“Hey, those guys coming across the street at us. I can’t see them now. Where did they go?” Nick pointed at the screen.
“Here, they're in this angle from across the street.” The other man pointed to a split screen with four images. “They're taking pictures of our frigging delivery truck out front.” Shaking his head, he laughed again.
One of the tourists standing by the delivery truck waved at some of the others. Several other men looked up and started walking toward him. Two of them stepped up on the sidewalk in front of Mom's Ice Cream front doors. A third man stood in the middle of the street and waited for a car to pass. Then he started taking pictures of the two men. Another man joined them to have his picture taken. The women had all huddled, looking inside at the furniture display. Gradually, as a group, they walked to the other front display window of the furniture building putting the bus between them and Mom's Ice Cream.
Galletti walked into the surveillance room on the second floor. “What are you guys looking at?”
“Oh hey boss, check these goof balls out. It's a bunch of Chinese tourists.” Basil said.
The man taking the pictures joined the three men in front of the building. The group split up. Two walked to one side. The other two went to the opposite side. All four took pictures as they walked, pointed back across the street and talked.
“Yeah, well I don't like them out there. Get rid of them.”
“They're just tourists taking pictures. They'll be gone in a minute.”
“Get off your ass and move them the fuck away,” Galletti said. “I don't want nobody hanging around the front like that.”
“Yeah, okay. Let's go, Nick.”
Galletti and the two men went down the stairs. At the bottom, Galletti turned right and out the back door. The two men turned left into the area with the ice cream freezers on the ground floor. The large room was only lit by the morning sun filtering through the front plate glass windows. The four tourists standing at the front door separated. Two men went one way, two the other. By the time Nick and Basil reached the middle of the dark room, the tourists were out of sight.
.
Twenty-Eight: Take 'em Out
SUNDAY 10:01 A.M. Tulsa.
The attic of the stakeout apartment building across from Sal's headquarters.
Everyone was in place. Nikky checked in from her observation position. “I'm good to go.”
She looked past the site on the end of the rifle barrel, down at Sal’s front door. Her job was spotter; a distant second was possible sniper. With Michelle in Houston and Deja in jail up in Billings, Nikky had been the only reasonable choice.
Yeah, I’m good to go, as long as I don’t need to use this thing. Christ, I couldn’t hit water from a boat.
G‑Baby backed his rented Chevy pickup into the construction zone next to Sal's. Fortunately, the construction crew was not working overtime. A security guard in uniform came up to G‑Baby's door.
“Sorry sir, but you can't park here.” The gray-haired man said.
G‑Baby smiled and asked, “What's your name?”
“James. And you still can't park here.”
“James, I understand you're doing your job. Now, this is what I need you to do.”
A few minutes later G‑Baby returned to his truck. Checked his watch, waited four minutes, and picked up the radio. “All set. Everything is a go.”
Just short of ninety seconds later, four new Chevy Impala rental cars converged on Sal's. The two in front came from opposite directions. In a clockwork fashion, Baby‑Sister pulled out of the parking space in front of the building next door to Sal’s and one of the Chevy Impalas pulled in. At the same moment, PJ pulled out of a parking spot directly across the street from Sal’s. Another Chevy Impala pulled in. Two more Impalas drove down the alley, past the construction. Both cars stopped by Sal's back door. Blocking the alley Baby‑Sister parked at the alley's entrance to the north end of the block. PJ did the same at the south end. They both wore blonde wigs that covered most of their faces.
Almost simultaneously four voices from the four drivers sounded in G‑Baby's ear piece. They all said, “Now.”
Three men stepped out of the car parked across the street from Sal’s. They had their backs to Sal's. One man loudly slammed the top of the car and yelled at the man standing next to him. Both of Sal's regular door men, standing on the sidewalk at the front door, jerked their heads up looking at the men across the street.
The front and rear passenger side windows of the car parked next to Sal's whispered down. Two silenced guns peaked out.
PHUFFITT! PHUFFITT!
PHUFFITT! PHUFFITT!
The two men dropped.
“They're down. Go. Go.” Nikky urged into her headset.
Six of Flaco’s men hit the front door. Flaco and six others hit the back door. G‑Baby followed them in the back door.
BLAM! BAM! BAM!
BLAM! BLAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
Two men standing inside by the back door died. Their guns still in their holsters.
The front glass of Sal's restaurant shattered. Glass spewed out on the sidewalk. BLAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! The overwhelming sounds of the extreme gun battle with semi and full automatic assault rifles and shotguns exploded out of the gaping hole.
A man coming down the stairs got off two shots. One hit the young teenage gang member. Critically wounded, he slumped to the steps.
BLAM! BAM! BAM! G‑Baby and two gang members shot at the retreating man on the steps.
BLAM! BAM! Another gang member stumbled with a bullet in his leg.
BLAM! BAM! BAM! A bullet creased the side of G‑Baby’s face taking off a piece of his earlobe.
BLAM! BAM! BAM! One of Sal’s men started down the stairs. He took two hits.
BLAM! He squeezed off a single round then tumbled down the stairs.
BLAM! BAM! BAM!
BLAM! BLAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
Shots stormed inside the restaurant.
Less than a minute later, G‑Baby and two men came running down the back stairs.
“I’m hit bad.” The teenager held his side. Blood oozed over his hands.
Sal and several men were strewn across the floor. They all appeared to be dead.
Several of Flaco's men checked each of Sal's men.
KABLAM! A single shotgun blast ended the wounded man's life behind the bar.
“Dead.” The man with the shotgun yelled.
“Sal’s dead,” a man yelled.
“Dead,” a third man yelled.
BLAM! A 9mm went off.
“Dead.”
Two more men confirmed “Dead.” “Dead.”
“Go! Go! Get out!” Flaco yelled.
Baby‑Sister and PJ backed their cars out of the alley and into the street.
Three of Flaco’s men ran out of the front. They all carried data storage units. Two more men helped two others hobble out toward the front door.
Six of Flaco's men went out the back. One, an arm around the shoulder of a friend, limped badly. Flaco and another man carried the teenager. One carried a laptop under one arm and a PC under the other.
G‑Baby ran out the back. Running to his pickup, he stripped off his shirt. He used the wadded up shirt to staunch the blood running down his neck. Less than four minutes from the time the four Chevy Impalas drove up, all seven vehicles quietly dissolved into the regular traffic of the neighborhood.
* * *
Sunday 10:02 A.M. Houston.
Mom's Wholesale Ice Cream building. New headquarters for Galletti. Current residence for thirty- two prostitutes.
Out of sight, Michelle stood in the entry well of the bus. None of the dozen or so security cameras would catch her until it was too late. She peaked across the driver's seat as the men of the Vietnamese gang, Ancestor's Honor, moved into position.
The four Vietnamese men having their photos taken had moved. Two on either side of the Mom’s. They stepped around the corner of the building and dropped their came
ras on the ground. All four pulled assault rifles out of their backpacks. The two men hidden behind each of the refrigerated delivery trucks exchanged cameras for an assortment of pistols and short assault rifles. Four armed Vietnamese men ran down the driveway on the left. Four others ran down the drive on the right.
In unison, the eight men at the end of the driveways went behind Mom’s. At the same instant, the two men by the street on each side stepped back around in front of Mom's.
BLAM! BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM!
BLAM! BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM!
The front windows on either side of the front of Mom's exploded with a barrage of bullets from four automatic rifles. The two men inside died.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
The four Vietnamese men stepped out between the two delivery trucks. They opened fire on the front glass doors. More glass and bullets spewed into Mom's.
At the sound of the first shots, Michelle jumped out of the bus. She grabbed the extension ladder one of the men had set there. She sprinted, ladder in hand across the street.
Seven of the eight Vietnamese shooters moved into the front of the building. One stepped to the side.
The back door burst open. Three men ran inside.
BLAM!
BLAM! BLAM!
BLAAAMMM!
Several guns fired from the back of the building as a fire fight erupted.
Michelle ran with the ladder to the front of the building. The eighth man waited for her. She planted it in front of the shot out window. The man yanked on the rope to extend it full length. He slammed it against the far right second story window. On the underside, he grabbed on and dangled from the ladder. His weight jammed the ladder firmly in place. Michelle flew up two rungs at a time.
At the top, she smashed the window with the barrel of her 9mm. She ducked back waiting for the shooting to start.
Nothing.
A quick glance inside. Nobody home. She knocked out the last of the broken glass. Then covered the bottom window sill with the heavy towel she carried around her neck. In a not too graceful move, she clambered inside. The ladder disappeared from outside the window.
She had landed in a bedroom. Two sets of bunk‑beds and not much else.
BLAM! BAM! BAM!
BLAM! BLAM!
Shots rang out from the stairwell at the other end of the building.
Michelle cracked the door open a small fraction to peek out. A single hall went down the middle with doors on both sides. Empty.
One, two, three. She counted silently then slipped silently out into the hall. Hugging the wall, she started down. The doors went to the end of the hall on the left. On the right, about two-thirds down, an open area had a kitchen and couches. Images flickered on a TV up on a swivel wall mount. One last room filled the corner on the right. The door was open. Racks of surveillance monitors stood against the back wall.
Most of the other doors were closed.
BLAM! BLAM!
A man backed up the stairs firing down.
BLAM!
Michelle cradled her Glock in a two hand hold. She fired once. The man dropped where he crouched.
BLAM! BLAM!
BLAM! BLAM!
More shots rang out from downstairs.
Michelle pushed open the first door on the left. It creaked open. Nothing. She peeked in. Four women huddled on a bed in a corner. She put her extended finger to her mouth. “Shush . . .” One woman nodded. The others stared. She stepped back and closed the door. The same scene was basically repeated at two more rooms.
Things changed in the fourth room. She pushed the door open. A woman whimpered. Michelle peaked inside.
BLAM!
A bullet tore into the door frame a few inches from Michelle’s head. She flattened on the floor and yelled, “Are you the pimp from Tulsa?”
“Stick your head out again, and I'll show you who I am,” a man's angry voice came out.
“You don't have to die,” Michelle yelled.
“You're not taking my girls,” the man yelled back.
“We're after the Russians. You and your two girls can walk out if you want.”
“Bullshit!”
BLAM! BLAM!
“Don’t be stupid. Most of Galletti’s guys are down. When we leave, they'll all be dead. We don't leave witnesses. My guys will be here in another minute. If they have to take you, you'll be dead. That's the only way they'll play it.”
“Fuck that. You're not taking my girls.”
“Here's the deal. Send out the Russian women. You and your girls stay. Close and lock the door. It's my best offer.”
“Do it, Junior. Please just do it,” a woman pleaded. “Please.”
“The first person through the door is dead. You hear me?” the man yelled.
“My word on it. Nobody comes in. You three walk away.”
Three Russian women scurried out the door. Michelle grabbed the first one and yanked her toward the front of the hall. “This Way.”
The door slammed. Something heavy like furniture thudded against it from the inside.
BLAM!
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
The fight downstairs continued.
Michelle grabbed another woman and pushed her against the wall next to Junior's door. “Stay here. Don't move! Do you understand?”
“Da, Stand here,” The woman said.
Michelle ran back opening all the doors. “Come with me! Come with me!” She herded the women into the open area.
BLAM!
The bullet ripped through the muscle of Michelle’s left arm. She spun into the room away from the shooter.
Standing deep in the room, back against the wall Michelle hissed barely audible, “Shit! Shit, shit, shit, stupid muthafucka—”
How bad?
She tested to see if her arm worked. It did.
Missed the bone.
She twisted her arm to see where she was shot. “Bleeding but not pumping. Fucking stupid to get . . . He’s gonna pay for this.”
Where is he? She ran across the open door looking out to see where the shot came from.
BLAM! He shot at her again and missed.
Standing back away from the door she could see a group of women in the area with the TV.
Motioning down with her gun hand, she yelled, “Over there! Get down! On the floor!” Several of the women scooted across the area as far away as possible from where the shooter was holed up.
BLAM! BLAM! Michelle stuck her hand out and popped off two rounds toward the open door.
She stepped into the open door and shot low, about two feet off the ground. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Methodically she stitched shots across the face of the room. Equipment crashed to the floor.
The shooting downstairs stopped. The silence was broken only by soft crying coming from a couple of the women.
“Michelle! We’re coming up!” Two Vietnamese men yelled from the bottom of the stairs.
“Slow! I think there's a guy shot in the corner room. He might still be alive,” Michelle yelled back. Gun at the ready, she side-stepped toward the room. Cautiously, at an angle, she moved toward the door where she could see inside the room. Two legs spread out on the floor. The rest of the man was hidden behind a desk.
She crouched low and popped her head around the door frame. No shots answered her movement. She did it again. Again no shots. A third longer look. Her 9mm leading the way, she crouch‑duck stepped into the room.
Dead eyes met Michelle’s. The man slumped against the wall beside a desk. Blood seeped between his fingers where his left hand held his stomach. In his right, he held a Glock 17, identical to the one she carried. She kicked his gun away. She stepped over to the open door and fired several shots into the wall and down the hall where she came from.
Michelle popped the magazine out of her Glock. She grabbed his hand holding his gun and pressed his thumb and fingers on the side of the magazine then put it back into her gun. She then p
ut the gun in his hand making sure there were a few of his prints on the outside. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do. She snatched his gun off the floor.
One of the Vietnamese men who had paraded as a Chinese Tourists stepped in. “Is this the surveillance center?”
“Looks like it. It's the only room with monitors and recording equipment,” Michelle said.
He stepped out and yelled downstairs. “Up here, get the computers and all the memory drives.”
Michelle spoke to the women. “You're safe now. We're here to take you out of slavery.”
One of the women stood and said, “We know who you are. Jelena told us you will come. We are waiting for you. We are ready to go.”
“Go out the back. There are vans waiting for you. Go! Go! Go!” Michelle pointed to the stairs. “Go now. Before the police come. Go!”
A bedlam of women shouting Russian and running feet broke out.
Michelle grabbed one of the women by the arm and pulled her down the hall. “We need to check if anyone is in the rooms. Tell them to leave.” Skipping past the room with Junior and his two women, Michelle, and her frantic helper did a fast room by room check.
Several women huddled in the corners of three rooms. The woman Michelle still held onto screamed something in Russian and all the women ran to the stairwell. After they checked the last room, she released the woman. “Go!”
On the way out, she pounded on Junior's door. “In ten more seconds, we'll be out of here. The police are on the way. Your choice to stay or get out.”
The last person on her team to leave the building, Michelle sprinted across the parking lot and jumped through the open side door of the cargo van. The moment she hit the floor, the van shot out of the parking lot into the alley. Someone reached over her and pulled the sliding door shut.
A Vietnamese woman held out a pillow case partly filled with the dropped cameras and guns. “Put your gun in here. Everything goes out to sea. No guns, no cameras, no DNA.”
Michelle dropped her confiscated Glock in the bag.
“Are you shot?” the woman asked. “Sit here, lean against the back of the seat.”
Hard Run: Action Adventure Pulp Thriller Book #4 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Series) Page 21