The Reluctant Warrior (Warriors Series Book 2) (35 page)

‘Why, aren’t we going to watch the takedown?’ Roger asked innocently.

The gang apartment was in South Jamaica, Queens, sitting atop a boutique, facing a block of apartments and offices on the other side of the street. Stores lined either side of the street, selling everything that anyone would ever need, and some selling stuff they wouldn’t ever. The boutique was sandwiched between a Greek deli and a Laundromat. The Laundromat shared store space with a tax consultant and a storefront that proclaimed, ‘Come Clean.’

Broker had looked at street maps and building plans, had shaken his head in frustration, and had suggested they do a recce to get a feel. Hiring two family sedans, they had driven down the street from both ends, noting likely hides.

‘Isakson’s men and the cops will be doing the same thing. We don’t want to be tripping over them.’ Broker looked down in a cup of what passed for coffee, and spoke in the wind.

Chloe nodded as she tried on wigs in a store, Bear patiently watching her, and realized Broker couldn’t see her. ‘We aren’t going to engage unless they get ambushed.’ She wasn’t asking.

They waited for Bwana and Roger to chip in, a long wait as Roger navigated around a drunk, and Bwana perused the Greek deli, came out with a brown bag, and looked at the block across. ‘Probably best to be in one of those apartments or offices. The cops will have taken vantage points on rooftops, and the street will be crawling with them.’

‘We’ll need the space for the whole day; would be good if we could take the neighboring offices too,’ Roger added. If they had to open fire, the less innocents in the vicinity, the better.

Tony, recovered now, had rented two offices for three days, offices with windows that overlooked the street and had a good view of the gang apartment entrance, by the time they returned. He turned red when Chloe congratulated him on the fast work.

‘Go easy on the praise,’ Broker growled. ‘He’s bagged a date; those injuries came in handy. We wouldn’t want him to be full of himself.’

Bwana and Roger bivouacked in the office the night before the takedown, setting up the Barrett on a stand deep inside, lining the walls with double layers of mattresses that Tony brought in a truck. The mattresses didn’t get a second glance. Jamaica had seen everything and took everything in stride. The QDL suppressor knocked off a lot of sound, but not all of it; the mattresses would further deaden any noise.

The sun shone down brightly the day of the deal, shining equally on the cops and the gangs, indifferent to their affiliations. The first cops came, some of them as cab drivers, some of them street-side vendors, part of the ebb and flow on the street but obvious to their eyes. The way they held themselves, the loose yet tailored clothing giving them away.

‘You guys in position?’ Bwana asked.

Bear and Chloe were in a van sporting a courier company’s signage. Bear wondered idly if Tony had minions who churned out the vehicle guises. ‘We’re here, finding it hard to stay awake, since we have no role to play here.’

‘We go to the cavalry’s rescue if they’re in trouble. I’d like to see Isakson’s face if that happens.’ Bwana sighted down the Barrett one last time and then relaxed, settling for a long wait. Roger was a drunk lying in front of one of the shuttered stores, not in a position to join in their banter.

He could sense the tension creeping on the cops below as noon approached, could imagine the radio chatter, furtive checking and rechecking of weapons, Isakson and Rolando at some command absorbing the flow.

Noon came and went, and then another hour passed and then another half hour, and he could sense the frustration in the cops below, deflation and doubt in some of them. He could imagine orders being barked, some wiseass saying these are hoods, not known for their punctuality.

The ebb and flow in the street didn’t change; in the midst of the traffic a black Chevy Impala nosed its way from right to left, another decrepit car among the many others below. The Chevy made a return pass twenty minutes later, and interest rippled below, several eyes following it, trying to see through the darkened windows in the rear, paying attention to the two in the front. The two were alert, their eyes flicking constantly from side to side, mirrors to front, slowing fractionally in front of the boutique. Invisible currents connected the cops when the car made a third pass, and on its fourth pass, it nudged into a parking space as another car exited.
Another gang car?
Bwana mused.

The car stayed in position for a long time, the front two watching the street, their lips moving occasionally. The passenger got out, stood behind the door, ducked below, and said something to the driver when he was satisfied. The driver brought a phone to his mouth, said a few words briefly, heard the other person out, and nodded once at the passenger.

The rear doors split open, spilling two men, average build, one stocky, the other leaner, their hands close to their bodies. Stocky led the way to the apartment entrance, passenger in the middle, Lean in the back, who walked backward for some time, watching the street. The driver didn’t look at them, his attention on the street, ahead, behind and around him.

The three disappeared in the shadow of the entrance, forty-five minutes passed before the feet of Stocky appeared, then the rest of his body, a black trash bag in his left hand. The passenger and Lean had similar bags, all three hurrying to the Chevy. The driver opened the trunk, and as the first man threw his bag inside, the street exploded.

Cops ran to the car, guns drawn, shouting, wearing the ESU vests of the NYPD’s elite Emergency Services Unit, some sporting FBI jackets. Some of them broke away, entering the apartment after calling out. Other cops formed a second perimeter fifteen feet away, training their guns on the hoods. A third perimeter kept onlookers back. One of the hoods, the passenger, made a move to his waist, triggering a burst of firing in the air by the cops. His hand fell away, then skyward, his second hand joining it. The driver, sucking on a Colt shotgun thrust through his window, kept his hands motionless on the wheel.

The ESU team leader tore open the trash bags, riffled through them, and sporting a broad grin, waved a thumbs-up in the air. The cops from the apartment returned, pushing three cuffed hoods ahead of them; all of them were bundled in a police wagon.

By now the media had arrived, TV cameras and reporters surrounding the team leader, other less fortunate reporters interviewing onlookers.

Bwana stripped his rifle down and put it away, lowered the windows, and spent fifteen minutes scrubbing away all traces of his presence. He hit the street, turned swiftly away from the scrum, and made his way to the courier van.

Roger was already there in the rear and helped him stow away the rifle, and they headed out.

‘Hold it, guys.’ Broker’s voice came over Bear’s phone. ‘Pick me up first. We’re joining Isakson.’

Broker was in a café a block away, and their original plan was for them, leaving separately, to rendezvous back at the apartment.

Half an hour later, they were in a NYPD police van driven by a cop, Isakson and Rolando in the second row.

Isakson beamed at them. ‘Fifty Ks. That’s the biggest haul of ice in recent NYPD history.’ He looked at Rolando. ‘Your guys did a fantastic job, Rolando. You should be proud.’

Rolando acknowledged with a brief nod. ‘It was a joint task force operation. The FBI deserves credit too.’

‘So where are we heading?’ Bwana interrupted the love-fest.

Isakson mentioned the name of a downtown hotel. ‘I want to hear your theories – I know you have some – and see how today’s bust affects them.’

He broke off as the van turned in the driveway of the hotel.

The takedown was so smooth, so slick and deceptive, they couldn’t have planned it better.

Isakson, Rolando, and Broker were bunched together as they walked to the lobby of the hotel.

A doorman came from behind his stand, reached under his uniform, and shots rang out

Chapter 40

The shooter pumped two into Isakson, shifted slightly, and put another three into Rolando.

As Broker and the others dived, reaching for their guns, they were hit from behind by bellboys coming out of hiding, Tasering them to the role of helpless spectators. Bwana and Bear resisted longer, their big bodies absorbing the shock and weathering it, and just as their hands neared their guns, they were felled, the stock of a M16 crashing in their heads.

Bwana’s vision dimmed, and just before he faded into darkness, he saw the doorman, a narrow- faced man, teeth bared viciously, slashing down on Chloe.

He came to when his head banged against the side of the truck they were dumped in, jouncing on country roads. He lay still, and ran a mental check – his wrists and feet were cuffed, wrists behind his back, his head hurt, but nothing was broken. He raised his head and met Roger’s look.

‘How long have I been out?’ He tested his wrists and ankles and found no give.

Roger shrugged. ‘Woke up myself just seconds ago.’ The others stirred at the voices and raised themselves awkwardly, supporting themselves against the sides.

‘We’re in deep shit,’ Broker croaked, cleared his throat, and continued. ‘How did that happen?’

He answered his own question before the others could. ‘They must have followed Isakson or Rolando, and must have had some kind of bug on him or his vehicle.’ He thought for a while. ‘That was some organization at the hotel. They must have had gunmen inside keeping everyone at bay, and a rapid switch of personnel to give us the warm welcome.’

‘What about Isakson and Rolando?’ Chloe asked.

Bear’s voice was low and savage. ‘It’s likely they’re both dead. The shooter was just a few feet away from them.’

Roger smiled grimly. ‘Let’s focus on the here and now, else we won’t be around to figure out how they did it.’ He nodded at the truck they were in. ‘Middle-of-the-road Ford series, not new, suspension could do with a replacement, but sturdy. We won’t have much luck breaking through the floorboards. Any of you have any blades on you? Anything to cut through the plastic?’

They all shook their heads; the hoods had cleaned them when they were out.

The truck was bare, a thick rubber sheet between them and the floorboards, the side walls bereft of any upholstery, just metal covered by black rubber sheets running from floor to roof.

‘It’s to carry bodies.’ Broker divined Bear’s thoughts as he looked around inside. ‘The rubber sheets are easy to wash, also absorb any sound.’ He had to shout over the truck’s rumbling over the country roads.

Bear grunted, rolled around to have his feet against the wall, and kicked with both feet. He slid a foot back, colliding into Roger, the rubber beneath them slick with sweat, his feet losing purchase on the walls.

Roger rolled to lay beside him, joined by Bwana, Chloe and Broker lying at their heads, perpendicular to act as a stopper, and on the count of three, they all kicked.

After half an hour of vigorous kicking, the rubber and the side wall continued to mock them, the jostling of the truck robbing the power of their blows. In frustration, Bwana sat up and half crouched, looking for any sharp edges on the roof.

The truck swerved suddenly, throwing him on top of the others, and by the time he had rolled off them, the rear doors were jerked open.

They peered out and, against the dark sky, saw the barrels of automatic rifles appear first; then two dark shapes appeared, roughly hauled them out, and dumped them on the ground. They rolled over to absorb the impact and struggled to their feet.

They were in a small clearing surrounded by dense woods, with the tiniest patch of sky looking down on them, the cold light of the stars offering little comfort to them.
Harriman Park. If we have to die here, it’ll be with the sky above my head
, Bwana thought.

The two figures were joined by three others, all heavily armed, standing in front of them in a loose curve.

‘Why have you–’ Broker began and fell back as one of the men swung his rifle, hitting him on the side of the head. Broker, sensing the blow, turned along with it, softening the blow, but it was still hard enough to split his temple and bring him down.

He coughed, shook his head, a thin stream of blood flowing darkly down his face, slowly got to his feet, swayed and steadied.

‘Not in the face,’ came a calm, pleasant voice. Hamm stepped forward from the group and looked at them pityingly.

‘A good run while it lasted… and you caused us heavy losses.’

Broker’s heavy breathing broke the silence.

‘We found Cruz and Diego, severely tortured, dead, of course. By the time we found their bodies, the Russians had attacked and taken over a lot of our stashes. I guess you guys are responsible for that too.

‘No brave words from you guys? No pleading? Nothing? I guess when you’re facing death, you’re no different to anyone else.’

He came closer, a victor inspecting his spoils.

‘Now this one, maybe we won’t kill. We need some entertainment.’ He pointed his gun at Chloe.

Bear and Bwana launched themselves horizontally, their shoulders aiming for him, and fell heavily as Hamm took a long step back and two men clubbed them down hard. They crawled to their feet and fell again as the two again clubbed them between the shoulders.

They lay there for a while and then struggled to their feet, this time untouched, and then heard a heavy blow, and Roger fell gasping.

Roger had been moving to the right, inching away from them, but the hitters had seen his move and clubbed him.

‘The Warriors,’ Hamm mocked them, ‘reduced to this. You must be wondering why I want your faces intact.’

‘Not hard to figure out, asshole. You want us to be recognized,’ Bear snarled.

Hamm held a hand up to halt the advancing hitter, and nodded.

‘Why here? Why not in the city?’ Broker asked him in genuine curiosity.

‘This is my killing ground. I like my kills in the open.’ Hamm shrugged. ‘Enough talking. I have a chapter to run.’

He stepped back and raised his gun, pointing first at Bwana.