The Vigilantes

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Me neither. Go up a couple more drives past it, and I’ll get out and cover this back here while you and Charley take the front.”

  Just before making the right turn to get back to Richmond, Matt saw in his rearview mirror that Tony was rolling two rusty drums from the yard next door and putting them behind the Escalade.

  That probably won’t stop someone trying to get away, but it ought to slow them.

  Then Matt saw ahead of him, at the corner of Richmond, the nose of Charley Bell’s PECO van. It was parked against the right curb.

  The row houses here were mostly identical, all three-story and faced with red brick, the front door right at the sidewalk. And many of them had plastic garbage bags stacked at the curb.

  As Matt rolled toward Richmond, he saw a late-model plain white Ford minivan going up Richmond. Its brake lights were lit. In the split second when it passed, Payne saw a white male at the wheel, and he thought that the driver wore some kind of uniform shirt.

  He stopped the Crown Vic just shy of Richmond, nosing it up on the sidewalk. He shut off the car. Then he put in his left ear a wireless speaker-microphone device for his phone, speed-dialed Charley Bell, and slipped the live phone into his pocket.

  Matt heard Bell’s voice in the earbud: “Hey, Matt, that white minivan that just went by has pulled up to our house.”

  “No shit?” Payne said, opening his door. “Can you make out the driver?”

  “Just that he’s a white male, older. He’s getting out now. Moving slowly.”

  Payne closed the door of the Crown Vic. He quickly went to the corner, near the front door of an abandoned storefront. He held his Colt along his right leg as he peered around the brick edge of the wall and up the street. He thumbed down the pistol’s lock lever. Now when he went to squeeze the trigger, the hammer could freely fall to fire the round in the chamber.

  Matt could clearly see the man.

  That is a FedEx uniform, and he’s carrying an envelope.

  But he is moving really slow. Almost like he’s not going to make it to the door.

  No doubt whatsoever that’s Will Curtis. . . .

  Bell said: “What do you want to do, Matt?”

  “Let’s hold and see what happens. Be ready to move. Tony’s covering the back door.”

  They watched as the man banged on the faded maroon metal door, then waited for an answer.

  Then he banged again, and after a moment the door opened.

  “Charley, I can’t see who opened the door.”

  “Shit, Matt. Me neither.”

  They watched as Will Curtis held up the envelope in his left hand. Curtis said something, but he was too far away for them to hear it.

  Then suddenly they watched as he surged at the open door—and disappeared inside.

  “Oh, shit! Let’s go!” Payne said. He started up the sidewalk in a crouch.

  After a few strides, Payne glanced over his left shoulder and saw the hefty Bell lumbering after him. Like Matt, Charley had his police badge clearly visible, its leather holder hanging from a chain around his neck. Charley had his service Glock out of the belt holster on his right hip.

  “I think I saw him pull something from his waist, Matt. Maybe a pistol.”

  Before they reached the front door, which was still open, Matt could hear angry voices inside.

  “I told you I ain’t him, old man!” a male voice said. “Put down the fucking gun!”

  Curtis, in a weak voice, said, “Then where’s this James?”

  “Put down the gun, old man!” the other male repeated.

  Matt got to the edge of the doorway and carefully looked inside.

  There were only the two males visible, Will Curtis in the FedEx uniform and a black-skinned man with scraggly long hair and a full beard. They were in the large front room of the row house. Curtis was to the left and had a Glock aimed at the chest of the black male, who held up his hands shoulder high, the FedEx envelope in his right one.

  Payne saw that a wood-floored hallway led to the back of the house and to the flight of stairs leading to the second floor. Under that flight, just barely visible, was the entrance for the flight that went downstairs to the basement.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see that Charley Bell was now right behind him. Payne reached into his pocket and broke the connection for their call, then speed-dialed Harris. Charley listened in as Matt told Tony what he’d seen inside, ending with, “Going to take it now.”

  Payne then yelled around the corner of the doorway: “Police! Put down your weapons!”

  When he peered around the corner, he was amazed that Will Curtis had actually complied with the order on the first shout. He was looking with tired eyes toward the front door.

  Sergeant Matt Payne, with his Colt .45 raised in both hands close to his chest, smoothly rushed through the doorway, Detective Charley Bell lumbering on his heels.

  Payne was shouting, “Police! Nobody move! Hands on your head!”

  The black male still had his hands raised and now moved them to his head.

  Will Curtis, as quickly as he could, complied, too.

  They could hear Detective Tony Harris kicking in the back door.

  Matt motioned for Charley to go let Tony in, and he hustled down the hall.

  Just as Payne said to the black male, “Where’s the other guy?” the old man pointed under the stairs and yelled, “Coming out of the basement!”

  Payne looked toward the basement entrance in time to see the head of a black male—whose hand was bringing up a black semiautomatic pistol.

  The shooter swung the pistol at Payne. But before Matt could squeeze off a shot, Will Curtis stepped between them—and then came three shots from the black male.

  Two of the bullets hit Curtis in the left shoulder, the third in his left chest.

  As Matt dove for cover at the foot of the steps leading upstairs, he thought, Did he step in the way on purpose?

  He did! He took those damn bullets for me!

  Matt saw Charley Bell peering around a corner at the back end of the hall. The shooter did, too, and fired three shots at him. Two struck the wall at the corner, sending Sheetrock flying. The third found Bell’s forearm.

  “Fuck! I’m hit!” he shouted.

  Curtis fell forward and grabbed the Glock he’d been told to drop, then remarkably squeezed off five shots in the direction of the shooter.

  Then Will Curtis finally collapsed, blood from his wounds beginning to pool around him.

  The long-haired black male was now cowering behind Payne, lying flat on the floor against the wall.

  Payne carefully looked past the edge of the stairs toward the basement entrance, trying to get a clear line of fire on the shooter.

  He saw the entrance but not the shooter.

  Sonofabitch!

  Keeping low, he stepped into the hallway and moved toward the basement entrance. The worn wooden flooring squeaked under his weight.

  “You okay, Charley?” Payne called out.

  “Get that sonofabitch, Matt!”

  Payne looked back at the black male. He was still cowering against the wall, but now he stared wide-eyed at the old man lying in the pool of blood.

  As Payne moved closer to the basement entrance, Tony Harris appeared from around the bullet-pocked corner. He motioned toward the basement, then motioned that he’d cover Matt. Matt nodded.

  When Payne got to the top of the stairs, he saw a heavy blood trail leading down the wooden treads.

  Will Curtis hit the bastard.

  “Police!” Matt yelled down the steps. “Drop your weapons!”

  Payne and Harris slowly descended the stairs.

  When they reached the bottom, there were two rooms. They cleared the first, then followed the blood trail to the door of the second. A light was on inside it, and when Payne looked around the edge of the door frame, he saw two black males—both dead.

  One was on the floor at the end of the heavy blood trail. The shooter ha
d at least one enormous hole through his neck. The semiautomatic 9-millimeter Baretta was still in his right hand. The other dead male was lying on an old twin bed. He had been strangled. Two foot-long plastic zip ties strung end-to-end cut deeply into his bruised neck.

  A black duffel bag with stacks of banded cash and clear plastic bags full of pills was on the floor.

  Matt and Tony then heard fast footfalls on the wooden flooring above their heads.

  Then they heard Charley Bell yell, “Stop! Police!”

  Payne exchanged a fast glance with Harris, then bolted up the steps.

  At the top, Payne turned toward the open front door as he heard the minivan starting and then its tires spinning as it squealed away.

  He looked toward the back of the house and saw Bell standing with what looked like a dirty dish towel wrapped around his left forearm. It was blood-soaked.

  “The sonofabitch grabbed the old man’s keys,” Bell said. “And got his Glock, too!”

  Matt looked at the towel.

  “I’m okay,” Bell said. “Go! Go! Go!”

  Matt pointed down the basement stairs.

  “Clear the house with Tony,” he said.

  Then, stepping around the dead body of the old man who’d sacrificed his life for Matt’s, Payne was out the door.

  [FIVE]

  The first thing Matt Payne saw when he came running out of the row house was a huge, nasty-looking garbage truck. It was stopped right beside the PECO van, and Payne realized that if he didn’t run faster to reach the Crown Vic, the truck was going to move up and block him.

  As he ran, he yelled “Stop! Police!” to the driver, holding his left-hand palm out, anxiously signaling him to stay put. But after he got in the car and finally had it moving off the sidewalk, he saw the last plastic garbage bag from the corner being tossed into the back of the garbage truck as the truck moved forward.

  Matt hammered the heel of his right hand on the horn as he floored the accelerator. Yanking the steering wheel to the right, he had to hop the curb to narrowly miss both the front of the garbage truck and the rear of a parked car.

  Payne pursued the Ford minivan as it raced up Richmond Street.

  He thought about calling in for backup, but dismissed that immediately.

  No police radio. And I’m not about to try juggling my cell right now.

  He flipped down the sun visors, then reached down and plugged in the emergency lights and threw the switch for the siren.

  Two cars were stopped up ahead, waiting for the traffic light at Allegheny Avenue. He watched as the minivan’s brake lights came on for a second, then went off. The van then swung into the oncoming traffic lane to get around the two cars. Then it blew through the red light, cutting a hard right and going down Allegheny Avenue.

  Matt came up on the two cars but could not pass because a pickup truck had just turned down Richmond, blocking his way. He could see the red-and-blue strobes reflecting off the back glass of the vehicle ahead of him. He hammered the horn out of habit, but its sound was mostly lost in the loud whoop-whoop of the siren.

  The traffic light cycled to green, the first car started to roll, then both finally moved quickly out of the way.

  Matt made the corner just in time to see the tail of the minivan going up an on-ramp, headed southbound on the Delaware Expressway.

  He pulled on the gear-selector stalk on the steering column, dumping the transmission into second gear, then floored the accelerator.

  Just before the ramp at the next block, with the high-revving engine roaring, Matt tapped the brakes once before turning, then put the Police Interceptor into a squealing right turn. He corrected the skid, then floored the accelerator again and bumped the transmission into high gear.

  This section of Interstate 95 was four lanes in each direction, and Matt saw that the minivan was weaving through the heavy traffic.

  Sonofabitch is using all the lanes!

  The other vehicles were quickly becoming aware of the reckless minivan. Just past the point where the expressway became elevated, some began moving out of the wild driver’s way. Matt figured that the driver of a full-size Dodge SUV must have seen the Ford minivan flying up on its tail. It tried to move quickly into the lane to its left—and immediately sideswiped the Honda Accord that was traveling in that lane.

  Oh, shit!

  The impact from the heavier truck forced the lighter compact car into the far inside lane, which fortunately was unoccupied.

  That Honda was damn lucky it didn’t slam into the concrete divider.

  Or completely lose control.

  The Ford minivan, apparently anticipating the Dodge SUV swerving back into its lane, then darted through a gap in the right lane. It flew past a half-dozen vehicles before again having to brake heavily, this time almost at the Vine Street Expressway.

  After checking the nearby lanes for traffic, Matt calmly steered to follow it.

  I wonder how many violations I’ve made so far of our department’s pursuit policies.

  Plenty, I’m sure.

  And I’m also sure someone will be more than happy to point them out as we review the video of it in the ECC.

  His cell phone began ringing, and he dug it out of his pocket and glanced at the caller ID. Payne was amazed the earbud was still in his ear. When he answered the call, he wondered if all Harris would hear would be his siren wails and horn honks.

  “Tony, how’s Charley? All okay?”

  “He’s fine. We’ve got the scene under control. Where the hell are you?”

  “Southbound Delaware Expressway, about to Vine. Hot on the tail of the white minivan. You want to call in for units to try to head off this guy? He’s running hard, and about to make a big mess out here.”

  Payne, closing the distance between them, watched the Ford minivan make jerky movements as the driver tried getting around four vehicles that were driving abreast and effectively forming a wall across the expressway. They did try to get out of the way, but every time a driver anticipated the minivan’s next move, another driver wound up blocking him again.

  The minivan was in the far right lane, and when it came up to the two-lane split leading to the exit for the Vine Street Expressway, it shot the gap and accelerated.

  “Tony, he just took the Vine exit. Hell, we’re almost to the Roundhouse, about a quarter-mile out. Maybe he’s going there to give himself up.”

  He heard Harris snort, then start relaying that updated information.

  Payne made the exit for the Vine Street Expressway, and as the two lanes of the elevated concrete thoroughfare widened to four, Matt looked in the distance and saw the minivan heading toward the Center City skyline.

  Also ahead, at the point where the expressway crossed over Fourth Street, there was a series of flashing caution lights and signage that read: CAUTION! ROAD REPAIR AHEAD! YO, GIVE US A BRAKE!

  The minivan was now just passing the first of the flashing lights.

  The lights and signs became thicker as the expressway approached the Fifth Street overpass, and Payne remembered that that was where two eighteen-wheelers had collided a few weeks earlier. The mass of them together had taken out five sections of the three-foot-tall concrete divider that separated the eastbound and westbound lanes.

  As a temporary patch, a double line of fifty-five-gallon drums, orange with reflective tape, had been put in place with more caution signage. And a temporary speed-limit sign had been posted.

  Matt saw ahead of the Ford minivan that traffic in all the westbound lanes was slowing to a stop just past the construction crew.

  “Looks like the Vine Expressway is shut down, Tony.”

  The minivan was beginning to make jerky moves from lane to lane, looking for a route around the slow traffic.

  Matt moved into the far outside lane behind the minivan and eased up on the accelerator as he closed the distance between them.

  No exit here. Nowhere to run.

  Looks like the end of the road.

  But
then he saw that not only was the minivan not slowing to the posted twenty-five miles an hour, it was accelerating.

  And then it suddenly shot from the right lane and across the other three—then went right through the orange barrels, scattering them and causing the construction workers to dive for cover.

  “Jesus H. Christ!”

  “What, Matt?”

  “He just crossed into the oncoming lanes.”

  “How the hell did he do that?”

  “He blew through a hole in the construction zone.”

  More important, how the hell did he miss those oncoming cars?

  At least they’re driving slow because of the roadwork.

  The minivan then drove to the far left of the expressway and turned left onto a lane that was carrying oncoming traffic coming off the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. The vehicles swerved to miss hitting the minivan head-on.

  “Jesus! And now he’s headed the wrong way toward the Ben Franklin Bridge!”

  Payne, with his hands on the steering wheel at three and nine o’clock, looked over his left shoulder, then cut across the westbound lanes of the expressway, stopping in the hole that the minivan had plowed through the rows of orange drums. Then he checked for a gap in the eastbound traffic. There wasn’t one immediately, but as he waited, one driver, then two and three and more, began to heed the siren and red-and-blue strobes, either slowing to a crawl or coming to a complete stop.

  Jesus! Here we go!

  Payne put his right foot to the floor, and the Crown Vic burned rubber as it shot forward.

  The minivan had momentarily disappeared around the curves of the turns leading up to the bridge. But its tail came back into view as soon as Payne reached the first overhead gantry.

  The five vehicles that had just crashed also came into view.

  Payne steered around them and headed for the bridge.

  The eighty-year-old steel suspension bridge spanned the Delaware River, connecting Center City to Camden, New Jersey. It had a total of seven lanes for automotive traffic. Separating the east- and westbound lanes was an articulated concrete wall called a “zipper” barrier. Depending on traffic demand, the three-foot-tall zipper could be moved to create more or fewer lanes in either direction.