Deadly Assets

by W. E. B Griffin

  The ringing in Payne’s ears caused his words to sound odd.

  The tall, burly teenager turned and tried to aim at Payne.

  Payne instinctively responded by squeezing off two rounds in rapid succession.

  The heavy 230-grain bullets of the specially loaded .45 ACP cartridges left the muzzle at a velocity of 1,300 feet per second, and almost instantly hit the shooter square in the chest. Upon impact and penetration, the copper-jacketed lead hollow points, as designed, mushroomed and then fragmented, the pieces ripping through the teen’s upper torso.

  The shooter staggered backward to the wall, dropping the gun when he struck the wooden counter there.

  The second teenager, who had frozen in place at the firing of the first shots, immediately turned and bolted back out the glass door.

  The shooter slid to the floor.

  As Payne rushed for the door, he kicked the shooter’s gun toward the back counter. The two customers there were lying on the floor in front of it. The one to the left was curled up in the corner with his back to Payne and, almost comically, shielding his head by holding a white plate over it. The one on the right was facedown and still. Blood soaked the back of his shirt.

  The enormous cook, who had ducked below the counter, now peered wide-eyed over its top.

  Payne shouted, “Call nine-one-one!” then threw open the door and ran out.

  Daquan, blood on his right hand as he gripped his left upper arm, crawled out from beneath the cash register.

  Daquan hesitated a moment before moving toward the shooter, who was motionless. He picked up the small-frame semiautomatic pistol from the floor.

  The cook stood and shouted, “Daquan, don’t!”

  Daquan went out the door.

  He turned right and took off down the sidewalk, following Payne.

  —

  The storefronts along Erie Avenue gave way to a decaying neighborhood of older row houses. Daquan Williams watched the teenager dart into traffic and dodge vehicles as he ran across Erie, headed in the direction of a series of three or four overgrown vacant lots where row houses had once stood.

  He saw that Matt Payne, arms and legs pumping as he picked up speed, was beginning to close the distance between them.

  “Police! Stop!” Payne yelled again.

  The teenager made it to the first lot off Thirteenth Street, then disappeared into an overgrowth of bushes at the back of it.

  Payne, moments later, reached the bushes, cautiously pushed aside limbs, swept the space with his pistol, and then entered.

  Daquan started to cross Erie but heard a squeal of brakes and then a truck horn begin blaring. He slid to a stop, narrowly missing being hit by a delivery box truck. It roared past, its huge tires splashing his pants and shoes with road slush from a huge pothole. A car and a small pickup closely following the truck honked as they splashed past.

  Daquan finally found a gap in traffic and made his way across.

  He ran to the bushes, then went quickly into them, limbs wet with snow slapping at him. One knocked his cap off. The dim light made it hard to see. After a long moment, he came out the other side, to another open lot. He saw Payne, who had run across another street, just as he disappeared into another clump of overgrowth at the back of another vacant lot between row houses.

  While Daquan ran across that street to follow, a dirty-brown four-door Ford Taurus pulled to the curb in front of the row house bordering the lot. Daquan dodged the sedan, running behind it, then started across the lot.

  Ahead, from somewhere in the overgrowth, he heard Matt Payne once again shouting, “Stop! Police!”

  This time, though, was different.

  Almost immediately there came a rapid series of shots—the first three sounding not quite as loud as the final two.

  Daquan heard nothing more as he reached the overgrowth and then, while trying to control his heavy breathing, entered it slowly. He raised the pistol and gripped it tightly with both hands.

  More snow fell from limbs onto his soaked T-shirt and jeans. He shivered as he stepped carefully in the dim light, listening for sounds but hearing only his labored breath. He finally reached the far side.

  He wiped snow from his eyes.

  And then his stomach dropped.

  Oh, shit!

  Matt Payne was lying facedown in the snow.

  The teenager, ten feet farther into the vacant lot, was making a blood-streaked path in the snow as he tried to crawl away.

  Then he stopped moving.

  “Matt!” Daquan called as he ran to him.

  Payne turned his head and, clearly in pain, looked up at Daquan.

  “Call nine-one-one,” he said. “Say ‘officer down . . . police officer shot.’”

  Daquan, now kneeling, saw the blood on the snow beneath Payne.

  His mind raced. He looked at the street ahead.

  There ain’t time to wait for help.

  I’ve gotta get him to it. . . .

  “Hang on, Matt.”

  Daquan then bolted back through the overgrowth of bushes.

  —

  As he came out the far side, he saw the driver of the Ford sedan, a heavyset black woman in her late fifties, leaning over the open trunk, looking over her shoulder as she rushed to remove bulging white plastic grocery bags.

  He ran toward her and loudly called, “Hey! I need your car . . .”

  The woman, the heavy bags swinging from her hands, turned and saw Daquan quickly approaching.

  Then she saw that he was holding a pistol.

  She dropped the bags, then went to her knees, quivering as she covered her gray hair with her hands.

  “Please . . . take whatever you want . . . take it all . . . just don’t hurt me . . .”

  Daquan saw that a ring of keys had fallen to the ground with the bags.

  “It’s an emergency!” he said, reaching down and grabbing the keys.

  —

  Tires squealed as he made a hard right at the first corner, going over the curb and onto the sidewalk, then did it again making another right at the next intersection. He sped along the block, braking hard to look for Payne down one vacant lot, then accelerating again until braking at the next lot.

  He finally found the one with Payne and the teenager—Payne was trying to sit upright; the teen had not moved—and skidded to a stop at the curb.

  Daquan considered driving across the lot to reach Payne faster, but was afraid the car would become stuck.

  He threw the gearshift into park and left the engine running and the driver’s door open as he ran toward Payne.

  He saw that Payne was holding his left hand over the large blood-soaked area of his gray sweatshirt. And, as Daquan approached closer, he saw Payne, with great effort, raise his head to look toward him—while pointing his .45 in Daquan’s direction.

  “Don’t shoot, Matt! It’s me!”

  “Daquan,” Payne said weakly, then after a moment lowered his pistol and moved to get up on one knee.

  Daquan squatted beside him. Payne wrapped his right arm around Daquan’s neck, and slowly they stood.

  “This way,” Daquan said, leaning Payne into him and starting to walk.

  The first couple of steps were awkward, more stumbles than solid footing, but then suddenly, with a grunt, Payne found his legs.

  They managed a rhythm and were almost back to the car when Daquan noticed a young black male in a wheelchair rolling out onto the porch of a row house across the street.

  “Yo! What the fuck!” the male shouted, coming down a ramp to the sidewalk. “What’d you shoot my man Ray-Ray for?”

  Daquan said nothing but kept an eye on him as they reached the car and he opened the back door. He helped Payne slide onto the backseat, slammed the door shut, then ran and got behind the wheel.

  �
��Yo!” the male shouted again.

  As Daquan pulled on the gearshift, he could hear the male still shouting and then saw in the rearview mirror that he had started wheeling up the street toward the car.

  And then he saw something else.

  “Damn!” Daquan said aloud.

  He ducked just before the windows on the left side of the car shattered in a hail of bullets.

  And then he realized there was a sudden burning sensation in his back and shoulder.

  He floored the accelerator pedal.

  —

  Daquan knew that Temple University Hospital was only blocks down Broad Street from Erie Avenue. He walked past it every day going to and from his job at the diner. It wasn’t uncommon for him to have to wait at the curb while an ambulance, siren wailing and horn blaring, weaved through traffic, headed to the emergency room entrance on Ontario Street.

  Driving to the ER would take no time. But Daquan suddenly was feeling light-headed. Just steering in a straight line was quickly becoming a challenge.

  He decided it would be easier to stay away from Broad Street and its busy traffic.

  He approached Erie Avenue, braked, and laid on the horn as he glanced in both directions, then stepped heavily on the gas pedal again.

  His vision was getting blurry, and he fought to keep focused. He heard horns blaring as he crossed Erie and prayed whoever it was could avoid hitting them.

  By the time the sedan approached Ontario, Daquan realized that things were beginning to happen in slow motion. He made the turn, carefully, but again ran up over the curb, then bumped a parked car, sideswiping it before yanking the steering wheel. The car moved to the center of the street.

  Now he could make out the hospital ahead and, after a block, saw the sign for the emergency room, an arrow indicating it was straight ahead.

  Then he saw an ambulance, lights flashing, that was parked in one of the bays beside a four-foot-high sign that read EMERGENCY ROOM DROP-OFF ONLY.

  Daquan reached the bays, and began to turn into the first open one.

  His head then became very light—and he felt himself slowly slumping over.

  The car careened onto the sidewalk, struck a refuse container, and finally rammed a concrete pillar before coming to a stop.

  Daquan struggled to raise his head.

  Through blurry eyes, he saw beyond the shattered car window that the doors on the ambulance had swung open.

  Two people in uniforms leaped out and began running toward the car.

  Daquan heard the ignition switch turn and the engine go quiet, then felt a warm hand on him and heard a female voice.

  “Weak,” she said, “but there’s a pulse.”

  “No pulse on this guy,” a male voice from the backseat said. “I’m taking him in . . .”

  Then Daquan blacked out.

  TWO DAYS EARLIER . . .

  [ TWO ]

  JFK Plaza

  Fifteenth and Arch Streets, Philadelphia

  Saturday, December 15, 9:55 A.M.

  The moment she caught a glimpse in the distance of the iconic steel sculpture towering above the park’s granite fountain—the pop-art twelve-foot-tall bright red letters stacked like so many children’s blocks to spell LOVE—Lauren Childs knew that she absolutely had to be photographed in front of it.

  All morning the nineteen-year-old had taken shots with the camera on her cell phone, and then uploaded her favorites to Facebook for her friends to see. She knew that this photograph would be the best yet.

  She didn’t know it would be her last alive.

  Lauren Childs and her boyfriend, Tony Gambacorta, had come down from Reading, about sixty miles north of Philly. They’d met there in September, as sophomores at Albright College, and began dating almost immediately. Tony, tall and olive-skinned with dark good looks, had been taken by the outgoing personality of the petite fair-skinned blonde with the pixie face. Lauren was open to almost any adventure, and the day trip to Philadelphia had been her idea.

  “I want to soak up the holiday magic of the city,” she had told him.

  After some window-shopping along Walnut Street in Center City—what the city’s tourism advertisements touted as “the Fifth Avenue of Philadelphia”—they had walked to JFK Plaza, commonly called LOVE Park, which covered an entire tree-filled block across the street from City Hall.

  A festive holiday crowd packed its German-themed Christmas Village, which was patterned on Nuremberg’s sixteenth-century Christkindlesmarkt. Rows of Alpine-influenced wooden huts offered traditional German food and drink and holiday wares, and there were live performances by string quartets and dancers in authentic period outfits.

  Tony had bought Lauren a genuine Bavarian felt hat, dark green with a brown feather in the hatband, which she now wore at a rakish angle while sipping a warm cup of Glühwein, red wine spiced with clove, cinnamon, and orange. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the weather—it had snowed heavily the previous night and looked like it might again—that caused her high cheeks and perky nose to glow with a cute rose hue.

  Lauren, looking more closely at the area surrounding the sculpture, realized that her idea was far from an original one. There clearly was a line of at least twenty people waiting for a turn before the artwork and the lit Christmas tree behind it. The line wound around the circular granite fountain behind the piece. But she didn’t mind.

  She pointed at it.

  “What?” he said.

  “I want a photo of us in front of that, Tony,” she announced, tilting her head back to look up at him, her bright eyes beaming beneath the brim of green felt.

  Over a tight long-sleeved black top she wore a sleeveless white goose-down jacket. Tony, in brown corduroy pants, flannel shirt, and a fur-collared black leather bomber jacket, had on a floppy red-and-white Santa hat.

  “Of course you do,” he said, and smiled at her. “You want a photo with everything.”

  “Let’s go, then!”

  She grabbed his hand and led the way, weaving through gaps in the heavy crowd. As they went, Tony caught the smell of meat grilling, then looked around and saw a trail of smoke drifting up from a wooden hut. Its signage read BRATWURST MIT SAUERKRAUT. He suddenly felt hungry.

  They reached the back of the line for the sculpture. After a moment, Lauren realized that it was moving faster than she’d expected. And then she saw why, and smiled: The people in line were helping each other. When someone was ready to pose in front of the artwork, they would hand their camera to the person in line behind them, who then stepped up to take their picture. Then that person would take their turn, and the next in line would take that person’s photo.

  Not ten minutes later, Lauren and Tony were kissing in front of the LOVE artwork and the forty-something woman who’d joined the line immediately after them was snapping their picture with Lauren’s cell phone.

  Lauren retrieved her phone and thanked the woman. Then, inspecting the images and smiling from ear to ear, she and Tony moved away from the sculpture. After a few steps, Lauren stopped beside the fountain.

  “Hold this, babe,” she said, handing him her cup. “This shot is amazing. I want to post it!”

  As her fingers flew across her cell phone, she said aloud what she was typing: “At LOVE with my Love in the City of Brotherly Love! Love, love, love this place!”

  She looked at him and smiled.

  “I’m so happy,” she added.

  He leaned over and kissed her rosy cheek.

  “And I’m happy you’re happy,” he said, then added: “How about hungry? Those brats back there smelled great.”

  “Sure. I can always eat,” she said, taking back her Glühwein and grasping his hand. “Lead on.”

  Lauren sipped her wine as Tony worked a path through the thick crowd. It was tight, and he repeatedly smiled politely and said, “Excuse us,
” as they brushed past. At one point, he found a gap. He took it, and a moment later bumped shoulders hard with someone he passed. He didn’t see who it was, but he certainly heard it was a male when the guy muttered, “Asshole!”

  Still, Tony replied, “Sorry,” and kept moving—until a split-second later he heard Lauren make a terrible moan and felt her grip loosen. She suddenly stopped.

  Tony glanced back and said, “You okay?”

  At first Tony thought that Lauren had spilled the cup of red wine on herself. But then he saw that the stain on her white jacket was a bright red—and that it was spreading quickly.

  She had a look of pain and confusion in her eyes. She slipped down to the granite.

  “Lauren!” Tony said.

  A woman screamed and backed away as he dropped to his knees and held Lauren. The crowd formed a circle around them.

  “Please,” Tony yelled, looking up over his shoulder, “someone call an ambulance!”

  Not a minute later, the crowd parted as a uniformed Philadelphia police officer came running up.

  “Hang on, Lauren,” Tony said, stroking her head as she just gazed back. Her face had turned pallid, the rosy color on her cheeks and nose gone.

  The officer got down on one knee. “I radioed for paramedics. Be here any moment. What happened?”

  “I— I don’t know,” Tony said, a tear slipping down his cheek. “We were just walking, then . . . this.” He waved his hand helplessly at the blood-soaked jacket.

  “What’s her name?” the officer said, placing his ear close to her nose and mouth.

  Tony heard her make a gurgling sound.

  “Lauren,” he said.

  “Lauren, can you hear me?” the officer said, then raised his voice: “Help is coming! Hold on! Talk to me, Lauren!”

  There was no immediate response.

  But then a trickle of blood escaped the corner of her mouth and her nostrils. Her eyes became glazed.

  The officer put his right index and middle fingertips to the side of her neck for a long moment.

  “Oh, shit,” the officer said softly.

  Tony jerked his head to look at him.