by Luis Samways
“Get the fuck out of my way!” Gus said, pushing what seemed to be an apprentice woodcutter to the floor. No one went to help the fallen man; they wouldn’t want to end up on their keisters themselves.
Both Gus and Mickey reached the outhouse office and went inside. The electric atmosphere seemed to follow them like invisible chains, binding them to the evil they took part in. Everybody in the yard breathed a collective sigh of relief when the men were out of sight and the workers were safe. The money kept them around, though; it always did. No matter how scary their work environment was, the money made life that much easier. Plus, when people knew you worked for Big Harry Donavon, more than respect flew your way. Everything flew your way.
Inside the office, Harry and Dapper Fred were sitting at a desk doing shots of whiskey while listening to Pavarotti blast out some classic performance on sixteen-inch vinyl. The slight crackling sound coming from the spinning record gave the room an Italian feel – a Mob feel.
Harry locked eyes with the two men who joined them at the table. Not one word was said for a while. First came the shots of whiskey, and then some lines of coke. Business was always a solemn affair in the company of those men. Whenever it was called for, things would get loud, but caution was the first sign of the mayhem that would surely ensue soon.
Finally somebody spoke. The first to break the formalities was Dapper Fred.
“Nice to see you guys,” Freddy said.
A slight smile broke across Mickey’s face. He was a pale man and had a distinct rugged look to him. He was the type of man you’d rather kill from behind than face from the front. Legend had it that his stare would crumble most men and turn them into stone. His long-time partner and ally would finish the job and smash them into pieces. That man was sitting next to him. And then he spoke, too.
“It’s always nice to see you, Freddy. And it’s even nicer to see Big Bad Harry!” Gus said.
Gus was a big black man. He was around six feet tall and had arms the size of boulders. The Mob was hardly known for associating with black people, let alone having them in their ranks. It was a good thing that Gus, Fred, Micky, and Harry were not the Mob. They were a new kind of evil. They didn’t live by those stupid traditions. They lived by one tradition only, and that was force. They were going to force the feds into submission. That was a given.
“So, what do we owe the pleasure?” Mickey asked, sipping on some whiskey.
“Our warehouse downtown got hit. The DEA have secured the area. There are around a dozen feds in there. Word has it, FBI are on their way but are about two hours out. It gives us a chance to use that contingency plan we have in place,” Big Harry said, clasping at his drink and swigging it in one gulp.
The lighting in the room went from a stable beam to a few flickers. Someone outside had turned on the chipper. Whenever that happened, the lighting in the office suffered.
“Are you sure we can risk such a move?” Gus asked. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, his voice sounded like hot melting butter.
“Yes, we wouldn’t call you if we couldn’t handle it. We have Simon and the men waiting around the corner from the warehouse. According to them, local P.D. bailed on the case, and the DEA are the only guys there. They are underpowered and understaffed. We get there in the next half hour, and we can regain our stash, move it, and save ourselves forty-five million,” Harry said.
“Not to mention, if they do enough digging around, they could cotton onto the fact that we are selling directly to the clubs these days. It could fuck up our whole operation,” Fred chimed in.
The atmosphere went cold when Gus asked the question that everybody had been waiting for.
“So, we are going to kill a bunch of feds?” he asked.
Fred looked at his boss, Harry, who didn’t relish the thought of doing such a thing. It was one thing to kill somebody who posed an immediate threat to his life, but a bunch of straight working men who so happen to be on shift when called to his warehouse? Nah, that didn’t settle well with him. He wasn’t into killing people with families, let alone innocent men trying to earn a living the right way.
“No, we can’t go offing a bunch of feds. That’s not how we stay out of jail. We’ll have to think smart on this one.”
Fred nodded.
“I agree. Popping feds is stupid. We aren’t the bad guys, man — leave that to the damn cartels,” he said.
The guys around the table started to laugh a little. It eased the tension. Everybody felt better off knowing that they wouldn’t have to kill anybody that day. It was a simple plan, and it would work. They were all certain of it.
“So, we use the gas,” Harry said.
Gus and Mickey lit up in anticipation.
“You still have it hooked up to the ventilation system?” Gus asked.
Harry reached under the big table in the office and pulled out an electronic tablet of some sorts. It had a massive antenna sticking out of its side and didn’t look like an iPad. It looked more like a detonator.
“We use this sucker. In fifteen minutes’ time, as soon as I hit this tab right here, we’ll have the place smoked out. We roll over there in a few vans and get the merch back in our grasp, and then we haul ass out of the city and wait for the smoke to die down.”
Everybody agreed with the plan. Harry input his code and got the detonator to start the countdown to the release of sleeping gas he had set up in his warehouse. The agents had no idea they were about to go to sleep. The ones who were outside would be incapacitated with non-lethal shots of electricity. It was a plan that made the guys around the table really happy. A plan that was perfect. Almost too perfect….
Ten
Frank and Santiago had been at the bar for an hour or so. Frank hadn’t touched his drink, and neither had Santiago. They were sitting next to each other in a booth that overlooked the main stage of the strip club. A girl named Sally was grinding on the pole on stage. She was a nice-looking girl, but both San’s and Frank’s minds were elsewhere. They were not enjoying themselves. That was obvious from the get-go.
“What are we doing here, man?” Frank finally asked.
Santiago sipped on his drink and tried to ignore the question.
“San?” Frank looked at his partner to see if he was listening to him. San didn’t even look at him; he was too busy eyeing up the girl on stage. “Hey, I’m talking to you!” Frank shouted.
This time Santiago gave Frank the attention he was looking for. “WHAT?” San asked, a little flustered and annoyed.
There was a pause as Frank tried not to head-butt his partner. He was pissed and needing to vent. So he did, but with his mouth instead of his forehead. The music was pounding through the P.A. system as a few more girls made their way to the stage.
“What the hell are we doing here, man?” Frank repeated, this time calmly.
“I don’t know — I just thought we needed to get our heads straight, ya know?”
Frank nodded. He knew where his partner’s heart was, and that was enough to ease the anger he had toward him.
“Look, we can’t just let these DEA assholes walk all over us. It’s time we stand up for ourselves and show them that they’ll need to drag us out of the crime scene before we leave!”
Santiago nodded his head. He agreed with Frank’s sentiment, but it was easier said than done.
“They are feds, Frank. We can’t just hijack the crime scene and expect no repercussions. You get what I’m trying to say?”
Frank understood. He got up and put his coat on. He wasn’t interested in drinking or trying to forget the case. He was only interested in getting back to the warehouse and giving those bastards a piece of his mind. “Look, man, I’m going back. I need this case. I need to be doing something. I just can’t sit by and watch them take what’s rightfully mine and yours. The people of this city need answers, not deadlines. Those DEA assholes are only interested in RICO charges. It will be years before Bobby Sanders gets his justice. If we let them take our case, w
e won’t be doing him any!”
Santiago perked up a little. He downed his drink and got up as well, sliding his coat on and looking a little pumped.
“Easy, fellah. I’m driving — you look a little loaded!” Frank said.
Santiago cracked a smile. “Good job you pussied-out and didn’t have a drop, then,” he replied, squeezing Frank’s shoulder.
Both detectives walked out of the strip club with a second wind. They were ready to take back what was rightfully theirs - what was rightfully Boston’s.
It was time to lay down the law.
Eleven
The convoy of trucks pulled up to the curb just a few blocks from the warehouse. The convoy was met by another convoy. All in all, there were eight trucks on the street, all lined up like a bad conga line at a party. Most of the trucks were of the waste management variety. They were all heavily modified, and to the untrained eye, you wouldn’t notice the bulletproof armor that surrounded the vehicles’ bodywork. It made the white paint jobs shine on the trucks. Each one of them looked like an exact replica of the other. They were all well-kept and sounded like they had powerful engines. On the side of the truck were the words “Dump Now,” which was a last minute decal job. It was meant to throw anybody off who tried to search for the owners of the trucks, because “Dump Now” didn’t exist, and it never would. Its sole purpose was to mask the intentions of the convoy. Anybody strolling by wouldn’t know what they were about to do. They would have no idea as to the carnage that the men inside the trucks were about to inflict.
Harry Donavon wasn’t going with the convoy. None of the “higher-ups” were to be seen doing such a thing. Even though they had prepared and taken every precaution to make sure nobody was seriously injured in the upcoming operation, they were still planning an illegal heist of millions of dollars’ worth of goods. All to protect the Donavon name and the Donavon money!
Harry got out of one of the dump trucks and set his feet on the ground. The big heavy man raised his hand in the air and signaled the convoy to push ahead. After a few seconds, the engines started to rattle the sidewalk. The immense power that those vehicles drew excited Harry. He was more than ready for such a foray into the world of payback. He needed the job to go off without a hitch. He couldn’t risk being linked to such an audacious jailbreak of his goods. So he knew what needed to be done. No mercy was to be shown. No sentiments to be felt. It was all business now, and business was cold that morning. It was ICE COLD.
“All right, guys. Hit the gas and get out of there quickly. In and out. No excuses. Remember to wear your gloves at all times. I don’t want any fingerprints at the scene,” Harry said into a walkie-talkie. He had installed C.B. radios into the trucks, making sure that he could keep in contact with his men when they performed their duties. The trucks also had police scanners in their compartments, next to the steering wheel. That was an expensive task; fitting eight trucks with police scanners was a hard task. But Harry got it done. He always got it done.
The trucks slowly disappeared down the street, all turning right in the distance. A few of the trucks blared their horns out in authority as Harry felt a slight twinge in his pants. Was it possible to be aroused by such a sight? Was it possible to feel that way about danger?
A smile crept across his face. It was time to unleash his master plan, and he set off to the airport. He would be out of the county before they even mentioned his name as a possibility. Good job the airport was only a mile down the road. Once the raid started, he would be inside the airport, talking to a pretty young thing behind the counter, paying for his ticket. That would be an alibi, and that would make Harry Donavon a free man.
Harry saw his limo pulling up to the curb. Inside, Freddy was smiling through the window. He had cracked it open to let some smoke out.
“You okay, boss?” Freddy asked.
Harry nodded. He felt like he needed to let his crew know that there could be no mistakes. So he pressed down on the walkie-talkie and cleared his throat.
“Guys, I know I said that no one should be killed, but if any of the feds down at the warehouse suspect you or see your faces, kill them. No witnesses, okay?” Harry said.
The message was heard loud and clear. In the back of the leading convoy where the garbage would usually go were six armed men. They had non-lethal rounds in their assault rifles. They also had handguns with real bullets in their side holsters. Each of the men gave a glance down at his pistol. A few smiles were seen in the dank and dark garbage truck. There wasn’t one man on that team or in any of the other trucks who didn’t relish the idea of killing a cop. It was what made most of those guys tick. It was the ultimate show of force, and these men lived by showing theirs.
Harry watched as the last truck disappeared from sight. They were minutes away from accomplishing what they had planned. Harry got into his limo and raced off to the airport. When he got there, he gave the boys in the convoy the go-ahead.
It was time.
Twelve
The DEA agents were still busy working the warehouse crime scene. They had sorted and packed a few hundred boxes of cocaine into a pile of evidence. They were awaiting the FBI and the DEA’s own transport. It was yet to show up, so the agents got to brushing down the crime scene. The coroner hadn’t even showed up for the dead man named Bobby Sanders. His body was left untouched at the side of the entrance. The blood had hardened and gone a cold bluish color. Most of the agents were inside, which was lucky for Harry Donavon. When the timer expired and the gas came gushing out of the vents, most of the agents hit the deck before they knew what was going on. All that remained were two men who spotted the gas and ran outside. They were about to call in the incident when both got taken out from afar. A man was stationed on a mound overlooking the warehouse. He had been placed there for a few hours, ever since the warehouse got taken over.
Harry had sent a few scouts there before the trucks turned up. By the time the convoy entered the DEA-infested area, green smoke was pluming out of every gap and crack in the warehouse. The men who came out of the trucks scattered like ants, hitting and kicking the downed DEA agents. A few men got carried away and let off a few non-lethal shots at the downed cops. No cops died on that raid. None of the crew had shot real bullets. They didn’t have to — every man and woman was knocked out cold by the time the crew came in and ransacked the area.
The men lugged the heavy evidence containers into the dump trucks. It took them all of ten minutes to empty the warehouse completely. All that remained were agents on the floor and the occasional sparse packaging of cocaine. Nothing much, a few kilos that slipped out of their grasp. The clean-out crew came hollering out of the warehouse and got into their vehicles. Trucks started to leave at rapid pace. Smoke from the screeching tires left blackened marks on the ground. The last of the convoy was still stationary. They were the first men in but were set to be the last ones to leave. They stayed there for a few minutes, making sure that no one woke up. They were satisfied when everyone had left. One of the men grabbed the dead Bobby Sanders and hoisted him onto his shoulders. They grabbed the last of the drugs and money, and put them into the idling truck. Bobby was thrown into the back with the rest of the take. The doors were slammed shut, and a couple of the men hung off the sides of the vehicle like garbage men did. The truck was so full they had to. The vehicle reversed and got out of Dodge.
All that remained was the lowly sniper on the mound. He watched as the dust settled and the smoke plumed some more. The warehouse and its surroundings were desolate and quiet. He got up and packed his rifle away, dismantling it without taking his eyes off the warehouse. He felt like the job was done and he could leave. He got out his cell phone and texted a message. He pressed “send” and dusted himself off. He hoisted the rifle bag onto his back like a guitar player leaving a concert. He ran up the hill and jumped on his Harley.
The motorcycle rode off into the Boston sunrise. All that was left was the eerie silence of a job well done.
Thirtee
n
The cell phone in Harry’s breast pocket vibrated a few times.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said, reaching in for it and pulling it out. It vibrated in his hands, and he swiped at the screen. A new message had been sent. He pressed on the message, and a smile spread across his face. The job was done, and he was a happy man. He put the cell back into his breast pocket and got back to paying for his flight.
“So that’s a first-class ticket to Morocco, that will be…eight thousand and seventy-two dollars,” the desk girl said in a bright and cheerful voice. “Oh, I almost forgot — would you like priority boarding?” she added.
Harry shook his head.
“That would mean less time talking to you, wouldn’t it?” he said.
The young lady smiled. She must have been in her early twenties, but Harry wasn’t a slouch, even though he was rather square-looking, being built like a house of bricks.
“Well, I suppose I get off for breakfast in an hour. Gives you plenty of time to talk,” she said quietly, looking around to see if anyone was looking.
Harry cracked another smile. This time it was huge. It nearly overshadowed his large round head. He grabbed the ticket from the desk and popped it into his jacket pocket, the outside one. He nodded at her and gave her a wink.
“I might be around. Maybe I’ll see you near the concourse,” he said, nodding again and walking off.
That was the thing with being Harry Donavon. You always got your own way, but it didn’t mean you had to let everyone know about it. The girl would be there, and he would most likely have his way with her before the flight. It didn’t mean that he was going to let her know it. She knew what he was after, but she truly didn’t know what he was capable of, like most people. And that was where they fell at the first hurdle. The people who underestimated him ended up dead…often.