Criminal Option

by Robert Rand

  Spent, exhausted, Sullivan got to his feet. He looked down at Scrappy, who was beginning to stir. He wanted to kick the bastard. Kick and keep kicking. He laughed a mirthless laugh and thought how great it would be to literally kick the shit out of him. If he wasn’t so fucking tired. He staggered out of the bedroom and cut through the laundry room into the garage.

  The garage door opener made a loud clanking noise a split second prior to lifting the heavy wood door. Two-dozen guns swung to cover the area. Two deputies, who had been crouching near the Corvette in the driveway, dropped to their stomachs, aiming their guns at the shuffling feet that became visible beneath the door.

  Sullivan Rourk stood on legs that felt like rubber, blood oozing out of a two-inch gash at his temple. His ears were ringing and he didn’t hear the shouted orders for him to lay flat on the ground. After two faltering steps into the driveway, Sullivan was tackled by three SWAT team members.

  Deputy Farrell shouted to the Lieutenant, “He’s the fucking victim!”

  “Able, Denver, Frank – that’s the victim!” barked Lt. Timothy Allen.

  The SWAT Team members quickly recovered, pulled Rourk to his feet and ushered him to the safety of the barricade.

  “What happened in there?” Lt. Allen asked Rourk.

  Sullivan stared at the man in black for a moment, then said simply, “You don’t always need a gun to win a gun fight.” With that, he collapsed. Detective Weise caught him and eased him to the ground. Two EMT’s rushed over with their boxes of medical gear.

  “Able, Denver, enter through the garage as soon as the gas hits; Baker, Charlie – go in the back.” The lieutenant was playing it cautious. The information he’d received from Rourk was too sketchy, too incomplete, and far from definitive. On his command, tear gas was fired through the windows of the master bedroom, kitchen and office. Lt. Allen made several calls to the people in the house via an amplified bullhorn directing them to come out of the house with their hands in the air.

  April was trying to get control of her emotions. She was failing miserably. Her husband laying there, bloody and unmoving, strapped to a gurney, boxes of medical paraphernalia stacked on his legs, an EMT holding an I.V. bag in the air above him was unbearable. When three firemen and a female EMT pushed the gurney at a dead run for fifty yards to reach the waiting ambulance, it was April’s final straw. She wrapped her arms across her stomach, hugging herself, while sinking to her knees. The agony in her voice as she cursed God and the devil alike was heartrending to those around her. Deputy Kaufman placed a comforting arm around April’s narrow shoulders, urging her to stand up. “Come on, Mrs. Rourk, I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

  Mrs. Kravitz stood in front of April, and with a no-nonsense, firm voice said, “Young lady, pull yourself together – NOW!”

  April just needed someone to take control in order for her to pull herself together. The kindly old busybody was in control, and for that April was thankful. She sniffled back her tears, wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand, and then wiped her hand on her pants. Deputy Kaufman helped April to stand.

  Mrs. Kravitz, carrying the baby, led the way out the door to the patrol car that sat in her driveway. April, Deputies Kaufman and Matern followed close behind.

  Deputy Matern opened the rear passenger door. April climbed in first, sliding all the way across the hard plastic seat. Mrs. Kravitz got in with the baby next.

  “Deputy, would you please get my purse? I left it on the kitchen counter” Mrs. Kravitz asked Kaufman. “I’d lose my fool head if it weren’t attached, don’t ya know.” she said, to no one in particular.

  April was in mild shock. Tears continued to run silently down her pale face, but she was smiling, the only thought she was aware of was ‘I leave my purse on the kitchen counter, too’. She was grasping for a connection, something, anything in common with another when it seemed that there was no one in the entire world who could understand how alone and isolated she felt.

  Deputy Kaufman handed the forgotten purse to Mrs. Kravitz, a plain black leather shoulder bag, and got into the passenger seat just as the concussion of the tear gas guns reverberated through the neighborhood.

  Deputy Matern dropped the car into drive and made a hasty retreat from the dangers of Arroyo Grande Drive.

  Chapter 30

  The SWAT Team members moved in on the Rourk house, edging along the stucco covered outside walls, using the house itself for protective cover, as they positioned themselves for entry.

  They moved in tandem. Able and Denver were on either side of the front door. Baker and Charlie had taken up position next to the now shattered sliding glass door that opened into the master bedroom. Edward and Frank had crept into the garage and waited by the laundry room door. Every man and woman - team member Edward was actually Laura Lucas, a petite brunette woman under all the armor – had their gas masks in place, weapons at the ready – locked and loaded, safety’s off.

  Lt. Allen gave the order – “Move!”

  From that point on, everything happened with amazing speed. As each team entered, the patrol deputies all moved in to closer firing positions, pistols and shotguns aimed at every possible exit point ready to aid their brothers-in-arms.

  Winchell and Farrell donned gas masks and took up the positions Edward and Frank had just vacated in the garage.

  Ross and Chapman climbed the back fence, taking prone positions on the back yard lawn, guns aimed at the sliding glass bedroom door.

  Baker was the first one into the bedroom, his Heckler and Koch model 93 assault rifle leading the way, a bright, krypton bulb flashlight attached to the underside of the short barrel, it’s illumination piercing the fog-like veil created by the tear gas. He quickly searched back and forth with the beam, not seeing anyone, as he moved forward.

  Charlie was right behind his partner, a modified M-16 with a folding stock and laser sights in his hands. His weapon also had a flashlight beam spearing into the fog from beneath its barrel. As his partner turned left, he would turn right, working as a team, watching one another’s back. “Master bedroom cle…” His words were drowned out by the roar of gunfire at close range. Baker was tossed into the huge mirror that was attached to the long dresser, glass shattering. Charlie sought a target, found none, felt the fire burn in his left hand a moment before he realized that he had been shot in the wrist. The next shot took his consciousness.

  Scrappy had come to just as Rourk was walking out of the garage. He took a moment to get his equilibrium back before standing.

  Conan looked bad, but he was groaning, so he was alive. Scrappy grabbed his gun, checked the clip – still full – and with a slight pull on the slide he was able to see that a live round was still chambered. He slid the clip back into place.

  He had a good idea of what to expect. Tear gas, cops in body armor and gas masks. And his third strike. If not for the mandatory 25 years to life prison sentence he would receive under California’s Three Strikes law, he would have surrendered, then and there. Sure, he would be looking at about 10 years on a 20-year sentence under the old law, but 10 years he could do. 10 years, he could learn a trade or two. 10 years he would be too damn old for all this shit. Life? Scrappy had no idea who it was that said, “Give me liberty or give me death,” but the quote rang true in his mind. “Give me mother-fuckin’ death,” he whispered.

  “Give me Goddamn mother-fuckin’ death, you bastards!” he said with conviction, steeling himself for what was to come.

  Looking around, he decided what preparations must be made, and quickly set out to get things ready.

  First, he had to get Conan up. He went into the master bathroom, filled a glass with cold water and took it into the bedroom to pour on Conan’s battered face.

  Blinking his eyes and shaking his head at the suddenness with which his consciousness had returned, Conan moaned, spit blood, vomit and water from his mouth, and then wiped his face with the heavy down quilt that covered the bed. “Did you get ‘im”” he inquired th
rough clenched teeth.

  “No. He got away. We’re surrounded!” Scrappy said with true cheer.

  “And that makes you happy?” stated Conan, reaching between the mattress and headboard for his gun. Finding it, he turned, slowly, painfully, and sat up, facing his partner, “Why?”

  “Now we make history, comrade!” He was exuberant, “Now we kill some mother-fuckin’ pigs!”

  A smile slowly spread across Conan’s swollen face. Misquoting the lyrics to an old Ice Cube song, “It really is a good day – I’ll get to shoot a pig with an A-K!” They both laughed.

  Scrappy then relayed his plan of attack. Conan readily agreed.

  First, they soaked tee shirts in water, and then tied them across their nose and mouth. Scrappy, staying low crept into the kitchen where he lifted the stovetop and blew out the pilots before turning the burner knobs on full. Gas hissed out of the ports into the air.

  He hurried back to the master bedroom, closing all the doors along the hallway as he went. Once the bedroom door was closed behind him, he stuffed a towel into the crack at the bottom of the door, then poured a bottle of Baccardi 151 rum along the towel – saving the final couple of swallows for himself.

  Conan had removed the sheets and blankets from the bed and was busy soaking them with water in the tub. Once they were wet through and through, he remade the bed, leaving all the coverings to hang over the edges of the king-size mattress, tucking nothing in.

  These preparations took about 10 minutes. Now they waited – passing various bottles of alcohol back and forth between them – a final buzz? Liquid courage? Probably a bit of both.

  When the first canister shattered the sliding glass door, the two skinheads quickly lifted the mattress and slid between it ant the box springs, letting the wet blankets and sheets conceal their presence. Guns ready, they waited. When the SWAT officers burst through the curtained doorway, they saw an empty room.

  Scrappy was on the side furthest from the sliding glass door. When he heard footsteps enter the wet tile of the bathroom, he pulled the covers back just enough to see into the bathroom doorway. The moment he saw the cop return to the bedroom, he opened fire. His first shot hit the cop in the neck, spinning him slightly to the right, facing Scrappy full on. His next two shots were directed into the cops’ chest, the force of the slugs slamming into the Kevlar coated body armor, lifting the cop off his feet and slamming him into the mirror above the dresser.

  As soon as Conan heard the first shot, he peeled back the covers from the opposite side of the bed and sought a target. His eyes were burning and the wet t-shirt didn’t work as well as he had hoped to keep the gas from his throat and lungs. But he could easily see the flashlight beam piercing the fog and that’s where he aimed. The shot hit the cop in the wrist, though he didn’t know it. All he knew was that he had hit the cop somewhere. The cop had screamed in pain. He kept firing at the dark figure shrouded in the mist. The cop went down.

  “Shots fired! Rear of the house!” Roared the high-pitched voice of Edward.

  “Baker – Charlie, report!” ordered Lt. Allen over the radio. When no reply came, he ordered his remaining two teams to work their way toward the master bedroom. “Use extreme caution!” he warned.

  Scrappy pulled out his Zippo lighter, struck the wheel across the flint and tossed the flame onto the rum-soaked towel. The alcohol ignited instantly, a blue flame danced along the towel, turning orange once the cotton began to burn. He tossed two more bottles of whiskey against the closed door, shattering the glass and adding fuel to the fire.

  “Get ready, comrade!” Scrappy called out.

  Both men burrowed deep toward the center of the mattress and waited.

  The remaining SWAT team members took positions in the hall – two high, two low – as they had practiced dozens of times. Automatically the group member of each two-man team with the lowest letter designation took the low position. Able and Edward were similarly positioned, down on one knee, their left elbow resting on left knee, steadying their weapon. Denver and Frank stood their full height just behind their low-lying team members.

  With hand signals, Able directed Denver – at 6’4”, 265 pounds, he was by far the largest team member – to kick in the closed bedroom door.

  Lt. Allen watched in horror as the explosion blew out all the glass in the house and lifted its roof nearly two feet in the air.

  Winchell and Farrell caught the tail edge of the concussion and they both stumbled out of the garage, disoriented, ears ringing. Other deputies rushed to their aid, guiding them through the barricade of patrol cars to fire department paramedics.

  The moment Frank’s size 15 boot made contact with the bedroom door, the flames ignited the gas that had collected in the top half of the house. The explosion came from above; it’s force slamming the SWAT members to the floor. Everyone was rendered unconscious. However, everyone was alive.

  Conan and Scrappy crawled out from the safety of their hiding place. There was no turning back now. They tucked their pistols in their waistbands and picked up the assault weapons that the cops had, in their view, so kindly brought to them.

  Scrappy turned over the body closest to him. The hand-lettered name on the back of the guys’ helmet had said “Baker.” The nametag sewn to his black shirt said “CRUZ.” “You can CRUZ to Hell, punk!” Scrappy whispered as he pressed the barrel of Cruz’s H and K 93 into his forehead and pulled the trigger.

  The body spasmed, then stilled. When a bullet rips through the brain like that, death comes quickly. The foul stench of emptied bowels reached Scrappy’s nose before blood had a chance to trickle from the entrance wound.

  “Oh, fuck yeah, comrade!” shouted Conan, demented delight evident in the glazed look in his eyes. He turned to the other fallen officer, pointed the business end of the M-16 at him and pulled the trigger. A three round burst of automatic gunfire resulted. The black face in the helmet marked “Charlie” shredded into an unrecognizable pulp of black flesh, red meat mixed with blood and white bone.

  Conan danced a little jig over the body and sang.

  Lt. Allen hadn’t been able to raise any of his people on the radio since the explosion. Flames licked at the shredded curtains in the living room – the plywood covering the picture window had blown into the front yard making the curtains again visible. The fire was minor, from what he could gather from the deputies positioned around the house, but it was beginning to spread.

  A dozen firefighters stood by to attack the fire – several directing a stream of water into the living room from behind the safety of the police barricade.

  A shot rang out from within the house.

  Lt. Allen, with a calm that belied his inner turmoil and fear, called over the radio to his team, “Control to team. Report.”

  Silence was the response, followed a moment later by the distinctive sound of an M-16 firing a 3-round automatic burst.

  Lt. Allen’s hopes soared – the only people with automatic weapons were his –someone is alive!

  His hopes disintegrated as the radio came alive with a scratchy singsong voice, “Killed a nigger cop today, Do Dah, Do Dah. Shot him in the face today, oh, the Do Dah day!”

  Lt. Allen raced the ten steps to the SWAT van and grabbed a SPAZ-12 automatic 12-guage shotgun, checked its magazine, chambered a double-ought buck filled shell and jumped out of the van. He yelled over his shoulder for those behind him to provide cover. Most stayed behind the protection of their vehicles, a few followed him to the east side of the house.

  Allen reached the side gate, reached over and released the catch. The gate swung slowly inward. He stepped through the gate, weapon first, sweeping side to side, seeking a target. There were two deputies lying prone in the grass, their weapons trained on the shattered sliding glass door.

  Smoke was billowing out of the opening in the thick gray-black clouds. Red and orange flames were attacking the wooden eaves and the drapes were fully engulfed.

  Allen turned to say something to the men
behind him. Before he could open his mouth, shots erupted. He dove to the ground, looking for the source as he rolled to his left.

  “Butch and Sundance,” Scrappy said with a grin.

  Conan stopped kicking the corpse of the black deputy, turned and looked at his partner. “Yeah, Butch and muther fuckin’ Sundance!” He walked toward the light that brightly filled the opening to the back yard. From the dark recess of the bedroom he could just make out the two deputies lying in the grass, twenty yards out.

  He could also see two television news helicopters circling nearby. “Call Channel Seven, Bro.” he told Scrappy, as he pointed to the blue and white chopper.

  Scrappy took out his Motorola cell phone and called directory assistance, who, for a small fee, connected him with the Channel Seven Eyewitness Newsroom. He handed the phone to Conan.

  “Eyewitness News, how may I direct your call?” came the cheery voice of the receptionist.

  “You got a helicopter flyin’ over the house I’m in – I just killed a nigger cop and my comrade just greased a greaser cop – put me through to the news director.”

  Shock and nervousness tensed the voice on the other end, “Hold please, I’ll put you through.”

  “This is Jeff Roberts, news director, who am I talking to?” came a deep resonate voice nearly a minute later.

  “Well, you can call me Butch”, Conan replied.

  “Alright, Butch, how do I know you are in the house that is surrounded?”

  “See the two cops laying in the grass in the back yard?”

  “Yeah, everyone tuned to Channel Seven can see them.”