Trick Turn

by Tom Barber

  Vargas watched as two carried forward a ram and the door was knocked back.

  Working behind their lead bunker, the task force officers breached the house with no resistance, Vargas entering behind the team, the lieutenant who she’d been sitting in the car with just in front of her.

  The place was empty save for a single chair in the sitting room, one small table and a TV. A phone was plugged into the wall. No pictures or photos adorned the walls; no comfortable furniture, no sense of home. A thorough sweep only took a few minutes. ‘Residence is clear,’ the team sergeant said, coming down the stairs and addressing his lieutenant, who turned to Vargas. ‘Nobody’s home.’ Frustrated, she glanced around the empty and unwelcoming space.

  ‘He got employment status in the city?’ the lieutenant asked her.

  ‘No. Man’s been off grid for over three years. Last place he worked was Edaville.’

  The sergeant turned and ordered the nearest officer to shut the damaged front door. ‘We don’t need any onlookers. Separate and search. Be thorough. Tap the walls; look for anywhere he could hide something.’

  ‘And stay alert,’ Vargas told some of his officers, seeing how they were relaxing now the breach had been uneventful. ‘We don’t know when he was last here and he could show up any minute. This man’s capable of anything.’

  ‘Heard that shit before,’ someone muttered dismissively.

  ‘Yo, LT, come check this out,’ an officer shouted up from the basement. The lieutenant nodded to the sergeant and both men made their way down the stairs. Vargas followed as the team up top started the search as ordered.

  ‘What you got?’ the lieutenant asked, as they walked into a large basement.

  ‘Take a look.’

  On their left was a thick corkboard with hundreds of dents in it, from what looked to Vargas to have been made by knives thrown at a series of circular rings painted on the surface. There were two worktables in the room, both with dark stains clearly visible on their surface. One was positioned against the opposite wall to the door, the other against the wall to the far right. Small windows were letting in some light but the glass was cloudy from dirt, which made things harder to see, especially after coming down from the much brighter light upstairs.

  The officer who’d called them down signalled for them to join him. ‘This guy a chemist or something?’ he asked.

  The lieutenant, sergeant and Vargas walked forward to see what he meant.

  To their right, hidden from view from the door, were at least twenty bottles lined up on the shelves of a metal cabinet, all labelled. Vargas stepped over to check them out, and saw they were chemicals arranged neatly in alphabetical order. Her eyes ran over the names of each.

  To her right, several cases of beer and boxes of liquor were gathered in the corner; Shiner Bock, Lonestar and Tito’s vodka seemed to be the drinks of choice. As the men checked out the rest of the space, Vargas’ attention was drawn to a large closet resting against the far wall. A padlock was sealing the doors shut. ‘Anyone on your team got bolt cutters?’ she asked the sergeant, who sent his officer upstairs, returning with a pair thirty seconds later. He used them to bite through the padlock, unthreading it through the loops.

  ‘Careful,’ Vargas said, standing to the side. The other men did the same, as the officer eased open one of the panels.

  Inside, on display racks screwed into the back wall, were several rows of knives, organised into different sets, all of them immaculately cleaned.

  Upstairs, two officers were checking the master bedroom.

  As they walked out, something in the corner of the ceiling caught the eye of one of them. He looked up and saw a small black object fixed to the top corner of the room. He immediately recognised it.

  A sensor.

  And the light on it turned from red, to green.

  Downstairs, the heavy basement door suddenly swung shut. Vargas and the three task force members spun round as the door closed, staring at it as they heard a lock sliding into place.

  A loud bam came from outside, and dust crept in under the door.

  ‘The hell was that?’ the sergeant asked. They each lifted their weapons, as they looked around nervously, the officer going to the door; he tried the handle, using increasing amounts of force.

  ‘It won’t open.’

  ‘Break it,’ the lieutenant told him.

  ‘I’m trying. Won’t shift, sir.’

  ‘We’re locked in the basement,’ the lieutenant said into his radio. ‘Get it open from the…’

  At the instant the door had swung to and locked, Vargas had been on high alert, her eyes searching for what could be coming, knowing the man who’d been trying to kill Isabel wouldn’t just lock them in. He was more inventive than that, with a twisted streak she’d already experienced.

  Above their heads, she became aware of a creaking and humming, and realised it was coming from the sprinkler system.

  But there was no fire.

  ‘Get to cover!’ she shouted, scrambling under the workbench closest to her. Seeing her move so fast, the sergeant instinctively did the same, diving under the other table, but the officer and team lieutenant didn’t.

  The system suddenly turned on and liquid sprayed down into the room.

  The officer, who was closest to the chemical rack, screamed as the liquid hit him, having been looking up at the ceiling where the noise was coming from when the fluid started to spray out. He dropped his weapon and stumbled around blindly, knocking some of the bottles off the shelves, his shrieks echoing around the small space, rubbing at his eyes frantically. The sergeant pushed out from under the table, and shielding his face with one arm, grabbed the guy and pulled him down under the worktable where he’d taken cover, holding into him as the man continued to yell.

  Across the room, the lieutenant had also been caught in the toxic shower, his face, neck and hands burning, screaming as he rubbed his eyes but unintentionally making things worse.

  ‘Get under here!’ she shouted, but he was in too much pain to listen as he stumbled around and clutched at his face, the liquid continuing to spray down.

  Vargas saw puddles of the hissing liquid start to spread across the floor, smoke rising from them.

  It looked like it was a kind of acid.

  She loosened her cuff and covering her wrist and hand with her shirt, reached out and grabbed the man’s wrist as he stumbled past, pulling him under the table.

  ‘Cover your mouth and nose, and stay still!’ she told him. ‘Your guys have to get that door open!’ she called to the sergeant.

  ‘They aren’t responding!’

  ‘Get back from the basement! I’m about to fire!’ she shouted to anyone who might be on the other side, drawing her NYPD sidearm. She unloaded her pistol at the lock repeatedly, but it didn’t have any effect, the door made of thick wood, but the lock clearly heavy duty and not giving way.

  With the lieutenant writhing beside her, completely incapacitated, she reached out again with her arm under her shirt and picked up the assault rifle he’d dropped. She blasted at the lock again with the entire magazine, but it stayed firmly closed, some kind of protective metal underneath the food. She shifted aim, looking at the windows. They were too small to climb through, but could provide some vital fresh air. After reloading, she fired several times at the panes, breaking them, the bullets hitting a concrete wall beyond.

  At the Bureau, Marquez was immersed in Carla Lombardi’s case file while Ethan worked at his computer beside her. Shepherd had gone to get more coffee, and Ledger and Josh were on their way back from Sing Sing. She was just reading into the record of the woman’s arrests after she got married to Gino when her cell phone started to ring.

  She didn’t look at who was calling when she answered the cell.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, still with her eyes on the paperwork.

  ‘Lis, we’re trapped in McGuinness’ basement! Call Boston PD for backup!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s go
t some kind of acid coming out of the sprinklers. And we can’t get the door to open.’

  ‘Your weapon?’

  ‘It didn’t work and I just tried with an assault rifle. It’s getting harder to breathe. He’s got a load of chemicals and vodka bottles down here; some of them just fell on the floor. I’m worried they could react to this shit at any moment.’ She coughed again, looking back at the rack near the sergeant and other officer, who was clutching at his eyes, moaning in pain.

  ‘Can’t the rest of the team get that door open?’

  ‘Radio’s gone dead. They’re not answering!’

  ‘You said there are more chemicals?’ Marquez asked hurriedly, quickly tapping a search into the computer as Ethan called Boston PD, having heard enough to know the Bay Village team was in trouble.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What kind of acid do you think it is?’

  ‘I don’t know, sulfuric, I think? Smells like rotten eggs.’

  ‘Do you know what other chemicals are on the rack? Be exact.’

  Vargas listed off some of the names she’d seen. Marquez worked fast, conducting a rapid search on the internet; as she did, Shepherd walked back into the room, realising immediately something was wrong.

  ‘From what I can see, I don’t think it’ll react with anything you just said and hurt you,’ she told her. ‘Unless…’ She read what was on the internet search quickly, remembering one of the names Vargas had just given her. ‘Did you say potassium permanganate?’

  ‘Potassium something. Shit, I don’t know. Let me check.’

  Inside the basement, acid still raining down from the sprinklers, smoke hissing up from the floor, Vargas looked over at the sergeant. ‘Can you move the table closer?’ she asked, pointing at the racks. He grabbed hold of his fellow officer who was still scrubbing at his face, moaning loudly, unable to see, and shuffled his work bench towards the rack of chemicals, then stood slowly, keeping the table over their heads. ‘Do you see something called potassium permanganate?’

  ‘There’s tons of shit here,’ the sergeant called back. He rattled through the rack, looking at the shelves. ‘Permanganate?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Yeah, I see a bottle!’

  ‘I’m coming over.’ Vargas grabbed the lieutenant and shuffled forward until she reached the end of the table, then walked it over to the sergeant before he passed it to her. ‘Got some, Lis!’

  ‘Mix it with the sulfuric acid.’

  ‘Will that cause a reaction?’

  ‘Yeah, but reading this, it’ll be OK. Just do what I say. But keep the mixture in the bottle. Can you do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think so.’ She opened the bottle and pulling her shirt over her head until only the tips of her fingers were exposed, quickly placed it on the floor before pulling her hand back, the bottle starting to catch the acid spraying down from the ceiling. She waited for almost a minute, then once again using the shirt as protection, pulled the bottle back under the table, carefully wiping acid off the bottle with her shirt before she touched it with her bare fingers.

  ‘I can’t see shit, Sarge! It’s burning, man!’ the blinded officer said. Through the hazy smoke and acid rain, she saw the inside of the bottle start to turn black.

  ‘It’s doing something. What now?’

  ‘Should be a black syrup.’

  ‘Yeah, it is.’

  ‘OK, good. Now smear it on the lock on the door.’

  She paused. The task was easier said than done. ‘I know you’re in pain, but we’re gonna lift the table and go to the door,’ Vargas told the lieutenant beside her. ‘Just hold onto the table over your head and keep up with me.’

  Together, they shuffled the table over to the closed door, then taking a pen from her pocket, she started to coat the lock with the black goo.

  ‘Sarge, I’m on fire, man,’ the officer across the room cried, clutching his face.

  ‘Hold on, we’ll get you out!’

  Vargas finished applying the gloop, then they moved the table back like a Roman tortoise, smoke rising from the workbench surface, their footwear smoking.

  Vargas listened to Marquez’ next instruction. ‘Pass me that bottle of vodka!’ she told the sergeant. The man’s arm was caught by the acid as he snatched a bottle of Tito’s from its position against the wall beside several others. Grimacing in pain, he waited until Vargas had made her way back to him before he passed it over.

  ‘Got it!’

  ‘Launch it at the goo. But stay well back; I don’t know how big the explosion’s gonna be. And you’ve got to hit it direct.’

  ‘I’m gonna throw this at the door and try to blast it open,’ she told the men in the room. ‘Get ready!’

  In that moment, acid smoking up from the room around her, two policemen in agony and the sergeant with acid burning through the sleeve of his uniform, Vargas hoped her muscle memory would recall the games of softball she’d played at high school back in Reseda in California.

  ‘Lift the table as high as you can,’ she instructed the lieutenant beside her, who did as she asked, his eyes scrunched up from pain. ‘Soon as I shout, drop it down and look away.’

  Cocking her arm, she knelt to give herself room and slung the bottle as hard as she could at the black goo on the door lock.

  ‘Now!’ she shouted, as soon as it left her hand.

  On contact, the alcohol hitting the black goo set off an explosive reaction that blew a quarter of the door away, a small fireball blasting out into the room. Turning her head back to look, Vargas saw what was left of the door was now hanging on its hinges; upon her order, they shuffled towards it tortoise-style, then one by one, escaped the acid-soaked room. As she stood by the injured lieutenant on the safety of the stairs, the sergeant led the other officer out and joined her.

  The sergeant and Vargas helped the other two men up the stairs, relieved to be breathing clean air. As they stumbled into the main hallway, Vargas and the sergeant glanced around and saw why the team hadn’t responded to the radio calls for help.

  The locking of the door downstairs hadn’t been the only booby-trap in the house.

  A series of small shrapnel bombs had been triggered in the rooms, the devices exploding from inside the walls and catching the task force as they were responding to their panic transmission from the basement.

  Vargas and the sergeant saw the team were all down, some of them moving but blood leaking out on the floor, nails and screws buried in the floors, the walls, the ceilings.

  And the men.

  TWENTY SIX

  The jewel in the crown of carnival business in Louisiana was the State Fair in Shreveport, but it ran later in the year, so midway companies across the State picked up a lot of summer business in its absence, especially in towns outside the major cities where residents didn’t want to travel far but still wanted to take their kids out for a day of fun.

  Just outside the city of Lafayette that night, a touring carnival was in town for a six day turn. In the middle of a row of stalls, a grizzled, wiry grey-haired man running the hoop and basketball stand put several dollars into a large jar which he kept out of sight. ‘You got it next time, mano. Next time.’

  ‘I wanna go on the rides,’ a college-aged girl wearing an LSU hat said, pulling at the arm of her boyfriend, who’d just flunked out for the sixth time aiming for a two-pointer.

  ‘One more, babe,’ he said, twisting his arm free. The man running the stall could see a hint of anger in the movement.

  ‘Just one more,’ the carny told the girl, repeating her boyfriend’s words. ‘C’mon sugar, let him win a prize for you. You deserve it.’

  ‘No, let’s go,’ the girl whined, dragging him away and breaking the spell. He’ll be back, the carny thought. He’s got the look. The guy’s departure meant there was a brief lull in challengers, so the carny lit a cigarette then rose from his seat, gathering up the basketballs and making sure they were fully inflated. Dusty was sixty four years old, with faded ta
ttoos on his sinewy forearms and a smoke never far from the side of his mouth. His appearance was testament to the wear and tear of a nomadic lifestyle, but he seemed ageless, the sort of person who looked as if he could keep going indefinitely, subsisting on booze, smokes and junk food.

  As he took another drag of his cigarette, he looked at the people walking around the midway and spotted a blond man checking out the stalls. He was older than the college kid, but had that same athletic look. ‘What’s up, handsome?’ Dusty called. ‘Wanna see if you could bring it to LeBron on the court?’

  Dusty saw the man glance his way. Got him. The stranger approached and as he drew closer, Dusty studied him in more detail. He was one of the best-looking people Dusty had ever seen and he found himself disliking the man for it. Guy who looks like that is used to having things easy. Being a winner. Use it against him. Hit his ego. He ain’t accustomed to losing. Dusty didn’t gamble anymore, having never had the knack for it, but if he still did he’d put a big sum down that this man had breezed through life, never appreciating how much harder it was for other folk.

  And from Dusty’s life experience, attractive people always seemed to have money.

  Dusty held up one of the basketballs temptingly, giving his practiced smile. ‘Two dollars, three shots. You land a deuce, you get a prize.’

  ‘What kind of prize?’

  ‘Stuffed toy for your lady. Or for you. I ain’t one to judge.’

  The man took the ball, his face not giving anything away. Now he was closer, Dusty noticed several scars on the man’s arms, white against the tanned skin. ‘Two shots in the basket. That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  The man pulled out a folded wad of money from his pocket, and Dusty felt his pulse quicken. If he kept his words smooth and played the guy right, he could get maybe thirty to forty out of this asshole.

  ‘I’ll throw six,’ the stranger said, handing over four dollars.

  ‘Good luck, chief,’ Dusty told him, standing back and waiting.