“You wants to see her guts all over this fucking ground here, boy?” Gumbo asked, his mouth twisting into a leering grin. He pressed the point of the blade into the softness of her neck.
She made a hissing sound and said, “Linc, baby, just do what they say. Please. They promised me. It’s gonna be all right.”
With his gun still outstretched, Linc moved around the back of the Olds and in between the car and the van. Germaine shifted slightly, a disarming smile on his face, but he was still looking at Linc with that ice-water stare. Then he extended his left hand, leaving his right free to draw the revolver.
“Come on, Linc, don’t try to be a macho fool,” he said. “Just give me the tape, and as soon as I can verify that it’s the real McCoy, you and your lady can collect your money and get out of here.”
“Then tell him to take that fucking knife away from her throat.”
“Gumbo,” Germaine said, cocking his head slightly and speaking over his shoulder. “I think we can lower the knife as soon as Linc here lowers his gun.” He looked back inquisitively at Linc, who slowly let his arm go down. Gumbo licked his lips, lowered the knife, but adjusted his hands so that he held Diane’s arms.
“The tape,” Germaine said.
Linc held out the tape in his left hand, but then brought it back.
“She comes to me first,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” he heard a voice behind him say, then heard the clicking sound of a gun being cocked.
“Just let your gun fall to the ground, Linc,” Germaine said, pulling out his own revolver and pointing it directly at Linc’s face. “I’d hate for this to be messy, but a man in my position can’t afford to take too many chances.”
Linc let the Glock slip from his fingers.
“Good,” said Germaine. “Now the tape.” He moved over and, still holding the gun on Linc, gently helped Diane down from the inside of the van. Gumbo jumped into the open a second later, looking like a refrigerator with arms and legs. Linc handed Germaine the tape, and the southerner let Diane walk over to him. Linc felt Diane in his arms, and he was kissing her and telling her it was all gonna be okay.
“I know it will, baby,” she said. “They won’t hurt us. I know they won’t, now that they got the tape. That’s all they want.”
She bought into all that shit, he thought. Brainwashed.
Linc just patted her on the back of the head, keeping his arms protectively circled around her.
“I hope, for your sake, this turns out to be the one I want,” Germaine said, a sudden malevolence creeping into his tone.
“It’s got what you want,” Linc said. Suddenly he felt Diane’s hands fidgeting with his collar. She was fingering the headset.
“What’s this?” she said.
He reached up to grab her hand away just as Germaine had turned, pulling the tape out of the box. The bright flash and accompanying blast, punctuated by the southerner’s shriek, startled everybody. Linc took the moment to act, shoving Diane down onto the ground and lashing out with his left foot at the man who’d been standing behind him. He heard a sharp grunt as his boot connected with the guy’s gut. Following up, he smashed his right fist into the slumping man’s face, and watched him crumble.
“It’s show time,” he yelled as he stooped, trying to grab the Glock. But Gumbo was moving forward, slashing with the knife. Linc saw a silvery glint in the moonlight, then felt the pain sear up his left arm. Backing away, Linc bumped up against the Olds. Gumbo was still advancing, the knife outstretched. A sudden staccato-burst of gunfire erupted above them, the flame from the M-16’s muzzle jumping out half-a-foot, and looking like a flame-thrower in the reduced lighting. Then Linc heard some more booming pops. It had to be Uncle Henry’s twelve gauge. All this caused the big man to miss a step as he glanced back over his shoulder toward the source of the shots.
That was all Linc needed to grab the huge hand in both of his, twisting and pivoting the way they’d taught him in the Corps to disarm sentries. Gumbo grunted and shifted his weight almost nimbly, getting up under Linc, then using his massive legs to lift the lighter man completely off his feet and slam him against the fender of the car. Linc saw the man’s other hand reach across toward the knife. The motherfucker was going to switch hands, then stab him. Linc’s right elbow smashed into Gumbo’s mouth. The struggle for the knife stopped for a split-second, then resumed, with Linc trying to tighten his grip around Gumbo’s right hand so he couldn’t transfer the knife to his left. But suddenly the fingers of Gumbo’s left hand were on Linc’s face, pressing and tearing at his eyes, forcing his head back. Linc’s knee came up hard into the other man’s groin. Gumbo’s fingers stopped for only an instant. Linc brought the knee up again and again, feeling the giant’s grip start to fade slightly.
Using the Oldsmobile’s fender for leverage, Linc managed to push Gumbo back a little, but the bigger man shifted his weight again and Linc felt himself being twisted to the ground, the man-mountain following him down, maneuvering himself on top. Linc felt the blade slice the back of his left hand with stinging effectiveness, so he let go. That was all Gumbo needed to rip his hand away from Linc’s grasp. The knife flashed down in an arcing motion, which Linc managed to deflect at the last second with his left arm. The point traveled down the length of his arm instead of into his chest. A burst of white-hot flame exploded inside his shoulder, and he saw the blade thrust through his sleeve, buried to the hilt. Gumbo leaned his upper body forward pressing his face close to Linc’s, and said, “I’m gonna do you slow, motherfucker, for messin’ with me in that house.”
Linc’s right arm flew out to the side as he sought stability. His fingers brushed something in the grass. Something hard and smooth. The Glock. Linc’s left hand gripped the back of Gumbo’s right, which was now twisting the metallic shaft around in a circular motion, sending waves of pain tearing through him.
“You hear me, nigger?” Gumbo snarled. “You hear me?”
Linc brought the Glock up with his right, putting it in nice and close to the giant’s belly, and began pulling the trigger. After five successive shots, Linc managed to say, “Yeah, I hear you.”
Gumbo reared back, releasing the knife, which was still embedded in Linc’s shoulder. Linc brought the Glock up, and the flash of the exploding round engulfed the big man’s face. As the huge, lifeless body rolled off him, Linc became aware of more rounds popping around him. He saw an unfamiliar white guy crouching by the side of the van, shooting a rifle up toward the building. Linc leveled the Glock and shot the man in the side of the chest. Two more unfriendlies came into view, gazing intently upward, oblivious to Linc’s supine position. He squeezed off two more rounds, dispatching each man. As he moved to get up, he felt wracked with pain, and belatedly realized that the knife was still sticking out of his shoulder. Touching the hilt made it worse when he tried to pull it out. He sat back against the fender well of the Olds, legs outstretched, and tried to catch his breath. Suddenly all he could think of was Diane. Where was she? Had she been hit? Struggling to his knees, he called her name. Crawling toward the open side door of the van, he glanced up inside and saw her. She was scurrying around, holding the scorched tape in one hand and the wad of bills in the other.
“Diane,” he said weakly.
“Don’t worry, baby,” she said, her eyes reflecting an almost maniacal look. “I got ‘em. I got ‘em both.”
He reached for the knife hilt again, but once more the pain kept him from trying to remove it. He heard the sound of fading voices, of men running, then Rick was suddenly beside him, firing the M-16 over the top of the Olds.
I hope he got that cracker fucker Germaine, Linc thought.
“You all right?” Rick asked, then, glancing down and seeing the knife, said, “Oh shit.”
Rick set the M-16 against the side of the Olds and pulled out his flashlight.
“Henry. Henry, you read me?” he said into his mike. “We’ve got them on the run. What’s left of them are running towa
rds their cars at the gate.”
There was a crackled reply.
“Bring in the Talon,” Rick said. “Linc’s hurt.” His hands probed the wound sight, pressing his fingers around the blade to see if it had gone through the other side. “Easy, partner, it looks worse than it is. “
“Easy for you to say,” Linc said, feeling himself drifting away from consciousness. Rick was pressing a first aid pad around the base of the wound. Linc started to say something when Diane shrieked. An adrenalin jolt roused him to a full state of alertness. Struggling, he began to get up, only to be gently pushed down by Rick, who stood. Linc twisted slightly and looked over his shoulder as Rick said, “She’s okay.”
“Look at this,” she screamed, holding the burned plastic cassette. “It’s ruined. You ruined it. You ruined it all. And the money’s gone too.” She held the wad of bills toward them. “It’s not all here. They showed it to me before, and now it’s not all here.”
“Woman, don’t you know nothing!” Linc screamed. Then he felt Rick’s hand on his good shoulder.
“Easy, Linc,” he said. “She’s been through a lot. Remember the Stockholm Syndrome. She’s not thinking straight. We’ll—”
A gunshot cracked and something ripped through the front of Rick’s chest, his face contorting as the blood gushed out of his mouth with his expelling breath. Tumbling forward, Rick slumped across Linc’s legs, pinning him to the ground. Linc glanced to his right and saw Germaine, his face blackened and burned by the powder blast, advancing forward pointing the snub-nosed revolver. The white-haired man’s steps were unsteady, almost tentative. Linc heard Diane scream. Germaine turned, leveling the gun at her. Linc made a grab for the M-16 which was almost within arm’s reach, but Germaine quickly kicked it away. He brought the pistol back around and pressed the muzzle against Linc’s forehead.
“It could have been so easy,” he rasped in his southern accent. He thumbed back the hammer, then was knocked back by a blast of thunder which Linc felt whoosh by him. Germaine was on his side, blood trickling from his blackened lips, his expression surprised, but determined. With slow determination, he raised the revolver and pointed it at Linc. The gun discharged, blowing a hole in the side of the van next to Linc’s head. Uncle Henry was there, jacking another round into the twelve gauge and stepping over Rick. Henry put the barrel against Germaine’s chest and pulled the trigger again. The southerner’s body bounced with the impact of the round.
“Linc, you all right?” he said, stooping down next to him.
“I’m okay. Check Rick.”
Henry rolled Rick’s prone body over. Linc felt the fading warmth of his friend’s blood on his legs. From the light spilling out from the inside of the van, Linc could see that Rick’s face was ashen, his breath coming in spasmodic spurts, the blood around his mouth already starting to darken and congeal.
“Oh, my lord,” Henry said. “I gots to get the other car, Linc. I left it back there by the other building. Don’t move,” he said, standing. “Don’t nobody move. I’ll be right back.”
“Wait,” Linc said. He was going to tell his uncle to just put him and Rick into the Olds, but Henry had already left at a run. Linc stared at the Olds, but his eyes had difficulty focusing. Then he saw that both of the right side tires were flat, apparently having been hit during the fire-fight. Looks like Uncle Henry was right, Linc thought to himself. He swiveled his head back toward the van. Diane sat a few feet away on the running board by the still-open side door, her head down, silently weeping. With considerable effort, Linc reached out and patted Rick’s face gently. He heard the yelp of sirens, then moments later, saw the intermittent flashing of oscillating blue lights. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. Adjusting the earphones back over his head, he said into his mike, “Uncle Henry, keep going out the tunnel way. The cops are here. You read me?”
“I’m coming back for you,” Henry’s voice said through the earphones.
“No way. Too late. Just get out now and I’ll call you. We need you to stay outta jail, remember?”
Silence.
“Uncle Henry, you read me?”
“Roger,” Henry said.
The next voice Linc heard was from an older-looking white guy pointing a .38 at him and saying, “Police. Don’t move.”
“Would you please call an ambulance, sir,” Linc said. “My friend’s been hurt.”
Another white guy, younger and shorter than the first, was kneeling next to them, gathering up the M-16 and the Glock. His fingers probed Rick’s neck, and he looked up and shook his head.
“Will you call a medic for him, for Christ’s sake!?” Linc heard himself scream. “Can’t you see he’s hurt bad?”
“I’m sorry,” the kneeling man said, turning his attention to Linc. “Your friend’s dead. We’ll have to leave him where he is.”
“The Marines never leave their dead,” Linc heard himself say, just before the world faded away into darkness.
CHAPTER 19
Friday, April 17, 1992
3:25 A.M.
“Jesus, it’s like a fucking war zone over there,” Ray Lovisi said, walking over to Tony who was seated by the nurses’ station sipping a cup of black coffee. When Tony didn’t look up, Ray’s concern deepened. He knew how much cracking this case meant to both of them, but to Tony, it was the last hurrah.
“Got any more coffee?” he asked the nurse behind the partition. She nodded and pointed to a small break room across the hallway. Tony stood and motioned for Ray to follow him. They moved across the hall and entered the room. A stack of Styrofoam cups sat on a small Formica table along with glass jars of sugar, powdered cream, a well-used plastic spoon covered with a crust of additives, and an automatic coffee-maker. Ray grabbed one of the cups and immediately began shoveling spoonfuls of sugar and cream into it.
“That’s a lot of sugar for a man in training,” Tony said.
“I need the energy,” Ray said wearily. “You’d think for being health care professionals, they’d be more sanitary with things, you know?” he said, looking at the crusty spoon before filling his cup with the dark liquid.
“They probably do it on purpose to keep mooching cops from stealing all their shit,” Tony said. “What’s the latest from the crime scene?”
Ray drank some of the coffee before he answered, then, smacking his lips, he said, “Got twelve dead, and seven wounded, counting our buddy in there. They got the evidence technicians going over everything now. Had to get some portable generators in there to light the place up.” He took another gulp from the cup. “How’s he doing?”
“They’re still stitching him up,” Tony said. “The doc says we should be able to talk to him shortly.”
“The girl give you anything?”
Tony shook his head.
“Sealed up just like a clam,” he said. “In shock. Already called some boys from Violent Crimes to come pick her up and take her downtown. We’ll hold her until we get this thing all sorted out.”
“I take it she wasn’t hurt?”
Tony shook his head as he took a sip from his own cup.
“Looks like she’s been roughed up,” he said. “She was holding a flash roll—one hundred and ninety-nine ones, and this.” He held up a plastic evidence bag containing the charred remains of a VHS cassette.
“Ahhh, shit,” Ray said. “Is that the tape?”
“Looks like it.”
“What the fuck happened to it?” Ray said, bending close to the bag and sniffing it. “Looks burned or something.”
“That’s one of the things we’ll have to ask our buddy Lincoln about,” said Tony. “Maybe the FBI guys can salvage some of it with those new enhancers, or something.”
“Maybe,” Ray said dubiously. Knowing how much getting Vino Costelli meant to Tony, Ray didn’t want to say he thought the chances of getting any images off that tape were slim and none.
“Maybe if either of them watched it, we could get some kind of Grand Jury indictment.”
“Somebody testifying about what they saw on some videotape?” Tony said skeptically.
“What the hell, it’s better than nothing, ain’t it?”
“Not much better,” Tony said. “The kind of legal muscle Vino’ll get, we’ll have to have something really solid. Two kids testifying about what they seen on a video tape ain’t gonna cut it.”
Ray said nothing, knowing that Tony was right.
They stepped out into the hall and talked with the nurses again, talking about all the dead and shot-up bodies that they’d brought into the ER since midnight.
“We’ve been due for the shit to hit the fan,” one nurse said. “Things been too quiet since this flood downtown.” She was kind of tall, and had brownish hair with blond highlights. Ray gave her the once over and liked what he saw.
“How close is the doc to being done with our buddy Lincoln?” Tony asked, interrupting Ray’s fantasy.
“I don’t know,” the nurse said. “I’ll see.”
She walked across to the ceiling-to-floor curtains on the other side of the room, Ray’s eyes on her ass the whole time. Pulling back the edge she spoke softly to someone inside, then came back and smiled at them.
“You can go in there now,” she said. “He’s almost done.”
They went over to the curtained-off section and stepped inside. Tony held up his badge and nodded to the doctor, who was peeling off some latex gloves. A tray of various suturing instruments was positioned above Linc, who lay on his right side on a gurney. His left arm and shoulder were swathed in bandages. The doctor looked at Tony and smiled.
“Are you guys taking him?”
“Looks that way, Doctor,” Tony said. “The nurse said you were about finished.”
The doctor nodded and told them he was going to go write this up. Turning to Linc he gave him some out-patient instructions that included drinking plenty of liquids because he’d lost so much blood, keeping the wound site clean, and following up with his regular physician on Monday. After the doctor had left, Tony stood on one side of the gurney and Ray on the other.
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