mind if I zip this thing up?”
“Go ahead.”
He waited until he was sure the cop’s attention was focused on his crotch before he slowly lifted a blackjack from his rear pocket with his free hand. Lewis sighed and allowed Joe to fiddle with his fly. She didn’t see the blackjack coming.
Joe chuckled as the blunt instrument smashed into her face. Lewis reeled, toppling toward the open elevator shaft. She clawed the air, trying to grab hold of something, anything, solid. She felt the ground move from beneath her feet as she tumbled backward into the shaft. Her senses askew, she had the presence of mind to twist her body midair, aiming her feet at the ground far below. She hit and hit hard, sprawling into a puddle of dark, stagnant water and grease. She gasped for air. Pain sliced through her forehead. Her consciousness ebbed as a rat scurried by. Soon, all was darkness.
Joe stared down the shaft. Maybe if the cop wasn’t too banged up, he’d get to have a little fun before he killed her. He smiled to himself, picked up his autoload shotgun and headed for the stairway leading down to the f
irst floor.
Dougie and Emil continued to smoke their joint. Dougie enjoyed toking up, but Emil? He had problems. Paranoia. He felt uneasy about everything when he was wrecked. He saw shadows. Heard sounds. Felt like people were watching him. Like, now, for instance.
He stared at the figure of a cop, pistol drawn, standing not six feet away from him. He glanced at the joint in his hand. This was some good stuff. He handed the joint back to Dougie. Dougie, too, seemed to be having the same hallucination. Then the hallucination spoke.
“Hello, boys,” Murphy said.
Dougie made a move for his shotgun. He didn’t get far. Murphy fired a single shot into his chest. Dougie dropped to the ground, writhing. Emil shook his head clear. Unless he was mistaken, hallucinations didn’t fire sidearms. He glanced at his own autoload sitting next to a crate not two feet away.
Murphy shrugged his shoulders. “Dead or alive, pal. Either way, you’re coming with me.”
Emil allowed the gun to sit where it was. Murphy walked forward and kicked it away. Reaching behind his back with his free hand, he produced a pair of handcuffs. He tried to hide the fact that his hands were trembling. He didn’t like having had to fire a shot. He gave himself away on that move. He lowered his lips toward his ComLink. “Lewis. I got a situation here. Hey, lady. You copy me?”
Emil’s wide eyes were darting this way and that. Murphy effectively lowered his voice into a snarl. “Okay, tough guy, you know the routine. Hands on your head.”
Murphy made a move forward to cuff Emil. Something behind him made an all-too-familiar “ka-chunk.” He turned his helmeted head upward. Chan pointed an autoload directly at Murphy’s forehead. The reed-thin form of Leon appeared from Murphy’s right side. “Why don’t you let us take it from here, Emil.”
Leon trained his shotgun on Murphy’s midsection. “How about dropping your gun, cop.”
Murphy gritted his teeth as Leon placed the barrel of the shotgun against his neck. He slowly lowered his gun hand, letting the Mateba fall. Emil ran toward the cop.
“Your ass is mine, pig!”
The litte man froze as a calm and soothing voice emerged from the shadows. “Not yet, it isn’t.”