Blood of the Dogs_Book I_Annihilation

by Richard Cosme

  He spun and began the trek back home, where he would begin his nasty work.

  I headed for the north border, a taciturn Jose’ by my side. Unlike Roberto, I was bearing good tidings.

  When we reached the border, I whistled. Fifty meters distant, from behind an overgrown honeysuckle stand in front of a hair salon, Sarah and Duke appeared. Jose’ looked at me, shifted a bit on his feet.

  “That the devil dog?” he asked.

  I signaled Duke to come. “He won’t hurt you,” I said. “Just don’t raise the rifle.”

  As Sarah approached, her face plastered with a smile, Jose’ watched every step. “She as nice as she looks?”

  “How do you mean?” I asked. Neutral.

  “I mean, man, look at that red hair. That beautiful smile. She’s glad to see you, McCall. If she wasn’t carrying all those guns and knives, you’d think she was some kind of movie star from the old days. She looks like a nice lady. You’re a lucky man.”

  I handed him the weapons Roberto had loaned me. “Thanks, Jose’,” I said. “You take care of Roberto. He needs your help.”

  • • • •

  When Jose’ had disappeared from sight, Sarah threw down her guns and took a run at me, building speed and leaping at the last second, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and legs around my waist. Her momentum carried us both to the ground. She planted a wet kiss on my lips and, straddling my chest, said, “God I’m glad to see you. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. You got that shit eating grin, buster. It’s good news, isn’t it?”

  Duke was prancing about, bouncing off his front paws, barking like crazy. Looked like fun to him. I waved him in, and between the two of us, we wrestled Sarah to the ground.

  “Yeah,” I said, still smiling, “it’s good news.”

  A week later the sky fell in.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “You’re late. We were getting worried,” Sarah said to Stevie, who had just returned from checking for messages from Merlin. We had received no word from the little guy for several days.

  “Two soldiers tried to follow me home from the drop,” Stevie said.

  “What make did you put on them?” Sarah asked.

  “Messengers,” Stevie said. “They were easy to lose.”

  “You know what the means,” Weasel replied.

  “Yeah,” Stevie replied. “They must have followed Merlin from the city when he made the drop.”

  “They’re closing the circle on us…and Merlin,” I said.

  “Maybe we should have tried harder to talk him into moving in,” said Sarah, “after he told us they were putting pressure on him.”

  “He loves it here,” I said. “But there was no way we could have persuaded him to stay. He’s got to have his own cribs, places to hole up. Be alone. That’s who he is.”

  “In trouble is who he is,” said Weasel.

  “Let me see the note,” I told Stevie.

  Merlin’s message, in his distinctive scrawl, was simple in content, ripe with duplicity.

  NEED TO TALK. GOT SOME RIFLES FOR YOU.

  HOW ABOUT SOON? NO BIG DEAL. AON #17.

  COME ALONE. EVERYTHING’S SMOOTH.

  “He’s up to his neck,” Weasel said.

  “No doubt,” I replied. “Working on our opposites code, it’s a very big deal; I better not come alone; there are no rifles; and there’s trouble waiting for us.”

  “What’s with ‘need to talk’ and ‘how about soon?’” Stevie asked.

  “I gotta guess someone made him write it,” I replied. “I think they really want us there soon. They just don’t know the code.”

  “AON number 17?” asked Sarah. “That’s his new place?”

  “That’s what he told me last week,” I said.

  “Is seventeen the right floor or is it a code?” Weasel asked.

  “Let’s assume for a minute that someone made him write the note,” I responded. “If that’s true, then seventeen is where they want me.”

  “So it’s a trap.”

  “Probably.”

  “Merlin could already be dead.”

  “It’s possible. They might be keeping him alive in case we don’t show. Try to persuade him some more. He obviously hasn’t told them about this place. Else they’d be here instead of trying to lure us there.”

  “He is our friend.”

  “Not many of them around.”

  “Set Mac up with Roberto.”

  “Saved our butts.”

  “Guess you could say we owe him.”

  “Let’s pack up. How many of us should go?”

  Everyone stood.

  “What about the Messenger in the closet?” Sarah asked.

  “Feed him. Lock him back up. Put the arm and leg shackles back on. Leave some water in the closet. Tell him Duke’s staying with him. He’ll be good.”

  • • • •

  Even with the threat of Cobra retaliation removed from our backs, travel was still a dangerous undertaking—the Messenger bounty was still on my head. So we went at night, riding 18-speeds, wearing NVG’s and the communicators, coming into the city from the south, away from the heaviest clan concentrations.

  Merlin’s most recent headquarters were in a monolithic, grey-white eighty story tower they called the AON Center in the 20th. It was located a few blocks north of Grant Park, the area where I had originally met Merlin two years ago. The building itself was in Black Gangster Disciple territory, the powerful Folks clan led by the young black kid who had been arguing with Merlin over his toll beneath the two Indian statues. James had been the honcho of the BGD’s for nearly a year, assuming the mantle when the former leader had died the ignominious death of an infection caused by a fish hook that had lodged in his arm.

  It was to James that we had to present ourselves before we could investigate Merlin’s predicament. To get his attention, we simply stood across the street from the old Hilton on Michigan Avenue, a heavy, square, blocky structure that, despite its age and the preening of its high-tech architectural neighbors, managed to retain an air of elegance. Our assault rifles, two apiece, were on the ground in front of us—a formal signal of our peaceful intent.

  They knew we were here. Had picked up our presence as we biked under the old post office about a mile west. Maybe even earlier as we had come up from the south on Halsted. We didn’t have to wait long. James exited the Hilton from the Michigan Avenue side, three Disciple soldiers armed with M-16s behind him. Their rifles were shouldered. At our backs, the sun was a red ball on the horizon, looking as though it had just popped up from the depths of the lake.

  James and I were friends—a mutual respect relationship that was about five years old. I hadn’t mentioned it to Roberto. Disciples were Folks. Since the action with the Cobras on Roosevelt Road, Folks clans were all big fans of Duke and me.

  In the five years that I had known James, The Black Gangster Disciples had risen to near the top of the hierarchy of the Folk’s clans. From their base of operation on the lakefront, they were the most prodigious of the fishing clans, excellent providers of food for their own members and resourceful and discriminating traders of their fish for supplies and weapons. Accordingly, their population—and power—had grown. Militarily, they were not yet in the league of Satan’s Messengers or The Insane Cobra Nation. But they were strong enough to discourage direct assault.

  James, shirtless and wearing cut off fatigues, armed with a semi-automatic 9mm Ruger pistol and a fillet knife in a long, thin deerskin scabbard, crossed the street, his three soldiers two paces behind. The musculature on his chest and arms was well defined. They were a hard working clan, living on the generosity of the lake that was their front door. Tatoos of pitchforks, tridents, and six-point crowns and stars adorned his chest and arms. In the center was a beautiful crimson heart with wings on its sides. On his head was a stained and faded Duke Blue Devil cap, cocked right.

  His lack of heavy armament was a sign to us, a symbol of hospitality. The bounty that The Babe had put o
n my head was interpreted as a badge of honor by all Folks clans. James walked straight up to me, and we shook hands. His soldiers stayed two meters back, eyes on the five of us, frequently darting in Duke’s direction.

  The Disciple leader smiled, releasing my hand. “Good to see you, McCall. And I ain’t just bein’ polite. You been pretty scarce the last year.” He stepped back and inspected the five of us, left to right, Duke, Sarah, me, Stevie, Weasel. “Never seen you with another human being except Merlin,” he commented. “Just you and the dog. Didn’t know you had any friends, McCall.”

  “These are business associates,” I said. “We have a slight conflict to attend to in your territory.”

  He glanced at Sarah, then back to me, once more to her. He smiled, managing to keep it from being prurient, respecting what he somehow grasped was a relationship. I introduced them all by name, and James solemnly shook each of their hands, spending equal time with each, welcoming them to G.D. turf, refusing to comment on our obvious resolution to task or Sarah’s drop-dead beauty, conspicuous despite her avoidance of enhancement, a single red rose among the dandelions.

  When he reached Duke, James turned to me, asking if it were OK to pet him. I gave a hand signal, and as James knelt in front of him, Duke wagged his tail and happily accepted the offer of friendship. The gesture was a symbol whose meaning was not lost on James’ men. He had no fear of the dog.

  James stepped back and eyeballed the formidable pile of assault rifles and machine pistols at my feet, then glanced up to the two semi-auto pistols we each had at our waists. Grinning at his own joke, he said, “You plannin’ on trading those pieces for fish? Got some great walleye and pan fish. Lake trout been running real good. I’ll even throw in a soul food gumbo recipe, no extra charge. Set your palate free.”

  I smiled politely. “We can’t stay long to talk,” I said. “Someone’s got Merlin, and we need your permission to go in to get him.”

  “Back it up a notch, McCall,” James said, now deadly serious. “That word ‘someone’. You tellin’ me GD turf’s been violated?”

  “They’re after me. Figure they can go through Merlin.”

  “The ‘they’, Mac. Who the fuck is the ‘they’?”

  I tried to be casual about it, but it was pretty much the emotional equivalent of telling someone…had a chance to fuck your mother the other day, but the line was too long. “Probably Satan’s Messengers. Maybe some other People clans. Don’t know for sure who or how many.”

  The man was good. Without any show of emotion, he raised his right hand and flashed a series of signals, then raised his left, opening and closing it twice. Before his hands were back at his side, ten soldiers rushed from the hotel across the street, formed a circle around us and ushered us into the building. Not a word was spoken until we were safely inside.

  • • • •

  Huddling with James and a two of his lieutenants, we planned for a couple of hours and then slept until late afternoon.

  There was no way we could exclude the Black Gangster Disciples from the action. It was their turf, their code, their honor that had been violated by the Messenger running an operation within their borders. We finally decided that James and two of his Black Gangster Disciples would accompany us into the eighty story AON Center. The base of the high rise would be surrounded by 30 or 40 more Disciples.

  “Anyone comes out of the building before sunrise,” I told them, “is not us. Take ‘em down.”

  • • • •

  The sun had been down for an hour. We were in the massive lobby of the Hilton, the Black Gangster Disciple headquarters, dusty 20th cen opulence, marble floors, vestigial chandeliers hanging over our heads, draped in cobwebs. Lamplight threw flickering shadows as forty soldiers inspected weapons and ammo, packed bags, sharpened blades, dressed for battle, spoke in hushed tones to one another. Marijuana smoke hung in a layer of cirrus a few feet over our heads, battling for dominance with the smell of the lanterns.

  Sarah and I sat on a dusty couch, James in front of us, crosslegged on the floor. We were double checking each other’s body armor and weapons. Stevie and Weasel were doing the same across the room. James watched silently, almost in awe, as our ritual unfolded before his eyes. Duke lay beside him, oblivious of the preparations.

  Body armor first. Each of us had the armor rolled in our backpacks, Kevlar IV and V, 21st cen models. It would stop most everything except armor piercing and heavier caliber magnum rounds. But when you took a hit, you paid a hell of a price. Depending on the caliber and how long it had been flying, it felt like someone was driving a steel rod through your torso.

  I stripped down to skivvies and covered my upper body with a Kevlar IV vest which had a crotch protector attachment all of us wore. Sarah did the same, stripping down to a matching sports bra and panties and evoking a considerable display of whistles and hoots from the Disciples, which she silenced quickly by searching out offenders and making eye contact.

  When Sarah and I had finished suiting up, she whistled Duke over. I pulled a modified Kevlar V vest from the backpack and draped it around his body. Tying it beneath his belly, I checked its tightness. It would protect most of his body, from throat to hindquarters.

  James’ men were also suiting up. A few had body armor, most of it the bulky ’70’s and 80’s issue stuff they had found in police armories. Others used football pads, catcher’s chest protectors, hockey equipment—whatever they could get their hands on that would stop a round but allow them some freedom of movement.

  The four of us would carry two rifles and two pistols each with the requisite extra clips, choosing the weapons that we were most comfortable with. We each also carried at least two knives, and I knew that Weasel had some more pistols secreted away somewhere on his body.

  Sarah was the only one carrying a shotgun, which supplemented her Leader Sar assault rifle, chosen for its short length and light weight. The Sar fired 5.56mm rounds in thirty round magazines but weighed only six and a half pounds. The shotgun was a beauty, designed specifically for combat by an Italian firm, Luigi Franchi. It was a 12 gage auto, folding butt, eight round capacity. The feature that drew her to the weapon was a shoulder hook which allowed her to loop the gun over her shoulder and fire from the hip with one hand, leaving the other hand free for a pistol or light assault rifle.

  The Disciples were very impressed when we rolled out the grenades, three frags each, from our armory stockpile.

  “Haven’t seen any of those since I was a kid,” James commented. “Didn’t think there were any left. Summer nights when I was kid, the soldiers used to throw ‘em up like fire works. Best when they got on the roof of a highrise and waited for the last second and then tossed ‘em down.”

  “Except for these,” I said, “me neither. Got a few held back for emergencies.”

  When we finished with the weapons and body armor, we began unpacking the night vision goggles and communicators I had retrieved at I Spy, You Spy.

  We would go in an hour.

  “Tell me about them gadgets,” James said.

  “That,” I told James, who was inspecting what appeared to be a bandaid’s cousin and curved piece of flat plastic, “is a device for communicating with each other when we’re not close.”

  “Like the long talkers without a box,” he replied.

  “Exactly. Found them last year. They use batteries smaller than a button and are completely wireless so your hands are always free.”

  I showed him how to put the ear piece on, using the ear cuff because his ears were pierced only on the lobes and edges and then explained that the microphone was in the derm patch that I taped beneath his voice box. I did the same for myself and told him to go across the room.

  “How loud you gotta talk?” James asked.

  “A whisper will get the job done.” When he was across the lobby, I whispered, “That’s far enough. But you could go across the street and I could still talk to you.”

  “Mother fucker,” he said. “That’
s incredible. You got some for me and my boys that’re going up with you?”

  Each of us had two sets of the communicators and the NVGs. “We’ve got enough for you and three of your men. But we need to tell them that when they’re in operation, everything you say goes to all the other people wearing the earpieces. So we need to make sure only one person at a time is talking.”

  “What about the NVG’S? They are rare.”

  “Weasel found them in a police armory few years back. Late 20th models. They work on what they call available light. Hard to believe, but in the dark, they suck out light that our eyes can’t see and show us what’s there. It’s not perfectly clear, couldn’t read a book or anything, and it looks like everything is in a green fog. But you can definitely see your enemies. Try them on. They won’t work in here. Too much light. But you can get an idea of how they feel.”

  He put my goggles on. “Uncomfortable, aren’t they?” I commented.

  “No problem,” he said. “We use shit like this to snorkel in the lake all the time. Feels lighter than the ones we use in water. Need batteries for these too, right? Lake probably looks as murky as these things do in the night. How you find all those batteries, Mac?”

  “Rechargeable ni-cads or lithium ion with solar rechargers,” I answered. “Search around electronic stores.”

  “You got goggles for us?”

  “Maybe I should carry you up the stairs when we get there, too,” I commented.

  END OF PART TWO

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Three hours after the sun had set, we began our ascent of the stairs of the AON Center, our objective, the seventeenth floor. We knew it was a trap. Figured the Messengers weren’t aware that we knew. Didn’t know if Merlin was still alive. Didn’t matter. He was coming back with us.

  There were two sets of stairways. It was a logistical nightmare because the stairs were right next to each other, separated by a wall, placed almost directly in the middle of the building. Pretty ignorant was my thought. Stairs were for emergencies. Block one set with a fire and maybe people would have a shot at the other. But if you put them both right next to each other…