Dark City Blue: A Tom Bishop Rampage (10 page)

He lay on the floor, grasping his knee.

Mickey pushed the barrel of his shotgun into Bishop’s ribs. ‘You better have a pretty good reason for that.’

‘You’re a cop! A fucking cop!’ the UC screamed. It was painful, Bishop knew from experience, but he did think the UC was overreacting.

‘Do you mind explaining yourself?’ Mickey said.

‘He’s undercover.’

‘I fucking am not. Fuck you, man.’

Bishop turned back to Mickey. ‘Is he new? Is he a good earner?’

Val slugged Bishop hard in the face. Bishop staggered but stayed on his feet. He waited for the ringing in his ears to stop. ‘You know anything about him before he came here?’

‘Victor Green vouched for him.’

‘Is Victor Green a snitch?’

Mickey thought about it for a moment. ‘Check him for a wire.’

Val pulled up the UC’s shirt, then turned back to Mickey. ‘He’s clean.’

‘Check his balls,’ Bishop said.

‘I don’t know,’ Val said. ‘How about we take his word for it.’

Mickey nodded. ‘Do it.’

Val shoved his hand down the UC’s jeans. Bishop couldn’t tell whether the look of disgust on his face was from the task itself, or the fact that he’d found the wire.

‘Piece of fucking shit.’ He gave the UC a sharp kick.

‘Cuff him to the bar, we’ll deal with him later,’ Mickey said, lowering the shotgun. ‘Was that necessary?’

‘Jay won’t last inside and the two of you can’t bust him out alone.’

‘And you can get us inside?’

Bishop grinned. ‘Count on it.’

The horn blared. Bishop was the last out of the pub. He crouched down beside the UC, who was handcuffed to the bar, and pushed his mobile phone into his bloody fist. ‘It’s painful, I know, but you won’t die from this.’

‘I was under nine months.’ He yanked his T-shirt down to reveal the dove tattoos on his chest. ‘Do you think I like these fucking things?’

‘Call Patrick Wilson and tell him what’s happened.’

He tried to throw a punch but Bishop was out of range.

‘Remember, call Patrick Wilson.’

Val pounded on the horn again and Bishop walked out.

Mickey drove. Bishop rode shotgun. Val in the back. He breeched his weapon. Checked the rounds. Reloaded. Breeched it, checked it again. Over and over. The obsessive repetition of the noise wore Mickey thin. His eyes snapped to the rear-view and he said, ‘Don’t.’ Mickey was in charge, there was no doubt about it, and Val didn’t breech his weapon again.

The SUV neared a corner and pulled to a stop. At the end of the street stood the St Albans station. Forty years ago St Albans was on the outskirts of the city and the station was a medium-sized prison. Over the years parts of the site had been sold off and redeveloped and the prison converted into a residential station. It still had four times as many holding cells as any other station, and was used when there was an overflow of prisoners, which there always was.

Val jumped out of the SUV and headed for a nearby payphone. He dropped a coin into the slot and dialled.

Mickey ran his manicured fingers through his hair. ‘Just so we’re clear,’ Mickey said. ‘We’re here to get my brother out. If you start turning into a cop in there, I won’t hesitate putting a bullet in you.’

Bishop nodded. ‘Fair enough, but while we’re talking clarity – you start shooting people I may just turn into that cop.’

Val climbed back in, a shit-eating grin on his face. He pointed through the windscreen. ‘Check this out.’

Sirens wailed in the distance, followed by the sound of prowlers being floored. Red, blue and white specks pulled out, the SUV shaking as the fleet hammered past. There were nine of them in total, filled with pretty much every uniform assigned to the station.

‘Christ,’ said Mickey, looking over the seat at his brother. ‘What did you tell ’em?’

‘Some crazy nut was shooting up a school on Bay Street.’

Mickey glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got about thirty minutes.’

‘Fifteen, if we’re lucky.’ Bishop set the timer on his watch. ‘Once they know it’s bullshit, they’ll leave one unit and send everybody home.’

Mickey nodded, cranked up the engine and they rolled up to the monstrous building. Four storeys of cold, grey granite. Windows covered with bars and the roof with rusted barbwire.

‘Park in the rear,’ Bishop said. ‘Where the cops park.’

Mickey brought the SUV to a stop by the take-home vehicles. They climbed out. The brothers peeled off their overalls; underneath: VPD uniforms. Bishop didn’t ask where they'd got them. It didn’t matter. Mickey twirled his finger; Bishop turned and felt the cuffs slip loosely around his wrists. A shake or two would be all it took for them to fall.

Bishop was first through the door. The room was cold, the charge desk empty. Mickey tapped on the glass with his gold pinkie ring. Nobody came.

‘This could be easier than we thought,’ Val said.

Mickey checked his watch. Thumped on the glass.

Finally someone appeared. It was the old-timer, Bean. ‘Sorry fellas, just taking a shit.’

Val leant forward, all smiles and rough charm. ‘Hope we didn’t rush things, cause you too much discomfort.’

Bean slid open the glass window. ‘At my age, discomfort’s all I got. What’s one more?’ He pushed a pair of glasses on his face and squinted at Bishop. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

‘Tom Bishop,’ Mickey said. ‘Rayburn wanted him put out of harm’s way.’

He recognised the name. His wrinkled lips curled in disgust as he spat through the window. It hit Bishop square on the cheek and dribbled down his jaw. ‘Then maybe Rayburn should have sent him someplace else.’

Val laughed. ‘Got something for us to sign?’

‘I’ll get you boys out of here in a jiffy,’ Bean said, pushing a transfer form across the counter.

Val filled it out as if he had done thousands. Probably witnessed enough to get by. When he was finished, he slid the pen and paper back.

‘Most of the boys are out on a call. Some crazy bastard’s running around with a gun. Can you guys do the escort with me?’

‘Sure, buddy,’ Mickey said. ‘No worries.’

Bean buzzed them through, then led them down the long hall. ‘It’s been a couple of busy, ball-busting days, that’s for sure. Some prick got stabbed here the other night, then there was that robbery. Now there’s a shooter down the road. Sometimes I’m glad my street days are behind me.’

Val laughed again. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

Bean looked back and his face dropped, ‘Oh, shit.’

Mickey and Val had their weapons on him.

‘How many on the other side of that door?’ Mickey asked.

Bean scrunched up his old newspaper of a face. ‘None.’

‘There’s at least one,’ Bishop said, slipping off his cuffs.

Bishop went through the door, gun first, Val, Mickey and Bean in tow. Swept the room left to right. The uniform behind the desk was frozen in shock, his mind too slow to catch up with what was happening. Then he went for his service revolver.

‘I wouldn’t,’ Bishop said.

Without needing to be told, the uniform put his hands behind his head. He looked like he had just shit his pants.

‘Where’s Jay Franks?’ Mickey asked.

‘Holding Nine.’

‘Thanks.’ Mickey knocked him out cold.

Bishop flashed him a hard stare. ‘Was that necessary?’

Mickey grinned. ‘I guess I should’ve shot him, huh?’

The cells were the old-fashioned type with bars instead of doors, no heating and poor lighting. The twenty-three holding cells were full with at least two men in each cramped space. The criminals cheered as they passed, each secretly hoping that it was them that they were there for.

Jay Franks had a cell all to himself. Caked blood covered one side of his face from a beating he had taken the night before, and his Armaguard uniform was now filthy and torn. He was taller than Mickey, had the same skinny frame as Val, but unlike them he had a wounded dog look about him: scared, unsure, neither smart nor tough. It was clear to Bishop that Mickey and Val’s plan to free their brother was as much about protecting themselves as it was him.

Val pushed Bean up to the cell door. He fumbled for some keys. As soon as he got it open, Val pushed him inside. Bean tumbled to the floor and wasn’t in much of a hurry to get up.

Jay stepped out. Val slapped a Beretta into his hand, then grabbed his neck affectionately. Jay shook it off. ‘Who’s this?’ he said with a look Bishop’s way.

‘He’s nothing to worry about,’ somebody said.

Then Bishop copped a blow to the back of the head. He stumbled forward and tried to grab hold of the cell door, missed. Fell to his knees. Mickey hit him again. His vision blurred. A high-pitched sound shot between his ears. Something hit him in the gut and he rolled forward.

When the ringing in his ears faded and the vision began to return, he used the wall to pull himself up. He was in Jay Franks’ jail cell. Bean sat on the thin mattress.

‘Bet you’re regretting some of your life decisions around about now.’

Bishop sat up, leant his back against the bars of the cell. The Franks brothers were gone.

Bean chuckled grimly. ‘You reap what you sow, sunshine. You reap what you sow.’

The alarm on Bishop’s watch beeped. The fifteen minutes were up.

Gunfire erupted outside.

The shooting lasted no longer than a few seconds. Then there was silence. Bishop pushed his head against the bars for a better look; he couldn’t see a thing. He paced the narrow cell.

‘It’s all over now.’ Bean grinned.

The hallway door burst open. Bishop pushed his head against the bars again, caught sight of Mickey and Jay dragging Val across the floor, leaving a long trail of blood in their wake. They left him slumped against the wall, still clutching his weapon. Alive, barely.

Jay was hysterical. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fucking cocksucker motherfucker fuck. What the fuck now, man?’

Mickey closed his eyes. ‘Shut up. Let me think.’

The scenarios he ran through his mind all came to the same dead-end conclusion.

With what little strength he had left, Val hissed, ‘We bunker down. Negotiate our way out.’

Jay’s hopeful eyes looked toward Mickey for approval. ‘Sounds like a plan?’

‘You do that and you’re dead.’ Bishop leant against the bars. ‘You want to get out of here, you talk to me.’

‘Go fuck yourself,’ Jay said.

‘You really think they’re calling a negotiator? You’ve got a couple of minutes until they storm the place with a shoot–first, no-need-to-ask-questions-later type of attitude.’

A window broke a couple of floors above: they were coming.

Mickey turned to Bishop. ‘What’s your plan?’

Bishop tapped his fingers against the bars. ‘Wanna find out?’

A moment later, he was free. Mickey palmed him his .45. Bishop checked the rounds. Still good.

Jay was close to losing it. ‘So how do we get out?’

Bishop shifted his gaze to the cells. With them lay an army of cruel and violent men, many of whom had killed before and would do so again to get loose.

‘We let them out. All of them.’

Mickey smiled.

‘You might be safer in here,’ Bishop said, tossing Bean the key to his cell.

He made no move to catch it and it clattered on the floor. ‘I hope they gut you,’ he said.

‘They just may,’ Bishop said, heading to the control switchboard, a relic from the days when the station was a prison. He flicked the switches on the primitive machine. One by one, cell doors opened and the criminals flooded out in a rush toward the exit.

Bishop made his way through the stampede of criminals to find Jay on his knees, beside Val, gently rocking him back and forth. He was dead.

Noise of panic, anger and violence filtered though the walls. ‘We gotta go,’ Bishop said.

Jay was crying. ‘What about Val?’

‘What about him?’ Bishop said.

Mickey put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘He stays.’

Gunfire and screams echoed down the hall.

‘We need to go.’ Bishop headed off, away from the mayhem. ‘This way.’

The sounds of the riot chased them though the maze of tight and ancient corridors. Stopping at a door marked ‘Basement’, Bishop kicked it open, patted the wall inside, found the light switch. The three of them quickly descended the narrow staircase.

Unlike the floors above, the basement was a wide-open space with low ceilings, dim lights and filled with rows of ancient filing cabinets and broken furniture. A diesel generator chugged away in the corner, providing emergency backup power.

They had come through the only door.

‘What the fuck now?’ Mickey said.

‘When this place was converted to a station, half of it was turned into apartments.’

Jay stared at him stupidly.

‘Take a wall,’ Bishop told them. ‘Tap around for hollow spots.’

The Franks brothers took a wall each. Bishop snapped a leg off a chair and did the same. Dull thumps. All brick. Just when he was about think that this was the worst idea in the history of ideas, Mickey called out from over by the generator.

Bishop hurried over to them, tested the wall with his chair leg: hollow. The three of them swapped a glance. Taking a step back, Bishop steadied himself, let out a breath and hurled himself forward, his foot smashing clean through the particle board. When he pulled his leg out again, it was covered in plaster dust.

Mickey smiled. ‘Well, Bob’s me uncle.’

The Franks brothers went to town with their pistol butts, then the three of them tore at what was left with their hands. The air of the other side smelled damp and old and they couldn’t see more than ten feet in.

Then they heard the bullets.

Bishop hit the deck. Jay lunged into the hole.

Behind them, from the staircase, shots rang out again, pounding into the filing cabinets that shielded Bishop.

‘Come on!’ Jay yelled.

Mickey slumped over on his stomach. Two bullets had caved in the left side of his face.

Jay yelled again. His words fragmented between the blasts.

Bishop climbed to his feet.

Jay looked over his shoulder for Mickey.

‘He’s not coming,’ Bishop said.

Jay punched him. Upper cut to the ribs. Bishop barrelled over and Jay dived in. Bishop gasped for air and, when he could breathe, he followed.

The sound of gunfire bounced off the walls; it was difficult to tell where it was coming from. Bishop fired back. High, safe, aiming for no one, hitting no one. Jay got hold of his dead brother’s boot and dragged him back. A couple of bullets buried themselves in Mickey’s corpse. Bishop emptied another clip into the basement roof and crawled back through the hole and into the corridor. Bishop knew no uniform in their right mind would follow two armed men blindly into the darkness.

Jay was on his feet. Mickey was over his shoulders like some demented backpack and the pair of them heading into the darkness. Jay and Bishp ran until they hit another wall and, like savages, they tore it apart until they found themselves inside another basement. This one was smaller and tidier. The sensor light flickered on as they headed for the stairs and into a pastel pink hallway and followed that to the apartment’s lobby.

A patrol car hammered down the street toward the madness outside the St Albans station. The prisoners shot out of the station and were caught by the uniforms who outnumbered them three to one. A helicopter buzzed the skyline and blasted light onto the street, tracing the steps of three lifers who were frozen by the blast of artificial light.

Jay shifted his weight from one foot to another, trying to get a better grip on his dead brother. ‘Now what?’

Bishop stepped out onto the street. He passed a couple of cars, then stopped beside a parked Holden. He broke the window, popped the boot. Jay lugged Mickey over and laid him inside.

After a couple of moments under the dash, the Holden turned over. Bishop sat up and found himself staring at a uniform standing by the front bumper. His name was Daniel Tucker. A career cop who Bishop knew pretty well. The guy didn’t know what to do and as a result had done nothing but stare.

Snapping out of it, he reached for his sidearm.

Bishop put the car in gear.

‘Go, man. Go,’ Jay yelled.

His foot hit the gas.

The car shot backwards.

Tucker blasted away.

The windscreen cracked.

They reached an intersection. Bishop pulled the wheel. Swung the Holden around, changed gears and sped away from the horrible mess.

Beside him, Jay gurgled. Bishop looked over. Blood painted the window.

He had copped one in the neck.