Blazer: Return of the Troubles: A Cop Thriller

by G. C. Harmon

  A wall of muscle suddenly barreled into him. Two of the other assailants surged forward, shoving him back against the bar. Steve threw his arms out for balance, grabbed the countertop to steady himself. One arm knocked a mug of beer out from in front of the Irishman consuming it. On the other side, the older man who’d spoken ill of the police managed to pick up his mug before it was knocked away. He turned away from the fight to take another swig.

  As the Irish skinheads advanced on him, Steve kicked out, booting one man in the gut. He bent over and backed up a step. Steve stepped forward and threw a downward punch that jarred the second man’s jaw. He teetered backward. Steve then threw an elbow back into the first man’s face. Both assailants fell to the floor in a heap. Steve turned as the first skinhead suddenly charged.

  Scot, meanwhile, found himself busy as well. One of the skinheads grabbed for him with both hands. Scot had his arms folded and flung them up, knocking the man’s arms aside. He stepped in and brought up his knee, knocking the breath from his attacker’s lungs.

  A second attacker stepped in on him from behind, and Scot lashed out with a high sidekick, hitting him in the chest and knocking him back. He sent a quick rabbit punch to his first attacker’s jaw, stunning him.

  He turned on the second attacker in time to see him smash a beer bottle against a pillar. He stepped forward, the blood from a cut on his face adding to the menace. Scot glanced at the jagged glass of the bottle neck in his hand. Breathing heavily, the man stepped forward.

  Scot stepped back. It had the desired effect, drawing the attacker in. He stepped forward, and Scot surged to meet him. Sending a sweeping kick that knocked the bottle away. He threw another front kick, knocking the glass-man back. He collided with another table, which collapsed under him, and the whole lot hit the floor.

  Scot was suddenly grabbed from behind. He’d left his other skinhead alone too long.

  Steve had met his attacker head-on. The man had charged, as if attempting a football tackle. Steve took one step back and dodged right, deflecting the charge. But the skinhead grabbed him, and Steve grappled with the man. The skinhead threw a punch, which connected with Blazer’s cheekbone but did little damage. The second punch opened a small cut in the same spot, drawing blood. Steve drew his attacker closer and threw an elbow. It connected with the man’s jaw, and he felt teeth break. But the drunk man kept coming, throwing a punch into his kidney. Working on adrenaline, Steve blocked out that pain, and threw a knee up into the attacker’s flank. They continued to grapple, and he kneed him again.

  Steve was suddenly grabbed from behind. The two he’d taken down were back in the fight. Before he knew it, they had pulled him back, freeing their buddy from his grip. They backed off a step, and Steve found himself now with his back to the bar. He got a quick glimpse of Scot held captive in a similar fashion.

  “Hold him!” the lead skinhead shouted. He suddenly stepped in for a gut punch. Steve saw it coming and tensed his core muscles. It prevented damage to his internal organs, but it still hurt and still knocked the wind from his lungs.

  The lead skinhead quickly stepped back and grabbed a dart from the round board. He gripped it in a fist and stepped up to the captive cop. The two were holding him leaning back at an awkward angle, and the leader came forward, his face hovering over Blazer’s. He brandished the dart, holding it over Steve’s eye. “What do ya think, copper? They have room on the force for a blind constable?”

  “Someone put you up to this, didn’t they?” Steve gasped.

  The question deflated the punk’s ego a little. Where was the fear? He finally said. “Aye. But it’s been a pleasure all the same.”

  He raised the dart to stab.

  Scot had watched this exchange, struggling against the two that held him.

  Something strange happened. A bar patron, an older man, walked between them, headed calmly for the door as if to leave. Scot realized it was the old man seated at the table to the left of the bar. But as the man walked toward the door, Scot did a double take. Was that—?

  Steve found himself in a perfect position to send a kick into the skinhead’s groin. But before he could make the move, someone suddenly stepped up and slammed a large green wine bottle cross the skinhead’s skull. It didn’t shatter, and the thud was thick and audible. The skinhead suddenly arched back, and Steve could already sense the lights going out. The bottle swinger then sent a solid punch to the man’s jaw, and his eyes went dark. He whirled with the punch and collapsed across another table, sliding across and falling off the other side. The table tipped over and hit the floor with him.

  Steve reacted. He sent a kick sideways into the knee of the man on his right. The man’s grip loosened, and Steve wrenched himself free. At the same time, the bottle wielder then swung at the other man, clocking him in the side of the head. He collapsed against the bar. With his right hand now free, Steve turned and grabbed the captor on his left, smashing his face into a pillar and knocking him senseless.

  He suddenly turned to meet any threat from the bottle swinger, cocked a fist to throw a punch. He froze when he saw the man. “Dad?”

  I was right, Scot realized, it is the elder Blazer. Feeling the two grip him on either side, and feeling them distracted by the other exchange, Scot decided to try something he really had never done before. He suddenly surged forward toward the pillar a few feet away. He planted a foot on it and practically ran up the pillar. He launched himself backward and threw his legs into a back-flip. The captors loosened their grip a bit, but still held him firmly enough that the move propelled them backward. They fell to their backs as Scot landed shakily on his feet. With his arms now freed, Scot threw both fists down to punch both captors in the jaw. They were trying to pull themselves up, and both collapsed.

  Steve was momentarily distracted by his partner’s flying maneuver, but he then turned to his father. “Dad, what the hell are you doing here?”

  Before the elder Blazer could answer, Steve saw two uniformed enter the bar. They took one look at the overturned tables and dazed and struggling hooligans. “Is there a problem here?” one asked.

  Steve open the flip wallet to show his SFPD star. “Sergeant Blazer, that’s Inspector Black. We were here conducting an investigation and we were attacked by these ‘gentlemen.’ I’d like them booked.”

  One of the uniforms gave him an incredulous look. “You two took down all five of these guys?”

  Steve shot his father a glare. “We had a little help.”

  The uniforms began putting handcuffs on their suspects. “You guys start the arrest packets, I’ll be out in a minute to give my statement.”

  The uniforms trooped their arrestees outside to their waiting patrol cars, and Steve saw one of them order additional units to help transport them.

  Steve turned once again to his father. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?”

  Drew Blazer looked like he dreaded this moment and these probing questions. He cleared his throat. “My dear boy, I am simply trying to aid in your search for this missing priest.”

  There were too many questions and inconsistencies with that statement. “No, I’m not buying it. There’s more going on here, and I’m at a point where I need to know.” He nodded to the door. “Come on. As a participant of the fight, they’re going to want a statement from you too.” He ushered them toward the door.

  Out on the sidewalk, Steve saw two patrol units double parked on Greenwich Street, and a third rolled up behind. The handcuffed hooligans were dispersed among them to be searched and paperwork started. Steve and Scot spoke with one officer and gave them a brief overview of what had transpired.

  Once they had given this preliminary statement, Steve said to his father, “Stay here.” He approached the officer holding the skinhead who had attacked him. To the officer, he said, “Go ahead and mirandize him, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure, Sarge.” The unie pulled a laminated card from his breast pocket and read the spiel that all of America pr
actically had memorized from TV cop shows. “You have the right to remain silent…” When he got to the end, as he was about to say, “With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak with me now,” Steve stepped in, cutting him off.

  He leaned over until he was face to face with the skinhead. “You mentioned someone put you up to this. Can you tell me about that?”

  The skinhead hesitated, then said, “He paid us a hundred quid each to, as he put it, ‘make you feel unwelcome’.”

  “Who was it?” When the skinhead didn’t answer right away, he said, “Was it that older guy I saw in the corner booth near your dart game?”

  “Aye.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  A shake of the head.

  “Do you know the man? Ever seen him before? Ever hung at the bar with him?”

  “I maybe seen him before. I can’t say I know him.”

  “One last question. Are you affiliated?”

  The skinhead looked confused.

  “Are you with the IRA? Irish Republican Army?”

  “It was a bit before my time. But I told you about me mum.” His expression was somewhere between anger at his situation and regret that it was turning out this way.

  Steve nodded. “Thank you.” He turned away and drew the officer aside. “We were following a lead on a missing person case. I don’t think these guys are involved, but I want them in the system, and I want them to see a jail cell for attacking cops.”

  “Yeah,” the unie said. “You know how it works, Sarge. They’ll get a court date and a boot out the door.”

  “I know. Give me an incident number, I’ll look it up electronically and add statements to it tomorrow.”

  The officer consulted his Mobile Data Terminal wrote a quick number on a card, which he gave to Blazer. With that, the officer motioned to the other uniforms, who were wrapping up their paperwork. In moments, all patrol units pulled away en route to the jail intake facility behind the Hall of Justice.

  The last block of Greenwich Street was suddenly quiet.

  Steve turned to his father. “Alright. I need answers from you. What are you doing here? And I don’t mean here at this bar as a coincidence. Why are you here in San Francisco? Why doesn’t Mom know you’re here? And why are you tracking this priest?”

  Drew Blazer heaved a quiet sigh. “You’re right, son. I do have reasons for being here. But you have to trust me for the moment. I cannot tell ya anything just yet.”

  Steve softened his tone. “That may not be good enough. I have people to answer to, and they’re not going to like civilians jumping into the investigation like this.”

  “Aye, laddie,” his Dad said cryptically, “We all have people we answer to.”

  A single gunshot suddenly split the evening.

  6

  The shot echoed across the buildings. All three ducked reflexively. A second shot rang out, and a bullet whined as it ricocheted off the building just beyond them.

  This gave the cops an idea where to look, and they scanned the cul de sac of Greenwich Street.

  “Staircase!” Scot called out.

  Steve had pulled his sidearm, a .40 caliber Smith and Wesson. He looked at where Scot had indicted. In the cul de sac was a staircase that led to a pathway that took them up to Coit Tower. Halfway up the second flight, Steve saw the muzzle flash as a third shot rang out and whistled past Blazer’s ear. They ducked behind two vehicles parked along the curb. But Steve had seen the shooter, on a ledge just above the stairway, crouched behind a three foot retaining wall.

  “And now who the hell is this?” Scot said.

  Steve popped up, quickly checking the terrain. “I don’t know,” he said, “But I think I’ll go ask him.” He suddenly bolted from cover.

  Steve ran with his gun locked on the sniper’s position behind the retaining wall. He crossed the open street, and suddenly unleashed four rapid shots, intending to keep the shooter down. He reached the opposite side of the street and ran up the sidewalk. There were cars parked there, which would provide momentary cover if he needed it.

  Hearing Steve burn off shots as he ran, Scot muttered, “You can’t question a corpse.” With a sigh of exasperation, he said to Drew, “Maybe you should stay here.”

  The staircase was across the street, on the south side of Greenwich. Steve was hoping to get a good angle on the shooter before—

  He saw the shooter rise to his feet and take a leap from the ledge down to the staircase. He began to climb.

  Steve held his fire but tracked the man. He maneuvered between two cars and crossed to the base of the stairs.

  “Blazer!” Scot called as he closed in.

  Steve started to climb but paused at the first landing. “See if you can head around toward Telegraph and cut him off. And get us some backup out here.”

  With another sigh of exasperation, Scot broke away and ran, fishing out his cell phone.

  Steve started up the stairs. He couldn’t have been but a few yards behind the shooter, but he also didn’t want to walk into an ambush. He stopped to listen, and thought he heard someone huffing and puffing above. He started after him.

  Steve didn’t know if there were supposed to be lights on these stairs, but it was currently dark. He played his sidearm over the landing above him as he climbed, mindful of his footing. He waited for the shooter to pop out into the open there, ready to core his brain. He reached the top and rose slowly into the open, checking the pathway ahead. He saw no one and slowly rose.

  With his gun leading the way, Steve treaded quickly and quietly, but carefully, along the path toward Coit Tower. This section was lined with thick bushes on either side, and he wondered if the shooter would pop out somewhere to wrestle him or just shoot him. No one presented themselves. He increased his speed.

  He came to a section of the path lined with homes, with staircases and offshoot pathways built into the hillside. He paused at the corner of one house. He stopped his breath so he could listen, but he heard nothing. He examined the section of the hillside between two houses and saw no immediate threats. He stepped into the open, believing his gunman had moved on toward the tower.

  A bullet tore a chunk of wood from the house next to his head. He lunged back behind cover.

  After several seconds of inactivity, he bobbed his head out. He caught sight of the shooter ducked behind the opposite corner of the next house up the path. He also caught sight of a muzzle flash, and another bullet tore at the wall as he ducked back.

  Steve suddenly lunged out and loosed two bullets in that direction. He then ran into the open, aiming for a staircase that climbed the side of the house next to him. He aimed to get some high ground on this shooter, and the thick wooden enclosure of the staircase railing might offer some cover to boot. Sure enough, the shooter fired again, and the bullet tore at the railing just behind him.

  He reached the top landing and dropped to a knee, aiming over the railing. But his shooter had already recognized the change in dynamic of the situation. Steve saw him rise and run, headed back alongside that house until he disappeared around a corner. Steve only got a glimpse of a gray sweatshirt and dark ski mask.

  Steve jumped up and holstered his gun. He grabbed the railing and launched himself over. He dropped ten feet to the moist dirt of the hillside. He executed a parachute roll to cushion his landing, and immediately surged to his feet. He raced for the neighboring house. He paused at the far corner and checked for any threats beyond.

  To his left, a sliding glass door on the deck of another neighboring house slid open. An older man stepped out, seeking the source of the loud noise. Steve turned his gun but lowered it immediately as the homeowner froze in his doorway. “Police, sir, back inside!” Steve shouted, and the man practically dove back into his home.

  Steve padded along the side of the second house, following in the footsteps of his attacker. Around the corner, he heard the man grunt, and footfalls once again on the pathway. A quick peek around the corner revealed nothing but a
n earthen terrace with a rickety wooden railing overlooking the pathway. He ran for it and vaulted over.

  He hadn’t seen which way the attacker ran, and for the moment realized that he could have retraced his steps back toward the bar. But then he heard shoes hitting pavement in the direction of Coit Tower and headed that way.

  The pathway curved to his left and emptied out onto Montgomery Street, a tightly compacted neighborhood on the hillside below Coit Tower. A single footfall to his right drew his attention. The street there ended in a cul de sac fifty feet away. He saw a flash of gray movement, and then a single shot rang out. Steve dove across the street, rolling behind a parallel parked SUV. He pointed his gun that way, but no further shots came his way. In fact, he was close enough to hear the shooter breathing hard. He disappeared up another set of steps. Steve held position another second, then rose and ran after him.

  In the cul de sac, Steve found another set of stairs, these built of red brick. He played his gun over the darkness above. The threat was there but didn’t present itself. Steve mounted the stairs.

  He’d just climbed the entire hillside, and he felt like it. Despite being in good physical shape, his legs were starting to feel rubbery and he was winded from all the stairs and running. But he kept climbing.

  Steve stopped suddenly. He heard an engine on the road above. Coit Tower and adjacent Pioneer Park were at the end of Telegraph Hill Boulevard, which wrapped around part of the hillside leading up to the landmarks. The engine didn’t sound like a police vehicle. Was his shooter meeting his ride?

  In seconds, he’d reached the top of the staircase, which emptied onto Telegraph Hill. He glanced over to his right, where Telegraph Boulevard ended in a cul de sac. The cul de sac wrapped around a slab of concrete that used to hold a statue of Christopher Columbus. In the back of his mind, Steve remembered that the statue had been removed a couple years ago during a “woke” purge of statues of historical figures nationwide. The park looked naked without it, he thought.