Badge of Evil (36 page)

While he was getting suited up in his camo gear, Bishop tried to stave off a case of nerves by keeping things light. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he said at one point. “How big are these pants? If I'm gonna get killed today, how's it gonna look when the news cameras roll and I'm wearing my grandpa's pants?”

Pennetta almost smiled.

“I saw that,” Bishop teased him.

Pennetta tossed him a belt. “Shut up and tuck the long pants into your boots,” he told Bishop.

“Next mission,” Bishop said, “I'll do the shopping.”

•  •  •

It was getting late in the day and the sun was starting to set. A. J. was back in the basement being watched by one of the men, which seemed unnecessary given how battered and depleted he was. The other man Oz had brought in was upstairs at the computers monitoring the travel progress of the Boxster.

Oz was watching the dirt road and the entrance to Fitzgerald's farm with binoculars. The chief walked up behind him and asked, “What's the plan?” Without turning around or looking away from the binoculars, Oz replied, “The plan is simple. Once they come over the wooden bridge, one of my men will block the road behind them. They'll have no way out. We have some heavy artillery in the trunk of the Honda fixed with silencers, not that anyone would hear anything out here. We'll take them into the basement first for serious interrogation.”

“Why don't we just get it over and done with?” Fitzgerald interrupted. “Let's kill them.”

“No,” Oz snapped. “If that's what we intended to do, it would've been done already, and it would've been staged to look like an accident. We need to talk to them, we need to find out what they know. The commissioner's future depends on it.”

•  •  •

Like all strong, effective military and law enforcement leaders, Pennetta was a control freak, totally anal about his work. So he and Bishop were well prepared. They knew the terrain, they had prearranged positions, and they had point-to-point throat radios for communication. Pennetta set up on the high ground in the woods opposite the Fitzgerald farmhouse. He cleared a flat area for his M40A3 sniper rifle, which weighed nearly twenty pounds, and got it solidly positioned on a bipod. Then he lay down flat on his stomach, made sure there were no small rocks or tree branches beneath him, and checked the farmhouse through his scope. From where he was positioned, he'd be shooting at a distance of eight hundred yards—not terribly long for a Marine Corps sniper but not exactly the average distance of an NYPD shoot-out. Given the fact that the overwhelming number of gun battles for the NYPD occurred in an area of less than twelve feet, Pennetta, who was a world-class shot, was cursing under his breath, wishing he'd put in more time on the sniper range.

•  •  •

Bishop had a longer hike to get in position, looping around through the woods to come up directly behind the farmhouse without being spotted. Once they were both in position, they'd share reconnaissance: exactly how many men were in the farmhouse, A. J.'s location, possible strategies for getting him out with the least amount of contact. Pennetta compiled most of this information using his scope, which had both standard night-vision capabilities and thermo-imaging. With a laser range finder for both black heat and white heat, he could pick out the bad guys in the dark, through the trees, and around corners, by the body heat they gave off.

From Pennetta's vantage point, he counted three bodies, and all were moving around freely. That told him that either A. J. was dead and buried at another location, or he was in the basement, which would explain why Pennetta was not picking up his image.

As he relayed this information over the point-to-point, Bishop had just finished mother-fucker-ing his way through the woods (albeit very quietly, under his breath) and was coming up to the rear of the house. He removed his backpack and pulled out his own set of infrared glasses. From behind the house he saw the old barn, the building supply shed, and the outhouse, positioned precisely as he'd seen them on the satellite photos. He also saw Fitzgerald's truck and an old Honda. He suspected Oz and his assembled cretins were heavily armed, and he was seriously starting to wonder how the hell he'd ever get to A. J. Then he saw the old-fashioned double storm-shelter doors on the side of the house leading down to the basement and smiled.

•  •  •

When Oz returned to the basement, followed by Fitzgerald, it was A. J. who initiated the interrogation. “Who set up the Jafaari kid?” he asked. Fitzgerald just stood there and looked at him.

“I can understand the rest of them,” A. J. continued, “you know, thinking they'd be martyrs, that they were gonna die for Allah. Although how fast you think they would've given it up if they knew they were gonna die for Lawrence Brock? But where'd you get the Jafaari kid? He doesn't seem to fit.”

A. J. was totally winging it, but at the same time he was starting to put everything together in his head. “Come on, Chief, don't play stupid. Don't tell me you had no idea what Brock was up to. It's like when a volunteer fireman starts a fire so he can go put it out and be the hero. The whole thing was a fucking setup, although I'm sure nobody told the guys in the apartment.”

Oz looked at A. J. He wasn't happy, but he was impressed at how sharp A. J. was even after the torture and the loss of blood. He let him continue so he could find out what else he knew.

“And all this old shit,” A. J. continued, looking directly into Fitzgerald's eyes, “it was never about Supreme, it was never about Anderson. It was all about lousy timing. Anderson got a little greedy, and when Internal Affairs finally decided to make waves, it just didn't work well with Brock's agenda. Remember Son of Sam? That's what Brock and this motherfucker Oz are like. David Berkowitz didn't get caught actually killing anybody, he got caught because he got a parking ticket.
A lousy fucking parking ticket.
First Anderson, then Supreme, and now
you
, Chief, are like that parking ticket.”

Even Oz had to smile. “Okay, Mr. Ross, who else knows about your conspiracy theory? Think before you answer, because the next thing you lose will be your hand.”

With that Oz nodded, but as his men were getting ready to put A. J.'s bloodied hand back on the butcher block, the telephone rang. Oz went upstairs to take the call.

Fitzgerald looked at the ground. He didn't want to make eye contact with A. J.

“Is this where your career ends, Chief? This the way you want to go out, being a member of a terrorist cell?”

Fitzgerald turned around and walked up the stairs.

•  •  •

Pennetta counted two people coming up out of the basement by the heat signatures he saw on his scope. He knew in his gut, and from years of experience, that they had A. J. down there. He told Bishop over the radio that this was the moment to move in. As the sun was setting, Bishop ran along the tree line as far as he could until he could make the break. Then, in a low crouch, he ran the twenty yards from the woods to the door, unsurprised to find it unlocked. Treading lightly, he went down eight steps to the second door. Through the shadows he could see one guy, who was about five feet seven, one hundred sixty pounds, standing over A. J. Bishop's heart started to race. If this were a movie and he were Stallone or the Rock, he'd have pulled out a knife and thrown it perfectly so it pierced the bad guy's throat, killing him instantly. But Bishop knew he could barely cut a steak. He also knew he wasn't fast enough to shoot the guard and get A. J. out before they all came running downstairs.

Bishop really wanted to get Zito on the radio, but he had no transmission in the basement. He knew he had to move. But how? He withdrew the Kimber from his holster and was steeling himself to blow the motherfucker away when he got lucky. The man watching A. J. suddenly smacked him across the face and then went upstairs. Bishop could hear him calling one of the other guys for prayer time. “Praise be to Allah,” Bishop said to himself, and smiled.

He holstered his .45, pulled out the commando knife Pennetta had given him, and walked over to A. J. He cut the flex cuffs and whispered into his ear, “Can you move?” A. J. nodded and his face broke into a smile. Bishop saw his bloodied left hand where the missing pinky used to be. He pulled A. J. up on unsteady legs and walked him to the door at the back of the basement, grabbing a rag and wrapping it around his hand. He pulled out the Colt Commander from his shoulder holster and gave it to A. J., then told him to run to the edge of the woods and wait. “Now,” he said, pushing A. J. forward as he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

He slipped back into the shadows, hugging the wall, and waited. He watched the guy look at the empty chair and the trail of blood to the door. As he ran to the rear door, Bishop grabbed him around the throat from behind with his left forearm, pulled his neck back, and stabbed him in the side of his throat. Blood sprayed everywhere. It reminded Bishop of when he'd wash a car as a kid and he'd put his thumb over the open hose, shooting the water all over.

•  •  •

Oz was about to go back downstairs and cut off A. J.'s hand. Fitzgerald stopped him. “Let me do this,” he said. “Let me go down there and talk to him and see if I can get it done.”

Now Bishop could hear Fitzgerald coming slowly down the stairs. He moved into the center of the room, in full view, so the chief could see him, covered in blood, knife in hand, standing over the body of one of Oz's men. The shock on Fitzgerald's face practically lit up the dim cellar.

Finally, Fitzgerald spoke. “You don't have to die,” he said. It made Bishop angry. He dropped the knife and both men simultaneously went to their holsters. Like the thousands of times they had faced off in friendly competition at the range, they came up in their point-and-shoot stance. Only this time when they fired, they shot directly at each other.

Bishop was knocked down and felt like he'd been hit in the chest three times with a baseball bat. He was waiting for the chief to stand over him and finish him off. But nothing happened. When Bishop got to his feet he realized that while both of them were wearing vests, only Bishop had successfully executed the Mozambique—two to the body and one to the head. Fitzgerald was dead. Bishop briefly stood over him, but there was no time to linger. At the sound of the shots everyone had gone into overdrive.

•  •  •

Oz's second guy picked up the M16 that was leaning on the table and ran to the entrance of the basement. When he looked down, he saw Bishop and started firing. That was all Pennetta, who'd never taken his eyes off his scope, needed. Exhaling calmly, he took aim, held his breath, and slowly squeezed the trigger. The lone shot through the window exploded the man's heart onto the inside wall of the basement staircase.

•  •  •

Oz pulled out a nine-millimeter and crawled to the basement. He'd barely registered the dead bodies on the floor when he heard a movement, emptied his mag, and made his way to the back door. He needed to get to the Honda. Oz was moving to the car with the keys in his hand when he heard footsteps from behind.

“Turn around,” A. J. said. He wanted to look Oz in the eye when he blew his brains out. He wasted no time pulling the trigger as Oz turned to face him. But nothing happened. Oz laughed. A. J. hadn't depressed the thumb safety before trying to shoot. He reached in the back of his pants and pulled out his stiletto. He started toward A. J., who tried one last time to shoot. A. J. was circling but Oz was closing the distance quickly.

A. J. grabbed a branch off the ground and swung it around just in time to block Oz's thrust and avoid being stabbed.

Oz was now a man possessed. He charged at A. J. again. A. J. lifted the big branch over his head like a lumberjack and came down hard, forcing Oz to block the branch with his knife hand. A. J., sweating, dizzy, and breathing hard, lunged for the knife. Both men went down. They rolled down the hill into the dirt driveway about twenty-five yards from the house.

•  •  •

Bishop didn't realize he'd been hit until he tried to get up and it felt like his right leg was dead. He crawled up the steps and saw that there was no one left in the house to kill. Making his way out onto the deck, he saw A. J. locked in a life-and-death struggle with Oz. As they stopped rolling about thirty yards away from where he stood, Oz ended up on top and leaned all of his weight on the knife to try to plunge it directly into A. J.'s chest.

A. J. was resisting with what little strength and energy he had left, but Bishop could see he was slowly losing the battle. The knife point was just about to break his skin and the drool from Oz's open mouth was hitting him in the face. A. J. knew he had nothing left, and he started to close his eyes and think of Nikki and the kids. He didn't want Oz's face to be the last thing he saw before he died.

Bishop got down on one knee. His body was shaking, and he knew he was going into shock. But he also knew he had to try to save A. J. He sighted in on the head of Oz, and letting out a breath, he slowly started to squeeze the trigger.

He never heard the shot from Pennetta's rifle, only saw the wide pink spray as the top of Oz's head exploded.

A. J. PUT HIS
head back and closed his eyes. He could feel the sun and a slight breeze on his face. He was thinking about the words; he had to find exactly the right words. But he was having trouble concentrating. It'd been almost two weeks since the shooting in North Carolina, and his emotions were still a little frayed. He'd cried twice, both times because he was happy, happy to be alive, happy to be with his family, and happy to return to work. He laughed every time he thought about the image of him, Bishop, and Zito walking away from the farmhouse. What a sight they must've been, though there was no one there to see it. A dirt-covered Zito with smeared camo face paint running down his cheeks, half-carrying Bishop, who'd been shot in the leg, walking next to an exhausted, unsteady, battered, and bruised A. J. with a bloodsoaked rag wrapped around his now four-fingered hand.