Vigilante Reloaded

by Jack Quaid

  ‘Jesus Christ. You lie to your wife like that?’

  ‘Yeah, I know Beanzie. So what?’

  ‘You know where he lives, hangs out, anything like that?’

  Jackknife stared at him for a couple of moments. ‘This make us square?’

  Sullivan smiled. ‘Could do.’

  Jackknife scribbled something on the back of an empty ammo box and handed it to Sullivan: an address. He slipped it into his pocket. ‘How’s Wyatt?’

  ‘Doin’ three to five for burg.’

  Sullivan lit a cigarette. ‘Things are rough all round.’

  Chapter Five

  1:31 AM

  Beanzie didn’t do much to conceal his lifestyle, income, or identity. The address Jackknife had given Sullivan was for a flashy apartment in an equally flashy neighborhood, and the seventy-thousand-dollar SUV parked out front had a personalized licence plate: ‘Beanz.’ It wasn’t the most inconspicuous vehicle, but then Sullivan was getting the impression that Beanzie wasn’t the smartest of crims. The building was old-school art deco with red leather chairs in the lobby, and somewhere someone was burning incense. Sullivan headed up to the second floor and found Beanzie’s apartment about a third of the way down. Newspapers were piled up outside the door.

  Four papers: four days gone.

  Sullivan knocked. No answer.

  It took him a couple of minutes to pick the lock, and when he did, he drew his weapon and stepped inside.

  A cool breeze cut through the quiet room.

  The hall was lined with framed autographed photos of NFL players Sullivan didn’t recognize, and the lounge room looked like something out of a magazine. Leather couches, red drapes, oak floors, and designer clothes of whatever was in fashion that week sat in various piles around the place. The apartment was every young gangster’s dream. It’s what they see in the music videos and the television. What they don’t see is that it all comes to an end, and judging by the horrific stench burning Sullivan’s nostrils, he suspected the end for Beanzie was fairly recent. He followed the smell of bad decisions into the bedroom and holstered his weapon.

  Beanzie was facedown on the bed, a towel around his waist. Strangled to death.

  Sullivan took the keys to Beanzie’s SUV, and when he got to the car, he pulled the satellite navigation, scanned through the list of addresses, and found one that matched Roach’s story.

  * * *

  2:17 AM

  ‘At the next intersection, turn right.’

  The edges of the city were torn and frayed. Every block Sullivan passed, the property values decreased that little bit more.

  ‘At the next intersection, turn left.’

  * * *

  3:01 AM

  A stone’s throw from the city, moonlight bathed an industrial wasteland. The streetlights were fewer and farther between, and ten minutes after that, there was nothing but darkness.

  * * *

  3:22 AM

  Sullivan saw the orange glow through the treetops in the distance. He grounded the pedal, took the corner, slid to a stop. Firemen ran toward a blaze twenty feet into the scrub: a one-room shack that wouldn’t have been much when it was built a hundred years ago was now burning down to nothing.

  Climbing out of his car, Sullivan pushed through the crowd toward the rear of the fire engine. Water pounded the shack; the force alone tore away planks of wood. The beams creaked, and the whole thing was ready to collapse.

  ‘Hey!’ a fireman on top of the engine yelled. ‘Get back.’

  Sullivan flashed his badge and was let past the line.

  If there was any evidence inside, and it was a long shot that there was any, wouldn’t be inside burning. Sullivan stepped forward, got an angle. Through the burning door that swung back and forth, he saw something.

  Maps. Plans. Schematics. Everything Roach had talked about. It was only a matter of moments before the whole thing would be nothing but ash, along with the only lead Sullivan had.

  To hell with it, he thought.

  Sullivan took a breath and stepped forward. A gust of black smoke hit him in the face. He took another step.

  A fireman called out for him to stop, but it was too late.

  Sullivan ran into hell.

  Smoke filled the shack. It stung his eyes and filled his throat. Sullivan shielded his face and forced himself forward. He coughed and choked and stumbled until he fell against the wall. A blast of heat hit him in the face as he dragged a handful of papers off the wall and staggered backward.

  Black smoke in every direction.

  Sullivan couldn’t see through it.

  He squeezed his eyes shut.

  Coughed.

  Fell to his knees and crawled.

  He heard the wooden roof crack and felt the heat of a beam fall past his face and hit the floor. He reached for what he thought was the open door but felt nothing but wall. He drew in a lungful of smoke and felt his lungs catch fire. The exit was absolutely lost to him.

  Then he felt hands under his armpits; a couple of firemen dragged him across the ash, and cold air rushed over his face, clean air filling his lungs.

  They dumped him on the ground. A fire-eater got in Sullivan’s face. ‘What are you doing, you fuckin’ dickhead?’

  Sullivan managed to drag out a few words to show he was alive, and after a few seconds of abuse, they left to put out the fire.

  The night air soothed the burning in his lungs, and when he felt better, he lit a cigarette, relaxed. The fire was under control by the time he pulled himself up to his feet, but it was still a show, and the crowd was only just beginning to thin. Most of the papers he’d grabbed were blackened by the smoke, but a couple were still legible. He laid each on the hood and tried to make sense of them.

  A road map.

  A blueprint.

  He hit the map first. It was a city map, the kind you’d pick up in any roadside station. Nothing special. Most of it was burnt away, but a highlighted route could be made out. It picked up on Michigan Avenue, ran down two blocks, hung a left on 1st Street, and ran off what was left of the page.

  The blueprint was just as burnt but a little more interesting: fragments of a complex, but only half the picture. It was dated ten years ago, and Sullivan could make out the last three letters of the complex: R.A.N.D. It was the type of info that would make total sense after the job was pulled, but hard to make sense of now.

  He clocked his watch: 3:46 a.m. Two hours and change. The blaze was all but out, and Sullivan gathered up the papers, thinking it best to leave before the firemen remembered him and collected a badge number for their report. He opened his car door, tossed the papers inside, and was about to follow them when he heard one of the crowd mutter something.

  Sullivan turned. ‘What did you say?’

  He was an older man, dressed in a gown and slippers. A woman who was probably his wife stood beside him. Country people. Weathered faces. The man looked at what was left of the shack and then back to Sullivan. ‘I said I hope he wasn’t in there when that went down.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Well, I never met him . . .’

  ‘But you saw him?’

  He nodded. ‘Here and there.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Average looking. Maybe thirty? Worked at SEC-Guard Security.’ The last part seemed almost an afterthought. ‘My brother used to work there, so I’d know.’

  SEC-Guard had contracts all over the city: banks, insurance, private, ATMs. It was all handled by SEC-Guard.

  Sullivan reached for the blueprint. His mind raced through all the combinations of places worth robbing that ended in the letters R.A.N.D, then it came to him.

  MGM Grand Casino.

  Chapter Six

  The anger of the engine and the smell of burnt rubber pushed their way up through the floor and flooded the cab. Bugs hit the windshield like machine-gun fire as trees whipped past in the silhouetted night.

  He pulled his phone, dialed blind, and listened for the f
aint ring. Winter answered, on shift, half asleep. He told her to put him through to security at the MGM Grand. A few moments later, Sullivan was talking to the guy in charge. His name was Rodney Doolan.

  ‘This is Detective Sullivan. I’ve got a strong lead an armored truck pickup you’ve got scheduled is going to be hit.’

  ‘Eh, man, relax. This is a casino. The 5:30’s safe. We’re equipped for that type of thing. My boys are tooled and trained.’

  ‘I’m sure they are, but you need to put on extra guys and stop the 5:30 until it can get an escort.’

  ‘You telling me what I need to do? Huh? Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Mr. Doolan, it’s a precaution. Put some extra—’

  Doolan hung up.

  ‘Fuck,’ Sullivan snapped.

  He called Winter and she tried again, but Doolan wasn’t answering.

  Sullivan buried the pedal into the floor, the engine roared. The fleet barely hung onto the road. Out of the corner of his eye, Sullivan saw the needle pass ninety miles per hour. The trees turned into traffic lights and tall buildings. The sky broke blue in shades that brightened like a slow-burning fuse toward 6 a.m.

  The roads were dead. Three blocks out from the casino, his phone rang.

  Winter: she had found out the pickup point for the MGM Grand. Loading Dock 9.

  Sullivan swung the car around a corner and aimed toward the complex. The bottom of the vehicle scraped a speed hump as he floored it into the underground car park. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did, he scanned each of the loading-bay doors as they blurred past him. Each was numbered in yellow paint. He pulled a right and came to a sliding stop outside Bay 9.

  The clock on the dash read 5:33 a.m.

  Sullivan climbed out of his car. Three heavyset guys in cheap suits and fake tans were dragging down the roller door.

  ‘Hey,’ he called.

  They straightened and grew a foot in the process. ‘Hey yourself,’ one of them grunted.

  Sullivan showed his badge, and their attitude changed.

  ‘How long until the 5.30 pickup?’

  ‘You just missed it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Came early.’

  The roller door yanked up from the inside, and a man with short legs and an even shorter body stepped out. ‘What the fuck is going on out here? Lock it up, lock it up.’

  ‘Are you Rodney Doolan?’ Sullivan asked, his phone already in his hand.

  ‘Yeah, so what?’

  ‘How long ago did the SEC-Guard pickup leave?’

  He was about to mouth off when he saw the badge on Sullivan’s belt. His mind worked overtime until he realized who he was. ‘Told you the pickup would go off without a hitch.’

  Sullivan punched in the number and held it to his ear while he measured Doolan up. ‘It was never getting hit here. It’ll be taken on the road.’

  Doolan looked like he had just shit a brick.

  ‘How long ago did it leave?’ Sullivan demanded.

  ‘Three, four minutes.’

  ‘How much was it carrying?’

  ‘Fifteen million, maybe more.’

  Sullivan paused. ‘Fifteen million?’

  As he took in the number, Winter answered the line. ‘Sullivan? What is it?’

  ‘The truck has already left. Alert all patrols in the area, and I need to talk to a dispatcher at SEC-Guard Security.’

  A few moments later, a woman with a brash voice came on the line. ‘What can I do for you, Detective?’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Daphne.’

  ‘Daphne, we’ve got good reason to believe one of your armored trucks is going to be hit this morning. I need you to patch me through to the driver of the truck that just left the MGM Grand.’

  ‘Yes sir.’ He heard the click as she put him on hold.

  Sullivan headed back to his car, pulled his shotgun from the trunk, and loaded it. Doolan watched him from the loading dock, a fool’s look across his face and a lump in his throat.

  The line clicked again. ‘Detective? I can’t raise him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s not answering the radio.’

  ‘Is there GPS on that truck?

  ‘Um, ah, yes.’

  ‘Find it.’

  Sullivan heard her attack the keyboard, and when she was finished she said, ‘It’s moving.’

  Sullivan climbed into the car. ‘Where?’

  ‘Heading down Michigan Avenue. Just turned left on Park Place.’

  He turned the key. Floored the pedal and let the door close itself as he took off and skidded out of the car park. Sunlight blasted the streets. Swerving around a garbage truck on the wrong side of the road, he pulled in front of it and sped forward.

  ‘Daphne, I’m going to need you to give me real-time updates. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is it at now?’

  ‘Still on Park Place, heading north.’

  ‘How far up?’

  ‘Just past Clifford Street.’

  Five blocks ahead of him.

  He accelerated toward the intersection. Green light. Tapped the brakes. Traffic backed up. He yanked the wheel and bounced the car up onto the gutter and made it through the intersection.

  ‘Just turned left on Woodard Avenue.’

  Sullivan sped up. Pulled a hard right onto Woodard. It was two lanes each way. Traffic was light but slow. Sullivan bobbed and weaved through the early morning commuters. A horn blasted, but by the time he clocked it in his rearview, the car was a speck behind him.

  Daphne was panicking. ‘He’s taking a left on West Columbus.’

  Four blocks later, Sullivan pulled a hard left.

  ‘Are they still on Columbus, Daphne?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Just crossed over Cass Ave.’

  Sullivan could see it up in the shaky distance. The armored truck was little more than a dot on the horizon, so far away that his eyes would lose it for a split second in the glare of the sun, only for it to reappear a moment later. Then it disappeared altogether. Sullivan clamped his eyes shut, opened them: nothing.

  The intersection came up fast.

  The light green.

  One foot on the gas, the other on the brake. A yank of the wheel.

  Too fast: the vehicle’s ass kicked out and dragged against a row of parked cars. Sullivan eased off, got control, and floored it.

  Up in front: the armored truck, closer now. No other vehicles between them. He closed the gap. Only a few hundred feet. The truck cleared an intersection. Sullivan sailed in behind it and through a red light.

  The sun was in his eyes. He barely registered the gleaming windshield of the Ford as it ploughed into his passenger-side door.

  Sullivan tasted blood.

  The sun went black.

  A sharp pain pushed through the side of Sullivan’s head. It had taken out a window in the crash. People ran forward to assist. A bus driver had pulled over and was directing traffic around the scene. Within seconds, everything came back.

  The truck.

  The robbery.

  Six a.m.

  His vision blurred, Sullivan fumbled for his phone. Found it on the floor. Cut himself on a piece of broken glass as he raised it to his ear. Daphne was screaming.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It’s stopped. It’s stopped.’

  He pulled himself out of the wreck and yelled into the phone: ‘Where?’ His legs were shaky, but a couple of good Samaritans kept him on his feet.

  ‘Plum Street!’

  It was two blocks away. Sullivan staggered off.

  A women called after him: ‘Sir? What are you doing? Sit down.’

  He pointed to the Ford with its crushed front end and water spraying out of the radiator. ‘Go see to them.’

  Movement inside: the driver, alive.

  He dragged himself forward. His boot scuffed the asphalt. With each step, he could feel his coordination ret
urning, and he broke into a jog. As he neared the end of the block, Sullivan heard a crack and the rat-a-tat-tat of automatic weapons. A blast echoed off the surrounding buildings.

  He pulled his weapon. Took the corner.

  Smoke hung in the air.

  It was all over.

  Chapter Seven

  Flashing lights ripped through the morning sky. The block was cordoned off. Yellow tape and rookie uniforms pushed the spectators away but didn’t stop them from eyeballing the scene and recording what they saw on their mobile phones. The flow of traffic from the eastern suburbs into the CBD crawled to a stop, turning the far end of Cass Avenue into a parking lot.

  The scene ran from the storefronts on one side of the road, over the six lanes to the storefronts on the other. Dawn’s Coffee & Muffins had zigzag bullet holes through its lettering. Rounds were buried in the trees on the footpath and were being dug out by forensics while the car alarm of a Mercedes screamed from a peppering of machine gunfire it had taken while parked on the side of the road. The sound bounced off the buildings and rang in everybody’s ears.

  Shell casings littered the street, and body bags lined the footpath. Medics wheeled another to the side of the road, pulled it from the gurney, and laid it on the concrete. It was the ninth in a row and sat disjointed and folded over itself.

  The detectives huddled around the wreck of the armored truck. It was bashed and bruised with the left side sunken on the road from two blown tires. Water sprayed out of the radiator: the result of hitting a divider in the road. The rear doors hung open, warped from the force of the explosion.

  Sullivan circled. The three guards were dead. The driver lay slumped across the hood. Halfway between the passenger door and the rear lay the second guard, facedown in a pool of his own blood. Judging by the amount his heart had pumped out, he hadn’t died straightaway. The third lay at the rear. Cut in half with automatic weapons when the doors exploded.

  It was Lieutenant Rayburn’s scene. He had a small face with big features, and at some stage in his teenage years had had bad skin that left scars on his chin and cheeks. Shorter than most men, he had hunched shoulders that gave him a silhouette not far off that of a bulldog. He’d spent half his career in Major Crimes working under Cliff Moore, and when Moore had retired, Rayburn was bumped up. He had gotten lazy and fat since he was made CO, and all his clothes were half a size too small. He ran his thumb between his waistband and gut, so he could draw a breath as he made his way through the crime scene.