Raw Vengeance (The Rich Fordham Series) (2 page)

Wes wiped his face with a towel, then retrieved the termination letter from his duffel bag and spread it out flat. He read it for the third time and made a mental note of who it was from.
That bitch is going to pay
.

Wes made a plan. He turned on his desktop computer before going upstairs into his bedroom closet where he stored a small arsenal of weapons ranging from a thirteen-round Glock 21 .45 ACP to a fully automatic assault rifle to cans of pepper spray. After arranging all the gear onto his shoulder and hip holster, he went back downstairs and logged onto the Internet. He needed to do two things: print a map and directions to his target and send a message to his friends and girlfriend.

Reading the message aloud sent a chill up his back. The thrill of revenge was so close he could feel it.
If you puss out now, you’ll never do it
, he said to keep from backing out. Wes pressed the “send” button and knew his and another person’s lives were about to change forever.

Before leaving, Wes chugged six more beers and two shots of whisky. The carbonation made him belch, and he found the bathroom in time to relieve his nervous bladder. Without so much as another glance at his home, he loaded up the Mustang and backed out of the driveway. He shifted into first gear and smoked the tires one last time.

CHAPTER 2

The large, non-descript diner was wedged between two chain hotels situated on the corner of State Street and Cermak. Cynder’s Diner was a short hop to the interstate, making it a popular police hangout. Chicago Police Department’s headquarters lay less than a mile to the north. The free coffee and fifty percent off of food for police didn’t hurt, either.

“
Can you believe the nerve of those pricks?” asked Sergeant Rhonda “Mack” Diaz of the CPD; the nickname had been affectionately given to her by male colleagues who always said she was built like a Mack truck. Her workout routine included running five miles a day and power lifting. Now in her fifties and a twenty-five-year veteran with the force, she was the alpha female of the department.

She continued her rant on local politicians. “These guys are taking kickbacks from large corporations while they fire school teachers, police officers, and other state workers. They mess up their budget, and they expect us to pay for their mistakes. And those that they didn’t fire, they’re taking away their pensions and collective bargaining rights. It ain’t right.” Rhonda took the aviator sunglasses off the top of her head, giving WSNO rookie news reporter Rich Fordham and his cameraman, Gabriel Amiri, a better look at the lavender and pink highlights in her jet-black hair.

Rich took a sip of coffee, but wasn’t in the mood for a late lunch. He took notes and listened as she vented. At twenty-eight, he was the junior fish in a pool filled with sharks. His six-foot-one height, swimmer’s physique, and chiseled features made him appealing on camera and off. He kept his dark hair closely cropped and styled in a trendy fashion. Bright-blue contact lenses were used to correct his far-sightedness.

The news disturbed him, and he tried to find out how to best work the story. He understood the need for the city council to slash costs, but how to best go about it was in question. As much as he wanted his source to go on camera, he knew it wouldn’t be in either of their best interests. For media exposure, he’d enlist the help of the police union spokesman with whom he would meet next.

“
Any idea how many officers are affected?” Rich asked, even though he knew the answer.

“
All of us,” she replied. “Our bargaining rights went right out the door. Our crime rate is already up fifteen percent over last year. Can you imagine reducing the force by ten percent? Think of what losing fourteen thousand officers would do to our community. Do the math. The streets aren’t going to police themselves. Kids will continue to shoot other kids. So instead of raising taxes, the mayor and the governor threw us under the bus.” Rhonda stirred creamer into her coffee, and then ordered a club sandwich to go from the waitress. “Of course, now that Mayor Cogan is running for President, she has to keep all of her constituents happy, and that means tax cuts for the rich.” She switched gears and said mischievously, “Hey, you boys are cute. I’ve got some girlfriends who would think you’d make a fine mocha-Oreo cookie.” She chuckled and winked at Gabe with glitter-encrusted eyelashes.

Gabe took Rhonda’s offer as a compliment, but wiggled his left hand in the air, displaying his wedding band. “Thanks, but I don’t think my wife would appreciate it,” he replied as he tried not to blush. His mocha-colored skin, handsome looks, and six-foot-three-inch stature did nothing to repel the ladies.

“
It’s okay, brown sugar, if you ever change your—”

Rhonda’s walkie-talkie cut in, “All units in the vicinity of the Kennedy Expressway and Dan Ryan, respond to a 25 on a red late-model Ford Mustang with Illinois license plate number 052 1201. Wes Kines posted a message on an online social networking site with the intention of a 187 against Mayor Shantell Cogan and is an 11. We believe the suspect is headed for the mayor’s office and is considered armed and dangerous. He is also a former
blue
, so proceed with caution.”

“
That can’t be good. I know 187 is for murder, but I don’t remember what an 11 or a 25 is,” admitted Gabe.

“
An 11 is code for a suspicious person, and a 25 is a suspicious vehicle. Sorry, loves, I need to go and get onto the Kennedy and see if I can find our guy,” said Rhonda.

Rich and Gabe pointed at themselves, and Rich asked, “Mack, if it’s not too much trouble, do you mind us riding along? We’ve already got our clearance.”

She paused before answering with a smile, “Oh, why not? It might be kind of fun.” She reached for her radio. “Unit 640 is responding to the 11 and the 25.” They paid for the meal and left.

To Rich, riding in a squad car with lights flashing and sirens blaring was more exhilarating than jumping out of an airplane, and it never got old. The Chevrolet Camaro’s 310 horsepower V8 engine accelerated to one hundred twenty miles per hour as aggressively as a commercial airliner during takeoff. Watching the other cars on the interstate give way and whiz by wasn’t something the normal person did. He rode shotgun while Gabe prepared to film the chase from the puny back seat.

As they sped northbound on the Dan Ryan Expressway at one hundred ten miles per hour, the radio broke in with an update: “Suspect vehicle has been spotted on interstate 90 heading north, just past Roosevelt, doing approximately one hundred.”

“
Oo, they’re less than a mile ahead of us,” Rhonda said. She looked up in time to see a Bell Ranger TV helicopter with WSNO painted on the belly paralleling their course at five hundred feet, flying at its maximum speed of one hundred twenty-two knots. A police helicopter was not far behind.

“
Mack, this is one of yours, isn’t it?” asked Rich in reference to the suspect.

“
Sounds like one of our boys in blue just lost it,” she admitted, without wanting to elaborate.

“
If he’s a cop headed to the mayor’s office, why would he announce it on the Internet?” Rich asked, even though he had a strong suspicion as to why.

Rhonda dodged the question. “People do crazy things every day.”

Rich smiled at the dodge. “You should run for union spokesperson someday.”

The shape of a red car in the fast lane with three blue and white squad cars trailing behind it came into view. Rich whisked out his cell phone and made a thirty-second phone call. When the phone conversation ended, he said to them, “My studio producer filled me in with what she thinks is going on. We’ve got the green light to go live.” Rich twisted around and said to Gabe with a smirk, “Kind of interesting that the Mustang he’s driving could have more than five hundred horsepower, and we’re gaining on it.”

Gabe returned the smirk. “Something’s not right.”

“
Are you both ready to go?” Rich asked. “I want to begin filming and go live in thirty seconds.”

Gabe nodded in agreement. The thirty-thousand-dollar professional-grade Sony video camera was his baby. He removed the lens cover and turned the power on. The digital display lit up on the side; a moment later, the menu’s start icon quit flashing, indicating it was warm. He steadied it on his shoulder, peered through the viewfinder, and then adjusted the focus, zoom, and aperture.

Rhonda looked at herself admiringly in the rearview mirror and decided she was good for television. “I’m ready, sugar. Just tell me when.”

Gabe felt grateful the glass screen could be opened so it wouldn’t obstruct his view with the lens. “In three, two…” He put his index finger in the air and pointed at Rich.

Rich turned sideways in his seat with a handheld microphone and began, “I’m Rich Fordham with WSNO news riding along with one of Chicago’s finest, Officer Rhonda Diaz.” His voice was edged with excitement. “Chicago police have been informed that one of their own has made a threat against the mayor of Chicago, where we believe he is headed. All we can tell you is the police are looking for former Chicago P.D. officer Wes Kines, and he is a person of interest. Earlier today, we learned Kines was terminated from the Chicago police force after a round of budget cuts were put in place by the mayor and the city council.” Rich paused to get a visual on the Mustang, then added, “We have been in pursuit for ten minutes, and the Mustang just came into view. We’re doing over a hundred miles per hour, and the suspect’s vehicle has shown no signs of slowing.”

Just then, Rhonda swung the car hard left to avoid a driver who thought he could merge back into traffic and sneak in behind the pursuit vehicles, but failed to see their squad coming from behind. The abrupt move bounced Gabe and Rich off the passenger side windows. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

Once he regained his composure, Rich resumed his rundown. “That was a close one,” he said, then looked toward the chase vehicle. “We’re a quarter mile from Kine’s Mustang, and the real estate between us shrinks each moment. It shouldn’t be long before we join the back of the pack.”

Just as they started filming again, Wes’s Mustang veered hard right onto the exit for West Lake Street and threw up a plume of dust as it drove onto the shoulder, narrowly missing a cruiser attempting to block the route. The muscle car slowed for traffic waiting at the light and made a sweeping right turn as it cut off a bus and a commuter car coming from its left. The squad cars snaked their way through the maze of cars as they tried in vain to keep up.

Rhonda picked up her CB and said, “Dispatch, this is Unit 640. Is City Hall undergoing a 49 for the 25?” She turned and explained to the camera that a 25 is a suspicious vehicle and a 49 is an evacuation.

A moment passed before the dispatcher answered her question. “10-4,” he responded, robot-like.

“
What does that mean?” Rich asked her.

“
Means that if our man is stupid enough to try anything, he’s in for a huge surprise.”

Rich continued his play-by-play report: “As you can see, in front of us looms downtown Chicago. We just passed the river and have less than four blocks to go. We got hung up in traffic and lost some distance, but the CPD still remains within a half city block of the suspect.” Rhonda gunned it through the intersection, but failed to slow down in time before she rammed the Chevrolet Impala patrol car in front of her who had braked to avoid traffic. The collision slammed them against their seat belts and sent the other car fish-tailing wildly. The other driver corrected and sprinted ahead in pursuit.

“
Sorry again,” Rhonda said apologetically as she gassed it.

“
You keep saying that,” Rich laughed. “Mack, don’t get us killed, okay?”

“
Don’t you worry about a thing. Mack is gonna take good care of you boys.”

The Mustang hooked a right onto LaSalle and made its way through the late afternoon traffic. Finding Chicago’s City Hall could not have been easier for Wes, as a trio of police cars were parked on the front sidewalk blocking the main entrance. A half dozen men and women dressed in riot gear had taken up a defensive position behind each vehicle. He jerked the wheel hard left and yanked the e-brake as the car slid sideways and came to rest with the nose pointing directly at the set of doors on the opposite side of the street. Throngs of business people ran for cover as police barked out instructions to evacuate the area.

Rhonda and the other three squad cars lined up bumper-to-bumper, blocking his escape route. She jumped out and ran to the trunk, where she pulled out a tactical vest and a shotgun, then took refuge behind the left front wheel. In five seconds, she had her pistol pointed in her outstretched arms and her elbows rested on the hood. Her shotgun leaned upright against the car’s rocker panel, within reach. Meanwhile, Rich and Gabe both exited to the left and took up a position near the left rear quarter panel. They crouched high enough over the trunk to give them both a good view. Gabe had been filming for the last ten minutes and gave the signal for Rich to continue.

“
To get you caught up on what’s going on, we were in a high speed pursuit which ended dramatically here at City Hall. The Ford Mustang sits menacingly in the middle of the street with its engine running. It’s obvious to those watching that the suspect is either unsure of what to do next or is trying to intimidate the officers. He has made no demands—”

Fully automatic gunfire rang out from the suspect vehicle’s window, interrupting Rich’s live feed. Bullets peppered the cruisers and broke windows in a violent display of firepower. The shots boomed and echoed off the surrounding high-rise buildings. The Mustang revved its engine, spun its wheels, and sped under hard acceleration toward the patrol cars. The officers guarding city hall had barely enough time to jump for cover as the Mustang t-boned their cars. The kinetic energy bounced the car’s rear into the air like its namesake before it came to rest in a pile of twisted metal. A gash permeated the radiator, gushing a plume of steam into the air. Then all went silent.