Deadly Assets

by W. E. B Griffin

  As Billy drove toward the corner, the skinny one nudged the big guy with his elbow, gestured with his head toward the approaching car, then started down the sidewalk.

  Billy rolled to a stop at the curb, then let down his window halfway.

  The big guy leaned toward the window, then brought out his left hand, his fingers gripping the top of the open window.

  Bet that other hand’s got a gun, Billy thought.

  The big guy’s scalp and forehead glistened. His face was coarse, the skin pitted. His eyes were bloodshot, cloudy, dull. They darted from Billy to Dan then to the backseat then back to them.

  “What up, bro?” Billy said.

  The big guy glared at him. “I ain’t your homey. What you want?”

  “I was here last month. You remember?”

  “No,” the big guy said, shaking his head. Then he let out a big laugh. “All you white boys from the ’burbs look the same!”

  When he laughed, Dan saw that the guy’s teeth looked like they were rotting. In his mind, photographs from a school textbook popped up.

  Meth mouth, he thought, remembering that the caustic chemicals used in the making of methamphetamine literally disintegrated enamel, reducing teeth to black stubs.

  The guy suddenly jerked his head to look over his shoulder. Then he looked back, first staring at Billy then at Dan.

  “Who’s this guy?”

  Dan’s stomach knotted.

  He’s looking at me really weird. I don’t like it.

  “My buddy,” Billy said. “He’s all right.”

  The guy turned back to Billy.

  “How I know he ain’t Five-Oh?” He narrowed his eyes. “Hell, how I know you ain’t working for the man? Or trying to rip me off.”

  “Look. I just want some more weed.”

  The big guy looked at Billy a long moment. Then he jerked his head to look over his shoulder again as he said, “You want wet? I got wet.” He looked back at Billy. “Good shit. Fuck your head right up.”

  “What’s wet?” Dan said.

  Billy quickly motioned at Dan with his right hand as a signal for him to shut up.

  “No wet,” Billy said. “Just plain weed.”

  The big shaved glistening head nodded. “Okay. How much?”

  “Two zips. You got that?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’re you getting for it? Same as before?”

  “A zip be a buck-fifty.” He said it buck-fitty.

  “One-fifty for an ounce. Right?”

  “What the fuck I just say?” He made a loud grunt, as if he were disgusted or impatient or both. He suddenly grinned. “Yeah. Unless you wanna pay more.”

  A regular comedian, this guy, Billy thought as he reached down for his worn fabric wallet in his lap. He tugged at the Velcro closure, making a ripping sound as it opened, then pulled out four fifties and five twenties. He folded the stack of bills twice and slid it to the top edge of the window.

  “That’s three hundred.”

  “Better be.”

  Billy knew it’d be counted before he reached the delivery point. He’d be damn stupid if he tried shorting the big guy. He’d just keep Billy’s money. That, and maybe worse.

  The wad of cash disappeared in the big guy’s left fist, which he then stuffed in the belly pocket of his sweatshirt as he straightened up and stepped back from the car. His left hand then came out of the pocket with a tiny walkie-talkie.

  He looked down at the far end of the street. Billy and Dan looked there, too, as they heard the guy say into the walkie-talkie, “Two green Zs.”

  They saw the skinny guy down on the corner lowering his left hand from his ear, then motioning to a young kid who was sitting on the crooked dirty concrete stoop of a row house. The kid, who looked maybe ten, then got up and disappeared behind a chain-link fence gate.

  “All right, Little Man down there will fix you up,” the big guy said, then turned and went back to his corner.

  Billy put the car in gear. It slowly began to move.

  After a moment, Dan shook his head.

  “Damn! You see how much he was sweating?” he said, nervously glancing back at him. “Like it was the middle of summer!”

  “And paranoid. That’s why I shut you up. That’s the wet.”

  “The sweat?”

  “The wet—it’s weed, or sometimes just a cigarette, that’s been laced with PCP. That angel dust makes them sweat, yeah, but it really makes them crazy.”

  “Huh,” Dan said, then in a mocking tone added, “‘Good shit. Fuck your head right up.’ Yeah, right. That’s why they call that crap hallucinogens.”

  The car, its tires crunching on the snow, pulled to a stop at the end of the block. Billy put the gear shift in park.

  The man on the corner stood staring at them.

  “Is he going to get the dope or what?”

  “No. He’s the lookout. Watching for cops. And he makes sure no one messes with the kid and the stash.”

  How does he know all this? Dan thought.

  He really must come here a lot.

  The kid then reappeared from behind the fence. He carried something wrapped in a white plastic grocery bag.

  “So, the kid hands over the dope? What’s up with that?”

  Billy shrugged. “I guess they think the cops won’t bust a kid.”

  The boy reached the car and went to slip the bag through the open window.

  “Thanks, man,” Billy said, taking the bag and stuffing it in his coat pocket.

  He then noticed the skinny guy on the corner was fast approaching.

  “Oh, shit!” Billy blurted.

  “What?” Dan said, looking. Then, “Oh, shit!”

  Dan was staring at the muzzle of the black revolver pointing through the gap of the open window.

  “Don’t you fucking make a move!” the skinny guy said. “Get outta the car! Now!”

  Billy turned off the engine. He started to pull out the key from the ignition.

  “Leave the key!”

  Billy yanked back his hand. Then he and Dan slowly opened their doors and got out, taking careful steps on the snow.

  The guy gestured with the pistol at them and nodded toward the boy.

  “Get on the sidewalk. Give him your phones and wallets.”

  When Dan came around the car, the little kid laughed and pointed at Billy. Dan looked. The crotch of Billy’s jeans was wet.

  Damn! He pissed himself.

  The kid took their wallets and phones.

  The skinny guy said, “Somerset El’s two blocks that way. You be in Center City in fifteen minutes.”

  “What?” Billy said, incredulous. “Take the train?”

  “Get the hell outta here! And listen. You call the cops? I come and find your ass. I got your address on your IDs. You don’t want me in your hood.”

  “Snitches get stitches! End up in ditches!” the kid blurted, almost as if rehearsed, then disappeared with their phones and wallets back behind the chain-link fencing.

  Dan started to back away slowly.

  Billy, looking terrified, stood frozen. He stared at the guy.

  “Billy,” Dan said, and when there was no reply, he shouted: “Come on, Billy! Let’s go!”

  The skinny guy waved the gun at Billy and said, “What you looking at? You hear what I said?”

  Then Dan couldn’t believe his eyes.

  It all happened at once, and in slow motion—the loud Bang-Bang-Bang!, the bright flashes of fire from the muzzle of the weapon, and then Billy grabbing at his chest and staggering back and finally falling and then not moving.

  And then the blood flowing, running from his neck and open mouth, and saturating his shirt and fleece jacket.

  Dan took one step toward Billy—then saw the guy
swing the gun, its muzzle still smoking, and aim it in his direction.

  Dan rapidly shuffled his feet to back away, slipped and hit the sidewalk, then finally got traction just as the guy fired a round at him. Dan crawled around the corner, onto Hart Lane, then got to his feet. He took off down the sidewalk as he heard two more shots going off behind him—the bullets ricocheting off the street not fifty feet away.

  —

  After running two blocks down Hart Lane, Dan stopped. He breathed heavily, the cold air making his lungs burn. He looked back. No one followed.

  He put his hands on his knees, leaned forward, and shook his head, trying to clear it.

  Damn it! He killed Billy! What the hell?

  He crossed his arms over his stomach and dipped his head. He then lunged forward, trying to reach a patch of dirt off the sidewalk. He didn’t make it. There then came a deep guttural sound as he threw up, the vomitus splattering against the base of a flight of concrete steps, some of it splashing back on his shoes and jeans.

  When the spasms stopped, he spit on the sidewalk and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  Now what? I can’t go back.

  I can’t call for help. He’s got my phone.

  And if I did, he’s got our wallets. My license has my damn address.

  He knows where I live . . .

  The foul acidic odor floated up to him, burning his nostrils and triggering his gag reflex. He fought it back, turning his head and quickly breathing in fresh air. His brain felt as if it were spinning.

  Dan glared back down the street as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked in the other direction and saw two rough-looking males across the street glaring at him. He jerked his head at the sound of a car that turned onto Hart, then rattled toward him. Frozen, he just stared blankly as a battered Ford sedan with darkened windows rolled past.

  I’ve gotta get the fuck out of here.

  And, his lungs still burning, he took off running.

  —

  The slick high-gloss tan brick and bright blue painted steel of the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority train station stood out on the street, its modern design sharply contrasting with the neighborhood’s dilapidated hundred-year-old gray stone storefronts and the dirty broken sidewalks.

  The elevated station on the SEPTA Market Frankford Line had been built over the five-way intersection of Kensington Avenue and Somerset Street.

  There were four young males standing by the entrance, and Dan carefully kept his distance as he moved past them. He then ran up the steps, taking them two at a time, catching the distinct foul odor of urine as he went.

  When he reached the level with the turnstiles, a line of them directly ahead, he picked up his pace.

  What happens if I get caught jumping?

  Screw that! I need a cop to catch me—and get me the hell out of here.

  He tried to time his run so he would easily hop over the first turnstile.

  He jumped, clearing most of it, but then his ankle caught the stainless steel arm—and the momentum slammed him down to the concrete.

  He sat up, stunned, his shoulder burning from the impact, but nothing seemed broken. A couple of people looked at him but said nothing.

  He pushed himself to his feet and ran for the train.

  When he got to the platform level, he saw that the doors of the railcars were closing.

  No!

  He headed for the closest door—but it shut just before he reached it.

  His stomach sank.

  Watching the train leave the station, he stood feeling helpless, thinking he was going to cry at any moment.

  Then he noticed that the train was headed eastbound, and saw the signage stating that it was going north, toward Frankford Allegheny.

  That would’ve been a mistake, going deeper into this hellhole . . .

  He then saw other signage for the train that ran south then west through Center City out to Sixty-ninth Street. And then he heard the deep rumble of a southbound train approaching.

  As it entered the station, there came the ear-piercing metallic squeal of brakes. The train stopped, and he stood in front of a door. It seemed to take forever to open—but then all the doors swooshed open, and Dan, squeezing past two people who were exiting, quickly stepped inside. He found a corner seat, then looked back to the platform.

  Two of the males he had just passed down at the entrance were rushing to board.

  His stomach dropped.

  Are they chasing me?

  He tried to figure out what he would do—Maybe wait till the last second and then jump off right before the doors close?—but then the pair darted aboard the adjacent railcar.

  Dan put his head in his hands, looked at the floor, and let out a long sigh.

  The railcar was almost half-full. He scanned the other passengers. With the exception of an older man who was deep asleep in the back—The guy looks passed-out drunk—Dan was the only pale-skinned passenger. Still, no one seemed to be paying him any attention.

  He realized that he was again holding his arms over his stomach, and that his stomach was in an enormous knot, and that he was gently rocking himself.

  What am I gonna do? He killed Billy . . .

  Fuck him! I can just say we got jacked.

  Cops find the car, they find that fucker, he goes to jail.

  Then he can’t get me.

  But what do I say when they ask why we were in that part of town?

  “Just buying some dope” won’t fly.

  Dan felt a chill go up and down his entire body.

  Hell, I don’t know.

  Oh man . . . I told Billy we should’ve just got a damn bottle of Jack.

  IV

  [ ONE ]

  The Roundhouse

  Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia

  Saturday, December 15, 2:21 P.M.

  Matt Payne approached the double wooden doors to the Executive Command Center. As he reached for the handle, the right door suddenly began to swing open toward him. He could hear the murmur of voices coming from inside. He hesitated a moment, waiting for whoever was going to come out the doorway. When no one did, he raised an eyebrow, then entered.

  Payne glanced up at the door frame and nodded when he saw that there was an electromechanical arm, newly installed, connecting it to the top of the door. Then he noticed beside the door a new button that activated the arm.

  Inside, his eyes automatically went to the focal point of the big room: the ten-foot-high wall of twenty-seven flat-screen televisions. There were three banks of nine sixty-inch high-definition LCD panels, and on the screen in the lower left-hand corner of the first bank he saw an image of himself. It had been captured on camera only moments earlier, as he stood before the double doors. It then showed the door swinging open and him entering the ECC.

  Payne looked back across the room that held a dozen detectives, most sitting at the two massive T-shaped conference tables. They talked on telephones, worked at notebook computers, studied images on the wall of screens. Corporal Kerry Rapier, who was sitting behind a control panel just beyond the farthest table, made a casual salute in his direction.

  The ECC—along with the Forensic Sciences, Information Systems, and Communications divisions—was run by the Philadelphia Police Department’s Science & Technology branch. And the ECC’s master technician was also its youngest tech, Rapier. The twenty-five-year-old electronics wizard had an impossibly small frame and soft features that caused many, upon first meeting him, to wonder not only if he had passed the department’s minimum physical standards and really was a cop, but if he might also be skipping out of his sophomore year of high school. After they witnessed his skillful work, however, no one questioned him again.

  The command center—originally funded almost entirely by federal monies in order to h
elp protect politicians attending their party’s national convention in Philly—had been designed to serve as the nerve center during a crisis. It took in a staggering amount of raw information—some argued an overwhelming amount at times—from highly secure intelligence sources to open intel sources and everything in between.

  The dark gray conference tables could accommodate more than fifty people, with seating along the walls for another forty-plus support staff, who assimilated the information, then analyzed and acted on it. An auxiliary communications center, a facility built minutes from the Roundhouse with federal funds provided by the Department of Homeland Security, had been added to handle additional law enforcement personnel.

  As Payne walked over to Rapier, he looked at the images cycling on the televisions. Two of the screen banks showed live video feeds from closed-circuit cameras around the city, and also news broadcasts from local and national channels and those from the Internet. The third bank of screens was filled with images of the morning’s crime scenes at LOVE and Franklin parks and at the casino, and the recordings from surveillance cameras.

  “Hey, Marshal,” Rapier said, gesturing to the screen that showed a protester pumping a poster over her head. “Someone needs to call your buddy the reverend.”

  Payne crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Okay, Kerry, I’ll bite. Why?”

  “He needs to update your sign. Got a report of another. Which would now make number three hundred sixty-three—”

  “The granddaughter from the casino?” Payne interrupted. “Damn! Does Tony know yet?”

  “No. I mean, no, it’s not her. It’s a guy.”

  Payne shook his head. “Small surprise. Where?”

  “About a half hour ago in Kensington,” Rapier said, “just a few blocks from the Somerset El.”