by Rolf Nelson
The three of them had partied like there was no tomorrow. They hinted at big plans, and he was being let in on it because he was so righteous. He’d converted to Islam to be with them. When he asked about the drinking prohibition, they told him not to worry; they were just doing it to distract the kafir. All would be forgiven when their plans came through. Relax and enjoy it, they said. He did. It was easy to do.
When the three had picked up a couple of girls at a club to have fun with, it started out fine. They liked the drinks the three men had bought them. But they didn’t want to put out. They’d wanted the drinks for free, the sluts, and they had no male mahram to protect their nonexistent virtue. So the three had followed the girls out and took what was owed as was their right.
Then, his world had exploded in pain, and the lights went out. He had a vague recollection of a struggle around him, of muffled gunshots and screams. Dwain tried to move again. His legs didn’t work. His arm was weak. With an effort, he rolled onto his side. In the dim light of the sodium-vapor streetlight around the corner he could see the slack-jawed expression on Kidil, with unblinking eyed and twisted neck and knew that he’d never wake up to use the gun still clutched in his hand, a gun he’d been all too happy to flash around earlier. He looked the other way. Bashir was lying in a puddle. It was hard to tell in the dim light if it was water or his own blood. Dwain could hear a raspy breathing, but he wasn’t sure if it was Bashir’s or just his own. The sluts that had been servicing the three were gone, of course. The bass thump of the music from the club down the street gave the background sounds of the city a beat.
Dwain dragged himself out of the alley. He couldn’t walk; his legs screamed in pain through the alcohol and drug haze but didn’t respond to his commands to make them move. Nobody walking by the alleyway appeared to hear his cries for help over the noise of the night and their phone earbuds. When he emerged from the alley after an agonizing twenty-minute, twenty-yard crawl, someone finally noticed him and called 911 before hurrying away.
The cops were not very sympathetic to his bloody face and body and investigated the alley with guns drawn and high-powered lights on. The comments they made about his clearly dead friend were not flattering, and one of them implied it looked like he’d been the killer, and it had gone wrong. The ambulance drivers were professional, but not very gentle as they bundled him on a gurney and loaded him up to drive him to the ER. His understanding of the technical language they used to report his injuries he only followed because he had felt or seen the problems. Multiple gunshots and broken bones, including leg, nose, and jaw, but none immediately life threatening. It sounded like another ambulance was dealing with Bashir. It wasn’t clear if they were actually saving him or just going through the motions on a cooling corpse.
One comment they made, though, brought his barely working brain to a halt.
“Huh. Looks like some Catholics are getting tired of this shit.” The medic held up something: a simple rosary of knotted cord tied around his wrist, good and tight. “Don’t worry, buddy. We’ll see if we can find a priest from the chapel to come up and pray for you. You’ll hurt, but it’ll be okay.”
Dwain couldn’t make himself understood though his damaged face as he tried to tell them to take it off and say it wasn’t his, and his arms were restrained to keep him from moving and causing more damage as the medics worked on him. One of the medics picked it up to move it out of the way as they did an examination; he fingered the rosary curiously a moment before he got back to work repairing damage. The tight cord, now that Dwain could see it, burned his flesh more than the broken bones, but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
Hit
The regular meeting in the third floor apartment had already started when Joshua Mendez arrived still in uniform, looking frustrated and tired. The others greeted him warmly, but with inquiring looks upon their faces. His cryptic text they’d received an hour ago telling them to start without him meant that his timing wasn’t unexpected, so the other monks-errant didn’t feel awkward, but they were most certainly curious. But they were also patient—one of many things they’d learned at the abbey, and knew that if it was anything that concerned them, they’d learn in due course. Luke, as host that week, waved him over to the munchies he’d set out for the evening.
“Sorry I’m late, guys,” apologized Joshua as he put a handful of chips and blob of mole on his plate and retrieved a beer from the fridge. “Things went totally screwball about an hour before the shift was over.” He took a seat at the table. “Couldn’t leave until a few things got nailed down.”
“Anything we can help with?” inquired Allan.
“Dunno.” Joshua took a pull from the beer bottle. “It’s ugly. Not sure what we can do. Any of us.” He sat in silence for a minute, staring at his chips, motionless, before tipping his chair back. “Can’t say anything officially–”
“Of course,” interrupted Hugh with an ironic grin.
“Our precinct got its first sharia no-go zone,” the officer said glumly. A couple of the others grunted understanding of his feelings.
“Been expecting that,” said Jonathan Heidelberg, who worked part time for a security company.
“Calling it a community customs cooperation plan. Not that we can’t go in there, or are saying that we won’t, but reading between the lines of the order if we do, we’re on our own, and we can’t expect prosecution, and if it does go to court we can expect a lot of Islamic locals to be allowed on the jury.”
“Huh. That’ll end well,” opined Peter.
“I did some digging. Looks like a total goat-rodeo of corruption. Some of the special unit folks had been working on an underage prostitution ring—a grooming gang that was set up just like Rotherham, who’d–” he broke off, seeing the blank looks on three of the faces at the table.
“Rotherham, England? Immigrants grooming kids for…?” He took a deep breath. “OK, background. The way some criminals, like the Pakistani immigrants in Rotherham, groom children for prostitution and crime is classic predatory behavior. They’d target working class local girls—some still in elementary school—who looked like they were not doing well socially or financially, and they’d send a slightly older boy around to chat them up, give them small gifts, make them feel wanted. Give them a little spending money, show them a good time. They slip them a little bit of drugs, or offer them something that sounded safe. Get them hooked, and liking the lifestyle. They’d use some of their addicts to help attract other girls. They’d get them dependent, hooked, and craving the attention. Nasty and effective psych-ops to turn hundreds of ‘white trash’ girls into sex-slaves, drive a wedge of distrust between them and their parents, build on girls’ natural narcissism and a teenager’s rebelliousness to gain total control over them. Passed them around like party favors to other immigrants in order to gain power and status in the immigrant community.
“Sick bastards,” said Luke, echoing everyone’s sentiments.
“Very. The worst part is that it was covered up by the local government.”
“WHAT?” exclaimed Aziz.
“Yup,” said Hugh. “Didn’t want to be called racist, so they failed to press charges, didn’t follow up, didn’t use CPS—or whatever the Brit equivalent of them is—and returned some of the girls to their abusers. It went on for years before blowing up.”
“Exactly. So they were starting the same thing here, and our special crimes unit was working on it, trying to avoid that racism accusation. Well, turns out the mayor got involved. And the DA. Involved with a couple of the girls, that is. They are covering for each other, and the media is kissing their asses for access, so it gets no coverage. Soooo…. Beat cops like me are steamed, but higher ups are getting leaned on heavily. It finally rolled downhill this afternoon.”
The other six men at the table contemplated Officer Mendez’s words silently, while he took another sip and made a few chips disappear.
“Didn’t Clint say something about having a word with so
me of them a little while back?” asked Luke.
Joshua nodded. “He did. It was pretty quiet around there for a while. A number of moves in and out from that refugee relocation center. Crime’s picking back up again, though.”
Peter looked thoughtful. “Do you have specific names and faces?”
“No me, personally. Not my unit.”
“But someone on that unit does?”
“More than likely. Got something in mind?”
“Maybe. If you got a hot tip, could you go in there?” Peter probed.
“Mostly likely. Depends.”
“Hmmmm… What… how much can you tell us that couldn’t be traced to you, specifically?”
“A lot of things are public domain. Anything in complaints that get filed would have the addresses. And a lot of paperwork has names and charges that are publically searchable.”
“What about problems in the department? Questions about the DA and prosecutors?”
“Oh, well, that’s a whole ’nother slime-ball. The grooming is being done just like Rotherham, but with a twist. They learned from the messed up political machines and followed the Obama doctrine of corrupting the judiciary and compromising top law enforcement. The top prosecutor, Cohen, is in it up to his eyebrows. The city police chief, Levin, must have something in his closet because he always looks so uncomfortable when he makes the insane decisions to drop something. The Captain is starting to act the same way, like he wants to go after some of these pedos, but can’t. I think the 11th precinct captain is in for his own personal pleasure if even half the rumors are true.”
“How do you put up with that?” asked Juke.
“Someone has to try to get it straightened out. But if you push too fast, you get stomped on. As Thomas would say, ‘in God’s own time.’”
“What’s your partner think of it?”
“He’s a young guy, not jaded yet. But rapidly getting there.”
“I see.”
The next hour was nothing but a question and answer session where the rest of the monks asked Joshua about police policy, shifts, schedules, training, investigative techniques, crimes the grooming gangs had committed, and more. With a parting prayer the officer went on his way feeling much happier than when he’d arrived, a burden lifted from his heart. There were still men brave and true in the world. He had no idea what Peter had in mind, but he looked forward to finding out.
The remaining monks-errant prayed in silence for a good five minutes after Joshua left before Peter spoke. “Luke, you still driving that panel van?” Luke nodded, and Peter continued. “I think Bill’s doing some part-time work at a sign-making company, right?”
“I think so,” replied Aziz.
“Give him a call, see what his hours there are, and if he can make a magnetic sign for a van all by himself without anyone knowing.”
“A sign?” Aziz looked more than a little skeptical.
“I’m sure I don’t have the whole thing perfectly filled out, but here’s what I have in mind.”
The next two hours was an intense discussion, and by the end of it they had most of the details worked out, and just needed to find or implement some details, then wait for the right moment. Given the level of reported activity, they didn’t expect they’d have to wait very long.
It took a week to rent (with cash) a nearby garage to “store some things in while the divorce lawyers work things out” from a very understanding, and poor, elderly woman. Another week to position a few stealthy and small wireless and encrypted cameras hooked into a power line going through dense tree branches to give them a decent view of the houses in question and log activities. By the time Bill had gotten trained on making magnetic signs, nearly everything else was ready. It was time to wait, observe, and pick the right moment.
Two weeks later the right time appeared. Joshua Mendez’s shift. Weather. People arriving early and suspiciously, then a few more kept coming. Allan made a few quick taps on his cheap unregistered software programmable walky-talky that had been pre-set to a particular freq. Elsewhere, a couple of men noted the seemingly random collection of clicks and shortly made a couple of calls with “burner” phones. Men started to move, singly and in two man teams. When Brother Allan saw the van pull in to position, he clicked his walky-talky again: two pairs, twice. A phone call was made from one of the burner phones.
Mendez’s partner, Ronald Jacobson, looked at the “unknown name” and unrecognized number and frowned before he answered his personal cell phone when it rang. “Hello, who is this?”
The voice issuing from the other end was obviously synthetic or electronically altered. “There is a gang-rape in progress at the following location. Are you ready to copy?”
“What? Who is this?” demanded Officer Jacobson.
“I saw four assailants drag a girl, screaming, into the house. Are you ready to copy?”
“Give me a moment!” Ronald tapped on the notepad app on the screen of the cruiser’s tablet. “Go ahead.” He wrote down the address. “Crap. Are you sure?”
“Perfectly.”
“Did you call it in to 911?”
“Yes, ten minutes ago. Nothing. So I called you. Protect and serve, or eat doughnuts and watch, Officer?” The line went dead.
“Crap,” Jacobsen said again.
“What?” asked Officer Mendez.
“Got a tip. Said they called 911, got nothing.” Jacobson sat a moment, then relayed the call to his partner sitting behind the wheel. “It’s right in the middle of the CCCP. Crap.” He keyed the radio mic. “Dispatch, unit 12.”
“Go ahead, unit twelve,” came the polite and professional female voice of dispatch.
“Can you confirm a call to 911 about ten minutes ago reporting a gang-rape in progress?”
The silence from the radio stretched out a lot longer than it should have. Finally the voice came back, sounding tight. “I cannot confirm any such call to an area you are authorized to be sent.” Reading between the lines, her meaning was obvious.
“We got a tip. We are going to check it out.”
Another long silence. “Be advised you have no backup available at that location, unit twelve.”
“Understood, dispatch. Unit 12 out.”
Jacobson pointed to the address, only a dozen blocks from where they were parked. “What do you think?”
Officer Mendez nodded. “Lousy weather. I say we go rain on someone’s parade.” He smiled a peaceful, calm smile. “Got a good feeling about this one. May God strike down the evil-doers, and have mercy on us all.”
Jacobson had gotten used to the religiousness of his partner. It was odd, sometimes, but never made him uncomfortable. And he knew, by now, that his partner was absolutely honest, fearless, and trustworthy. It was a good to know when going into the lion’s den.
They rolled to a stop in front of the nondescript suburban house, ill-maintained, shadowy, and sinister under the occasional flash of lightning and barely visible streetlights. “Ready?” asked Mendez.
“Always,” came the reply. Jacobson reached into the glove compartment and drew out six extra loaded magazines. He handed three to Joshua, as he dropped the three extra spares into his own pocket. “Hope we don’t need them.”
“Amen to that. Let’s do it.”
The pouring rain and flash of lightning from the passing thunderstorm set an eerie stage as they approached the door. The veranda on each side was in disrepair, and littered with half-broken yard furniture, and the dim light from a single underpowered bulb didn’t do much to chase away the shadows. It was just enough to illuminate their faces and uniforms. The windows on both sides of the door were barred, and though the house was lit inside, the drapes were drawn, offering no visibility inside. The air was muggy and thick, the heat of the summer oppressive. Officer Mendez pushed on the doorbell, then pounded on the door when he heard nothing. “Police! Open the door!” Jacobson stood back and to the side, hands loose and ready, but not in an obviously offensive stance. They waited. Betwe
en rolls of thunder and the pounding rain, they heard something muffled from inside, unclear but not happy sounding. “Police!” Mendez shouted, pounding on the door again. “Just want to ask a few questions!”
Lightning flashed.
The door swung open suddenly, and an arm extended with a pistol in it, aimed right at Joshua Mendez’s face. “Wrong house, dog!” a male voice from inside sneered in heavily accented English. Jacobson froze, Joshua kept his hands visible, wide apart but low, and not moving noticeably.
“Just following up on a report, sir. Doing my job,” said Joshua calmly as he took a slow step back, and the extended arm followed him partway out the door, its owner trying to get a better angle on the follow-up shot on the second officer.
The silhouetted head of man holding the pistol changed subtly with a meaty thwak, and his body rag-dolled and fell.
The thug’s hand hit the ground with the finger still in the trigger guard, sending a round down the barrel which grazed Jacobson’s shoe, tearing a line down the side and drawing a small amount of blood and a large amount of adrenaline to flow. Thunder clapped just as the cheap pistol went off.
The two of them cleared leather and raised their pistols as they stormed in through the door even as Jacobson yelled “I’m hit!”
All hell broke loose.
The front room had half a dozen men. Alerted by the pounding on the door, they stood with guns drawn. The power went out with the booming of a transformer blowing. Shots went off wildly, glass shattered, men screamed. The brief glance of the room gave them the basic layout, and the two cops went to each side of the door to avoid being silhouetted against it. A flash went off with a bang on the front door and lit up the room through the door, blinding those facing it. Identifying some of the targets, both officers let fly with three quick double-taps. Another flash outside the door lit up a couple more, and more shots fired. A man near far right couch was firing hot loads in a .357 Magnum, and the flash from the muzzle blast and barrel-cylinder gap lit of all those around him, offering target illumination and identification.