Vice Enforcer

by S. A. Stovall

  I want to turn to the man and plead with him to stop talking, but I’m too busy attempting to take in air. I wish I could use my arms. I remain curled in on myself, blood soaking into my hair as I slide away from the deputy chief.

  Deputy Chief Charleston offers a grunt of disapproval. “Rhett, you’ve been helpful in this investigation, but we’re in Noimore—my jurisdiction. I’ll handle everything from here. Forget you even talked to this scum.”

  “Well, Joliet is my jurisdiction,” Rhett says, firm in his stance and confidence. “And that’s where Shelby had his office. You can take Pierce and question him, but I’m going to investigate his claim. We should know if someone in our ranks is using their post for personal gain. Especially if it involves human trafficking.”

  Deputy Chief Charleston doesn’t answer.

  “And to be frank,” Rhett continues, “it disturbs me how quick you were to manhandle someone in custody. You’re the deputy chief of police. The officers of Noimore look to you for guidance. I have half a mind to report you.”

  I got to give it to Rhett… he has some testicles. He’s naïve as fuck, but at least he’s no coward. Even through the agony and dull ache, I half smile at his bravado and confidence.

  To my surprise, Deputy Chief Charleston laughs. “Ya know, Rhett? You’re right. Maybe I’m just overworked and takin’ it out on the little guys. Tell ya what. You take this scumbag over to the station, and I’ll speak to Chief Huang on the subject. Maybe she’ll have a plan to utilize some of the detectives within Internal Affairs.”

  Rhett takes in a deep breath and then exhales. “All right. I’ll take him in and get you the report as soon as possible.”

  “Good man.”

  Rhett takes one of my arms and helps me to my feet, but I struggle the entire way, nauseated. Despite that, I see the officer coming up behind Rhett, his Taser at the ready, and I cough when I attempt to speak. Rhett must sense something is up, because he turns on his heel, ready to engage. He grabs the other officer and twists his forearm. When Rhett goes to pull his gun, three other officers fire cartridge Tasers, two of which strike Rhett on the exposed skin of his neck, dropping him hard.

  The other men of the special-response unit leap on Rhett the moment he’s down. They remove his weapons, belt, radio, and bulletproof vest before handcuffing him. When Rhett thrashes and fights, they plant knuckles onto his face—a few one-two combinations to the cabbage and the guy is more cooperative.

  When the police thugs gather around me, I remain as passive as I’ve been this whole meeting. I don’t need another strike to the gut to know I’m at a disadvantage. They don’t rough me up, but they do jerk me around like they’re hoping I step out of line.

  “Take these two to Castor,” Deputy Chief Charleston commands. “He’ll handle the rest.”

  “Even Rhett?” one officer asks.

  Poor, stupid officer. Did he not learn his lesson?

  Deputy Chief Charleston wheels on him, the veins of his body pulsing with restrained rage for the world to see. “Do you want to go with him to make sure he’s okay?” he growls through thick clenched teeth. “Otherwise, you forget you ever saw Rhett here, do you understand me? You’re all to write reports that Rhett went rogue on this. That he went to apprehend this piece of shit and never came back. Got it?”

  The officers nod. No further questions.

  They lead me over to the armored police van, and there’s a piece of me that wishes I hadn’t left the gala. Even if I meant to leave Miles, this isn’t my preferred method of doing so. Anything would be better than getting a bloody beating at the hands of corrupt cops and their stooges.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “YOU DON’T have to do this,” Rhett says, his back to the corner of the van, his arms handcuffed and restrained to the reinforced steel siding. “Anderson, Thompson… you both have wives and kids. What would they say if they saw you—”

  “Shut up!” one officer barks. He stands, moves a short distance down the van, and pulls his gun. “Don’t you mention my family again.”

  “Calm down, Anderson,” another officer says. “Just ignore him. This’ll all be over soon.”

  Rhett sits up as straight as he can, his expression neutral. “Whatever you’ve done, it can be mitigated if you turn yourself in and stop this. It only gets worse the longer you go.”

  Anderson rushes over, grabs Rhett by his black police shirt, and jerks him close. “This didn’t have to happen! It’s your fault we have to do this! If you had let it go—if you weren’t such a fucking Boy Scout—we all could’ve gone on our merry way!”

  “I didn’t force you to do this,” Rhett states. “You could’ve just done your job.”

  There’s a quiet moment where nothing happens before Anderson completely loses his shit. He punches Rhett with the gun in his hand, allowing the weight of the weapon to add to the strike. After the second go, he switches to using the handgun as a blunt club, bashing in part of Rhett’s ear and splattering blood across the floor.

  Two officers jump up to stop Anderson’s attack. I move out of their way, pressing myself up against the side of the van and holding my breath. I don’t think they’re aware of my presence as they scramble to control the situation.

  Once Anderson is corralled, the van gets thick with silence. The officers stay near the front cab, while Rhett and I are left to the shadows of the back. Each bump on the road is felt through the cold steel of the vehicle, but I don’t complain. And neither does Rhett. I guess he’s given up on trying to persuade them to turn themselves in. Probably for the best. I doubt he can hear anything with his messed-up ear.

  It doesn’t take long before the van comes to a halt. Three of the officers hop out and open the back doors. With uncaring force they pull me and Rhett out by our arms and drag us across a small dirt lot.

  The smell of the river is unmistakable. I glance around and spot the Grand Noimore Waterfront Hotel in the distance, across the water—the bright lights cutting through the gloom of the dwindling storm. The drizzle of rain isn’t so much a bother, but it hinders my already poor eyesight. Besides the hotel, I don’t recognize much.

  A group of gangbangers stands nearby, ready to greet us. They saunter over, guns on display, and nod to the police officers with cordial but hesitant mannerisms.

  Castor, the enforcer, steps forward and takes the lead. He’s so thin and tall, when he smiles he looks like a skeleton.

  “Charleston got me up to speed,” he says. “We’ll handle it from here.”

  Anderson pushes me forward. “You gotta get whatever information they have. And call us afterward with the drop-off details. We’ll be the team that picks everything up.”

  “I said, Charleston got me up to speed. You pigs don’t need to tell me twice.” Castor motions to his six buddies to take me and Rhett. Again, I don’t struggle, but Rhett doesn’t take my lead. The hired guns wrestle with him a bit before planting the barrel of a firearm in his spine and pushing him along.

  Castor speaks with the officers a bit longer. I don’t hear a word, not through the dying storm, and I instead focus on our destination. A boathouse—a large one, by the looks of things—with covered docks for personal vessels. I don’t like that we’re getting close to the river, but then again, I wouldn’t mind getting out of the rain.

  “They might as well rename this the River Styx,” I say to the thug holding my arm with a vise grip. “What with all the dead bodies they throw in.”

  Four out of the six men chuckle, and the guy manhandling me replies with a grin, “You’re the funny one, then?”

  “I’m just more relaxed now that I’m not in the company of cops.”

  “Yeah, you don’t look like one of ’em, that’s for sure.”

  We enter the boathouse. It’s dry, for the most part, but water laps up onto the docks with the occasional wave. The boat doors are closed, keeping the place mostly shut off from the outside, if you don’t count the water. The men shove me and Rhett to the back end
of the dock and force us to kneel up against the wall.

  I know why—it’ll be harder to run out the front door if we have to pass each motherfucker from here to the door—and my quick glance around the room tells me there isn’t much hope. There are some boxes, human-sized boxes, and a few metal crates, but not many tools, and no extra guns.

  “This Vice family owned?” I ask as the thugs take a step back.

  “That’s right,” the one says. “You know them?”

  “Once. Yeah.”

  “Then you should know we’re not gonna be the ones beating the information out of you. Jeremy Vice hired himself a real professional surgeon.” The guy chortles. “You sure you don’t want to tell us what you know right now? I’ll make sure you get out of here if you do.”

  I let out a single laugh and smile. Maybe if that were an actual offer, I would take it. But Castor is in charge, not this random asshole. The enforcers aren’t obligated to keep the word of their lackeys.

  “I’ll wait for the surgeon,” I drawl. “I already have an appointment, after all.”

  “Gonna be a smartass, huh? Suit yourself.”

  The guys don’t wander far. They stop halfway down the dock and shove a few boxes around until they have a makeshift sitting area. One man withdraws a deck of cards, but I don’t see any drinks.

  They’re professionals. Hired help rather than kids off the street. I know from the rail yard that they’re also ruthless, if need be. They aren’t going to get high or fuck around while on the job. They’re going to sit and watch me and Rhett get tortured before dumping our bodies in a plausible location. They’ll probably even make it look like we killed each other. And it’s not like the deputy chief will want to investigate too hard.

  Rhett relaxes back against the wall and exhales. “They’re calling in a surgeon?” he asks under his breath.

  “A man who specializes in torturing fools,” I reply. “He’s gonna get us to talk.”

  “By cutting into us?”

  “Maybe. Most guys break after having their fingernails ripped off, but you’re fairly stubborn. They might get to the part where they start slicing things up that aren’t too important.”

  Rhett is quiet for a moment before continuing, “You’re rather calm.”

  “Heh. I should be more like you—that way we can both get our asses kicked.”

  “This isn’t a game,” Rhett growls between clenched teeth. “Have you given up on life? Is that what this is? You reek like a man dead inside.”

  I glance over at him and stare. “You’re real good at makin’ enemies.”

  “You’re not worried about Miles?” Rhett turns away, glaring at the wood between us. “I knew you were just using him, but this is cold.”

  “You think they’ll go after Miles? Why?”

  “You live together, don’t you? Where do you think they’ll go once they’re done with us?”

  Fuck me. Somehow, even in my fall, I’m dragging Miles along for the ride. But what am I going to do? It’s not like I’ve had many opportunities to turn the tables. And Rhett is anything but an asset.

  The roar of a boat motor gets everyone’s attention. Castor enters the boathouse and slams his fist on the boat door opener, causing the garage-door-style shutter to lift up, slowly and surely.

  A center console boat slips in—the type of open hull boat with the steering console in the middle—and the grumble of the powerful motor fills the atmosphere as it drives down the dock at a steady pace. Castor and his men get up and ready to greet the guy who came to torture us, but I guess this is as good an opportunity as any.

  I press my shoulder up to Rhett and run my bandaged forearm down his. “Do you know how to undo cuffs if you had a knife?”

  “Yeah,” Rhett replies.

  “I have one under the bandages. Pull it out and get this done.”

  The thing is wrapped pretty tight around my arm, but it doesn’t take Rhett long to rip it up enough to pry the multitool out. I can’t see a goddamn thing, but I feel him shift around until he has a good angle with the lock. I guess cops know their way around handcuffs—he unclicks it and releases me before the boat has come to a complete stop. Once the engine cuts out, the place gets quiet once again.

  I take the multitool from Rhett, remove my blazer, and get to my feet in a crouching position. While the surgeon disembarks, I shuffle behind a pile of boxes and grab a metal crate. Rhett remains still and doesn’t glance over at me. Smart move. At least he won’t inadvertently give away my position.

  I throw the metal crate into the water, careful to keep my body concealed by the boxes. The loud splash echoes within the enclosed space, drawing the attention of the thugs.

  “The fuck?” one shouts.

  “One of them’s gone!”

  “Goddamn it,” Castor yells out, his voice barely intelligible through his thick rage. “You two! Get in the water! You three, follow me! We’re searching the shore! You stay with the boat!”

  The four thugs exit the boathouse in a hurry, leaving the rest uncertain, but they follow through with commands.

  Two men run down to the end of the dock, passing me without seeing. The first one rips off his jacket and jumps in, gun and all. The second one hangs back, delaying the dunk into ice water, and that’s all I need.

  I lunge for the guy—not to punch him out, but to grab for his firearm—and I yank it from his hand while I push him over. The guy tries to grab me, and for a second he teeters, but I fire his .45, and the kick sends him sailing into the river with a cascade of blood as his herald. The guy in the water gasps up a mouthful, and I fire twice into the drink, catching him both times, based on the crimson that floats to the surface.

  The boat guard fires at me, and I duck behind the boxes. He takes cover behind the boat, but I don’t have time to play around. When he crouches down, I jump over the boxes, leaping down to the dock and dashing toward the surgeon. He’s unarmed and turns to run, but I grab the older man by his thin, wrinkly throat and hold him against me. I like him better as a meat shield.

  The boat guard fires wildly, clipping both me and the surgeon across the calf. I fire back, generous with the bullets, shattering part of the hull, but also the guy’s skull in the process.

  I shove the surgeon forward and rush over to the dead boat guard. My leg gives out right as I reach my destination. I hadn’t realized I had been holding my breath, nor did I notice how fucked-up my calf is. Blood soaks my sock and shoe, and my leg trembles when I attempt to stand.

  Three guys burst back into the boathouse. I fire twice, and they leap behind boxes, but my magazine is empty. I drop the clip and scramble for another, searching the corpse I’m half standing on. The surgeon grabs for my gun. I punch the guy in his side, and the old man whimpers out a cry. I guess he hasn’t been in a fight for a while.

  Bullets whiz by as I reload my gun. More and more of the boat’s hull disappears, and I fire above it, not even bothering to aim; all I want is for them to keep their distance. I push the surgeon out into the open, and the men shoot at him, filling his old body full of lead. I stand and fire while they kill their own, catching two off guard before I have crouch back into cover.

  The last guy runs forward and leaps over the damaged hull. I didn’t see it coming, and he stomps down with his boot to my shoulder, torqueing it good. We both fire, the guns close and my ears screaming with an incessant ring that won’t go away.

  The guy falls, coughing up blood. I fire again, in the head, blowing brains across the planks of the dock. I want to gasp and catch my breath, but Castor enters the boathouse fresh and ready to go. Covered in sweat and blood, I hunker down on the other side of the boat, keeping the vehicle between me and him.

  I hear nothing. The ringing kills all nuance.

  Not knowing where he is frightens me more than all the other guys combined. I glance over my shoulder, and then to the bow of the ship, switching my gaze back and forth with panicked motions. My shoulder throbs with a steady ache. Moving
my neck becomes a terrible ordeal.

  Silence.

  Where is he? Do I risk looking over the boat? He could be at the door, holding his firearm at the ready, prepared to shoot me like some sort of sick whack-a-mole game.

  I attempt to scoot around, but I stagger and hit the edge of the dock, nearly falling into the river. I’m in no condition to run or jump. I could play a round of quick draw, but everything else will be in Castor’s favor. I have to spot him first.

  “He’s getting into the boat!” Rhett yells.

  I don’t dwell on the statement. I pull down on the edge of the boat and heft myself over the ledge, allowing the rocking to aid me. Castor fires and stumbles, but he isn’t looking at me—he shoots at Rhett, no doubt having forgotten the other man existed until he opened his mouth. I lift my gun to fire, but Castor whips around, catching my arm.

  Again, the boat rocks with our movements. When he steps forward, I reach for his gun arm, and we become locked in an odd dance to disarm each other. The man trips me with ease, but I maintain my hold and we both hit the deck of the ship, tumbling around the sodden grip carpeting. I knee him in the gut and he drops his handgun, but he stomps down into my bruised midsection, weakening me.

  We roll again, and Castor pulls a knife—a seven-inch black carbon steel blade that looks sharp enough to slice a piece of hair down the middle. Unable to fire my gun, I drop it in favor of controlling Castor’s arm. He gets on top of me, his skill at grappling far exceeding my own. With gravity on his side, he thrusts down, attempting to slice open my neck. I hold him back with both arms, but it’s a struggle given my shoulder.

  He presses harder and harder, his intense gaze so focused on mine it’s hard not to stare back, and I know he wants me dead. I’ll lose if I keep this up.

  I spit in his face, right across the eyes. When Castor flinches, I kick up with the rock of the boat and get on top of him, reversing our positions. Grabbing the hilt of his blade over his hand, I push down, angling the thing to cut him. He thrashes up, his elbow clipping the left side of my face, and the contact lens in my eye jams back past the eyelid, cutting something along the way.