In a glance, Steve could see how it was supposed to read: Quentin hooks up with a hooker. Instead of giving up the booty, she tries to rob him. The pistol was the kind of piece a street hustler might pack. They struggle; during the fight, he shoots her dead. Overcome with shock and remorse, he kills himself.
Except that guys who commit suicide by gun usually don’t shoot themselves in the middle of the forehead. But the cops wouldn’t let a little detail like that stop them from closing the case.
Steve didn’t just stand there scratching his head, puzzling it out. As soon as he saw that Quentin and Ginger were both dead, he was in motion, making himself scarce from the scene.
Outside the tunnel, he saw the lights of the Crown Vic, nearing the far side of the park. Running back to his car, he threw it into gear, switched on the lights, and drove off, taking off after the Crown Vic.
He didn’t peel out of there like a bat out of hell. He wasn’t a damned fool. That was all he needed, to look like he was fleeing the scene of a crime and attract the attention of some passing police car. That would be all he needed, to get tagged for a double kill he was innocent of!
He drove at a brisk pace, ten miles or so above the limit, but not like some frantic getaway car. The Crown Vic was behaving in the same fashion, proceeding at a moderate clip as he exited the east end of the park. He turned right, southbound.
Not seeing any other cars in the park, Steve took a chance and punched some more speed out of the sedan, zooming it up to sixty to cut the distance, slowing as he neared the east exit.
It opened on to a street that met it at right angles. He was in luck. The street ran parallel to a highway that was elevated about twenty feet above ground level, supported on sets of stone pillars. Between the pillars could be seen the river, all tarry black smeared and spangled with rainbows of reflected light. The pillars were fenced in by a waist-high concrete median, an impassable barrier. Opposite it, on the other side of the street, was the park. The street was a trough hemmed in at both sides. Vehicles could progress only two ways on it, north or south.
The Crown Vic had turned south out of the park. Steve went the same way. About fifty yards ahead in his lane was a set of taillights. One set of taillights looks pretty much the same as another, but Steve reckoned that it was the Crown Vic. There was no other place for it to turn off.
Steve took off after it, hoping it was his quarry. He had to tread a fine line between going fast enough to overhaul it, yet not so fast that he’d alert the driver to his presence. If it was the Crown Vic, that is. He also had to watch out for police cars looking for speeders.
The vehicle ahead reached the end of the park, where the first cross street opened on the right. The traffic light blinked amber at the intersection. The vehicle slowed at the cross street, but kept on going southbound.
Steve got a good look at it. It was the Crown Vic, all right. He let out the breath he’d been unaware he’d been holding.
He slowed going through a traffic square, letting some space open between him and the Crown Vic. The other, in no particular hurry, traveled a few miles below the legal speed limit. Steve did the same. He was still in the game. But what game was it?
The Crown Vic’s driver was no mere tail man; he was a killer. A double killer, since he’d killed Ginger along with Quentin.
In hindsight now, Steve could see how his opposite number had worked the play. This was no cowboy job; it was a carefully planned setup. The killer knew about Quentin, knew that he was a compulsive horndog with a risky kink for down-and-dirty street hustlers, knew that The Booby Hatch was one of his regular spots.
Steve had been dogging Quentin for the last two nights, picking up the target’s pattern to work out his best angle of approach. He’d seen no sign of the man in the Crown Vic on either night, and no other suspicious persons either. If they’d have been there, he’d have known it. He had the hunter’s instinct for such things. He’d been out of action for over six months and had only recently resumed field operations, but he wasn’t that rusty. The medics had certified him as fit for duty and dammit, he knew he was fit.
Which meant that some other interested party had also been planning to X out Quentin. Who? Some fellow accomplices, afraid that he’d put the finger on them? Or maybe some other government agency had its own reasons for wanting Quentin out of the way?
Whoever it was played rough. Ginger was the bait, the decoy. The killer must have had her lined up in advance. In his mind’s eye, Steve visualized how it all went down:
The killer meets with Ginger outside The Booby Hatch to finalize arrangements—she having no idea of just how final those arrangements are going to be. Most likely, he sold it to her as a simple blackmail operation. Lure some rich jerk into a compromising situation and put the squeeze on him for hush money.
The killer’s careful not to be seen with her at the club. She’s not the type to be easily forgotten, and any guy escorting her would have been noticed by envious gawkers. She goes in first, he following later. Somehow, he puts the finger on Quentin, giving her the high sign that here’s the mark. She moves in on Quentin, doing what comes naturally. Satisfied that contact has been made and the acquaintanceship is progressing, the killer exits, going back to his car.
Ginger leaves the club with Quentin; they get in his car and drive away, the killer following. Ginger steers Quentin to nearby Claghorn Park, probably by telling him she knows a nice private spot where they can trick without fear of interruption. Quentin, more than half drunk, doesn’t need much persuasion; he’s a novelty-seeker, so that aspect would appeal to him, too.
Of course the locale had been chosen by the killer, who’d made sure in advance that Ginger would know the site. Once he sees the Cadillac enter the park service road and disappear into the brush, he drives to the park’s west side entrance. Ginger has Quentin pull into the tunnel underpass; they climb into the backseat and start getting it on.
She’s waiting for her hidden partner to show up; he’ll flash a phony badge and play cop, or maybe he’ll play the outraged husband or some similar version of the old badger game, throw a big scare into Quentin and shake him down for some big dough—
Only, the shakedown artist is really a killer and puts the blast on Quentin and Ginger both.
Some of the details were subject to change, but Steve figured that’s pretty much how it was worked. The killer was an artist in his way, too; he’d framed it so that it’d look like an open-and-shut case to the police. A hooker’s botched holdup, a struggle for the gun, she’s shot, in a fit of remorse Quentin kills himself.
That closes the file. Neat, no loose ends.
Except that the killer was unaware that another killer was dogging Quentin and knew the real deal about how the scene had gone down.
After going south for a quarter mile, the Crown Vic changed lanes, entering a ramp that sloped up to the highway. Steve yielded long enough to let another car enter the ramp before him, then followed.
The highway was split by a median, leaving two southbound lanes and two northbound lanes. There was a fair amount of traffic in both directions; light to moderate, and zipping along.
No matter the lateness of the hour, there was always plenty of movement in the city. Once again, Steve was struck by how many people did their errands by night. It all worked in his favor, however, supplying him with plenty of cover while he kept on tailing the Crown Vic.
He was reminded of that corny old gag about the guy who had mixed feelings: His mother-in-law drove his new car off a cliff. Steve had mixed feelings, too. His mission was to neutralize Durwood Quentin III, but some stranger had beaten him to the punch. Now Quentin was dead, but Steve was left holding the loose ends.
The higher-ups in the Dog Team disliked loose ends. Quentin had been duly marked for demolition and then suddenly, from out of nowhere, some unknown third party horns in and does the job. The higher-ups would want to know more about this unknown.
Dog Team members are granted a good
deal of freedom of movement when out in the field. The peculiar nature of their service and assignments demands it. The higher-ups tend to view with disfavor operatives who have to continually check back with headquarters for instructions. Initiative is prized. Steve Ireland was determined to find out all he could about the Crown Vic killer.
Traffic was moving along at a nice, brisk clip of about fifty-five miles per hour. The breeze from the open window felt good; Steve hadn’t realized how much he’d been sweating. It was a muggy night.
The highway stretched southward into a funky part of town, a slum district. The ribbon of road was elevated so travelers could zip along their way, above the hazardous inner city.
The Crown Vic, several car lengths ahead, signalled a right turn, making for the Tyburn Street exit. Thanks, chum, very considerate of you, Steve said to himself. The Crown Vic killer was a cautious driver, obedient to the rules of the road. Of course if he was really cautious, he’d have stayed the hell away from Tyburn Street; that was a rough neighborhood night or day. Plenty of drug dealing, prostitution, and gang activity.
Steve would have liked to have had another car between him and the Crown Vic, but nobody else seemed minded to take that exit. Slowing, he hung back until the other had dropped out of sight on the exit ramp before sliding into the approach lane.
Headlights flashed in his rearview mirror as another vehicle swung in behind him toward the exit. Typical, Steve thought, a cynical twist on his tight-lipped mouth; if the guy behind him had been in front of him, he could have used him for cover to tail the Crown Vic.
Steve eased into the exit ramp, slowing as he started the descent toward street level.
Harsh, blazing glare filled the sedan’s interior. The car behind him had its high beams on. Only it wasn’t a car at all, it was some kind of truck. A tow truck, looked like—
Down below at the bottom of the ramp, the Crown Vic was halted, standing diagonally so that it blocked access to the street. The driver got out of the car and started shooting at Steve. A bullet starred the windshield on the passenger side, frosting the glass as it tore through the car, burying itself somewhere in a right rear support for the roof.
A tremendous impact struck the car as the tow truck butted it from behind. Glass shattered, metal crumpled.
Steve had his seat belt on, but even so, he received a hell of a jolt, a real bone-jarring thud. For an instant, he saw the world in triple images before his eyesight came back into focus.
Another slug from the gun wielded by the Crown Vic’s driver tagged the sedan’s windshield, disintegrating it. A hail of crystal cubes of safety glass pelted Steve, as if a couple of shovelfuls of rock salt had been flung into the front seat.
He was bent forward, almost doubled over from the force of the rear-end collision, so most of the glass hit the back of his neck, shoulders, and upper back, stabbbing them with dozens of needles of stinging pain.
His car was moving now, sliding forward as the tow truck pushed it, shoving it with its massive oversized reinforced-steel front bumper. The tow truck driver must have been stomping the gas pedal because Steve could hear the engine whining higher and louder in a steady, rhythmic rise and fall.
More bullets tore through the sedan, this time coming from behind, from the tow truck.
The tow truck’s front met the sedan’s rear at an angle. Instead of pushing the car straight forward, it pushed it at an angle. Tortured metal yowled as the sedan’s right front fender ground against the ramp’s outer stone retaining wall. It caught in place, arresting its forward motion.
Steve hit the seat belt release. For an awful, heart-stopping instant, nothing happened, and he was seized by the fear that it had locked up; then there was a click and the belt came undone and he was shucking it open and off himself as he rose, springing up from his seat.
The Crown Vic killer had done him a favor by shooting out the windshield, because there was nothing in Steve’s way to stop him as he scrambled over the top of the steering wheel and dashboard and through the big gaping slot where the windshield had been. Slithering like a snake across a hot rock, he lunged across the buckling car hood, dropping down on the driver’s side of the pavement.
The rib of a vertical abutment stood out from the inner side of the ramp wall a few feet away. Steve rolled toward it. Oil and gas were leaking from the underside of his wounded car. A fusillade of bullets from the tow truck ripped harmlessly overhead.
More rounds came came his way from the Crown Vic’s driver. Steve caught a glimpse of him standing with his gun hand braced against the car roof, muzzle flashes spearing from the tip of the weapon.
Bullets thunked into the driver’s side of the sedan as the killer tried to get a bead on Steve. One tore out a palm-sized chunk of pavement near Steve’s head, spraying his neck and shoulder with rock chips.
Then Steve reached the shelter of the abutment, crouching, getting his back against the square-edged side of the pillar. Taking him out of the Crown Vic driver’s line of fire. He reached for his hip, and the gun was out of his waistband and in his hand fast. He was facing the tow truck. It was white and painted on the front in big red letters was the legend BELTWAY TOWING.
It held a two-man crew, a driver and a shooter. The shooter was hanging out of the passenger side of the cab, way out, holding on with his left hand and wielding a big-caliber gun in his right. A skinny ferret face showed beneath a flat, narrow-brimmed forager’s cap. He was angling for a shot at Steve, but the sedan was in his way. He kept leaning further and further out, trying to find the range.
The sedan worked both ways, blocking Steve from getting a clear shot at the gunman. He had a nice clean firing line on the driver, though. He squeezed off a couple of rounds, putting them in a tight group through the windshield and into the silhouetted outline of the figure hunched above the top of the steering wheel.
The driver slumped forward. His foot must have come down hard on the gas pedal because the tow truck gave a sudden lurch forward into the side of the sedan. The frame snapped and the car folded into a V-shape, arresting the tow truck’s forward motion so that it jerked to a halt, stalling out.
The shooter lost his grip and, with a cry, fell out of the cab to the pavement. He fell hard, dropping his gun. It skittered across the asphalt, sliding under the sedan. He crouched on hands and knees beside the tow truck. Steve could see him beneath the vehicle’s undercarriage; at least, his hands and arms, and his folded legs.
Steve shot him in the leg. The shooter flopped facedown, writhing on the pavement. Steve put another shot into his side, under his arm. He stopped thrashing and lay still. His forager’s cap was still jammed tight on his head.
Smoke rose from the crumpled sedan; unseen flames crackled. Steve turned his attention to the Crown Vic’s driver and threw some slugs his way. The guy jumped behind the wheel and sped off.
Steve fired a few more rounds at the vehicle’s rear, but scored no hits. The Crown Vic rounded a corner, out of sight.
Steve now knew that there’d been a flaw in his calculations. Apparently, the killer had been aware that Steve was tailing him after all. No doubt he’d used his cell phone to contact his buddies in the tow truck to help prepare a surprise party for Steve. Turned out the surprise was on them, though.
Steve ejected the empty clip and slammed home a full one. On foot in this neighborhood, he’d need it.
He wanted to put some distance between himself and the sedan before the fire really got going. He reached the bottom of the ramp and was a half block away before the gas tank blew up.
FOUR
Doc Wenzle said, “What about that car you wrecked last night?”
Steve Ireland said, “What about it?”
“They don’t exactly grow on trees, you know,” Doc Wenzle said. “Any time I have to requisition a new one, I have to bust my butt. All that red tape kills the better part of a day.”
Steve could well imagine. It was a big deal to procure any piece of Army equipment from the a
ppropriate provider, even something as basic as a replacement fork for a mess kit. Documents had to be processed through channels; that was the Army way. The difficulties were multiplied a hundredfold when the Dog Team was involved. The Dog Team wasn’t even supposed to exist. Officially, it didn’t. To all but a relative handful of insiders within an ultra-restricted, near-phantom chain of command, there was no such animal.
The Team were attack dogs. Killer attack dogs. The fact of a supersecret, last-resort assassination capability of the U.S. Army was political dynamite. That that unit’s bailiwick covered not only foreign but also domestic operations was even more explosive. Should incontrovertible proof of its existence ever fall into the hands of the media or the politicians, the results would be beyond cataclysmic, not only for the military but for national—global—security as well.
Of course, one of the benefits of having such an enforcement arm was the ability to plug leaks by any means necessary…speaking of last resorts.
The Army wasn’t the only branch of the U.S. military in possession of such a capability. Steve Ireland knew for a fact, from bumping into their operatives once or twice in various hot spots and war zones around the planet, that the Navy maintained a similar, shadowy counterpart of the Dog Team.
Other government agencies also ran their own hit squads. The CIA, for one. Steve had the idea that if, say, the FBI or NSA needed to have the button pushed on somebody, they wouldn’t have to look too far or too hard to find somebody else to do the job. Because that’s the way the world is built.
Like other organizations requiring a degree of clandestinity to operate properly, the Army had a secret, annual “black” budget to draw on to finance said operations. Information about the size and scope of the black budget was Above Top Secret, to prevent the politicians and bureaucrats from sticking their long noses into it. A piece of the black budget, a small piece really, a fractional percentage of it, paid for the Dog Team and its ops.
Revenge of the Dog Team Page 5