Protect Page 15

  “Okay.”

  “I want to be in and out in less than three minutes. That is the absolute maximum. If people start calling the cops the sheriff’s department will be overwhelmed, I can’t even imagine how they’ll prioritize calls. I’m not assuming anything will be instant response or slow. I just don’t want anyone caught with these guns.”

  “Holy shit, this is all going to be loud.” Fritter was just thinking out loud, but Jayce was nodding.

  “Yeah. Six locations getting shot to shit all at once. Seems a little too big for us little Red Rebels to pull off, hey?”

  Knuckles laughed at that, and it sounded insane. Fritter felt his senses heighten and narrow all at once.

  This was it. The most insane, dangerous, bloody, and reckless thing he’d been asked to do as a Red Rebel.

  Outside an arrangement of four-door vehicles were waiting. Some borrowed from hang arounds, others loaners from Grainger’s. They all looked to be the same color until you got up close. Some were black, others dark blue, one was a deep red. The only color that could definitely be identified at night was white, so they stayed clear of that option. All the license plates had been swapped out, linked to different makes and models just to cause a bit more confusion.

  Jayce led them to a navy Yukon. The thing was fucking huge. Knuckles was cackling to see that Tank and Buck were assigned to a black fucking Caliber. They made it look like a clown car, but it was a smaller crew going out to a trailer. It was just the two of them and Spaz.

  Jayce asked Fritter to drive, so he climbed behind the wheel and Knuckles called shotgun. It was the work of a few minutes to reach the neighborhood in question, and he had to pull a U-turn to park on the correct side of the street, in front of the home of the vacationing Jacob’s two-story. There was a tall hedge between the properties, and a huge tree on the Jacobs’ yard partially screened the house in question. Good that no one would see them coming, but it also meant Tims would have a hell of a time seeing if they needed help.

  Fritter pulled the balaclava from his pocket and rolled it on, noting that his hands weren’t even shaking. He knew this had to be done. These guys were real scum. They beat up Gertie to get to her dad; a woman all alone, defenseless. Four against one. And they threw acid on Rose, just to try to take a chunk out of the Rebels’ bank. They didn’t come right at their enemies, they attacked soft spots. Areas where a club was vulnerable. Weak. Pathetic.

  Next the leather gloves went on. There were clicks and clanks as magazines were slammed home. Next to him Knuckles was panting in a rhythmic way and Fritter’s knee was bouncing in time to it.

  “Four minutes,” Jayce basically whispered from the back seat.

  Shit. A lifetime.

  “You good, Tiny?” Fritter asked.

  “Fucking ready, man.”

  “Jayce?”

  “Better believe it.”

  Fritter nodded. “Tims?”

  “Got your back, guys.”

  Knuckles grinned at him maniacally. “You know I’m fucking ready.”

  “Of course you are, you fucking psycho.”

  “I see, a bad moon rising,” Knuckles began softly singing.

  “Fucking shoot him,” Tiny groaned.

  “I see, troubles on the way.”

  Weirdly enough, Knuckles’ tone-deaf serenade kept the vehicle calm until 11:49. In unspoken agreement all four doors opened as quietly as possible, then closed the same way. In full stealth mode they stole along the sidewalk, pausing by the hedge. Jayce had an eye on his watch. Knuckles was on point, eyes on the property, back to them. When Jayce nodded at Fritter he slapped Knuckles’ shoulder, and they were off.

  The house was entirely dark. Like most of the street, it seemed as though everyone inside was enjoying a good night’s sleep. Hopefully, there were three to four people inside, not expecting anything out of the ordinary, inside this particular house.

  Knuckles waited for Fritter to pull the storm door out of the way, then he booted the inside door, no hesitation.

  There were no curtains on the front windows. The first room was lit with a flood from the light standard in front of the house.

  No one was in the front sitting room. Knuckles swarmed one way down the hallway to the left, Tiny behind him. Fritter and Jayce split around the island of the kitchen, clearing the main room in one easy sweep. Fritter scanned the back yard, but nothing was moving. Not a single light on anywhere at any of the neighbor’s.

  The first gunshots came fast. There was shouting off in the direction of the bedrooms and the automatic gunfire cut it short. Jayce and Fritter waited at the hallway, then when Tiny and Knuckles emerged they headed to the door to the basement.

  Before they reached it the door flew outward. Jayce was behind the door so it bounced off his arm. The man rushing into the kitchen had a revolver drawn, and a shot flew wide of Fritter. It took nothing to cut him in half with one short burst from the AK.

  People were shouting in the basement. With a bizarre, blood-curdling scream Knuckles charged headlong down the stairs.

  “Wait!” Fritter was shouting, flying after the asshole at the same time.

  The stairs were wooden, open on one side, concrete on the other. Knuckles kept firing off short bursts as he reached the bottom of the stairwell, then he sprayed the room. Fritter didn’t feel another close call all the way down the stairs, but as he came to a stop next to Fritter he had to pause and take it all in.

  “Holy shit,” he mumbled, moving further into the room behind Knuckles.

  They had to walk single-file. There were tables filling the space with only about a foot and a half between them. And every flat space looked like a chemistry lab.

  “You believe this shit? They were cooking in Markham?” Fritter’s voice seemed quiet when it was competing with ringing ears.

  “Or starting to anyway,” Knuckles said, looking at the equipment with great interest. “This shit all looks really new.”

  “Fucking stinks down here, man.”

  “You okay down there?” Tiny bellowed from above.

  “It’s all good,” Fritter shouted back.

  “We’re gonna check the shed out back.”

  “Go for it!” Fritter turned back to Knuckles. “I gotta get out of here. I’m getting light-headed.”

  “Yeah. I’m guessing I punctured a few chemical containers.”

  As he spoke there was the slightest tinkle, the shifting of broken glass on a concrete floor, and they were both spinning to the sound but Fritter was faster. The AK came up just as the woman sprang to her feet, shotgun pointed their way, face contorted from whatever she was shouting at them. The boom of the double barrel was monstrous, but the AK was more accurate. He got her right in the head, cutting her battle cry short.

  “Fuck me,” Knuckles mumbled, following Fritter to the corpse. He kicked her foot lightly. “That’s the end of the horror movie right there.”

  “Do we leave it or torch this place?”

  Knuckles shrugged. “Let’s ask Jayce. There’s lots of trees here and the houses aren’t very far apart.”

  “Good point.”

  It’d be a shit move to burn down a neighborhood when you were just trying to do a good deed.

  It was decided they’d leave the house standing for those same reasons. In two minutes flat they were back at the Yukon, diving into the same places as lights were coming on in the surrounding houses. Tims had started the engine when he saw them coming so they were off quickly, and for his part Fritter was sure that no one had even made it to a window by the time they were gone.

  The clubhouse gates rolled open as their SUV approached then closed behind them. The yard light was off, so as they climbed out of the Yukon they were in pitch darkness. Music was pounding out of the clubhouse, giving the illusion of a party going on. As planned, they turned their weapons in first. Ground-floor rooms of the motel were also kept dark, and once inside a specific room they tossed their guns into the vacant space inside the bed platfor
ms.

  When they were in the clubhouse again Fritter took the time to see who had beat them back. Two other teams, including Tank and Buck’s group, were taking well-deserved shots of Jack. Their women had all been sequestered here at the motel for the operation so they just had to stumble back to their rooms to work off the jitters the adrenalin left behind.

  A crew of Nomads were also back safe and sound, and as Fritter downed his first shot Mickey`s crew, which was mostly made up of Nomads, rolled through the doors. Jolene had been waiting for her old man and she pounced the second he came through the doors. Guido’s team came next. And then they waited for the sixth crew. It was another smaller one, three men designated to go out to a trailer park in the south end of Markham, not far from the first trailer the Rebels had found out about. Richey and Red were in that crew, along with a Nomad.

  12:10 came and went. 12:20. At 12:30 everyone was starting to get nervous, and the music got turned down.

  At 12:37 the doors opened and all hell broke loose. There was shouting, the sound of a man screaming in pain, and the room jumped into action.

  Richey had been hit. Fritter saw the blood and his second dose of adrenalin hit stronger and harder.

  “Board room!” he yelled at Red and the Nomad, whose name he didn’t know, and he ran for the doors, flinging them open. With numb hands he found the switch and flooded the room with light, then he swept all the weapons off the table with one arm. Red and the Nomad got Richey on the table and Fritter set to work pulling his hoodie open.

  “Fuck. Ah, fuck.”

  “One of these assholes came out of nowhere, had a gun. Richey drew on him but his clip was spent. These guys had a ton of fucking guns, man.” Red sounded like he was minutes from weeping.

  Richey’s guts were perforated like toilet paper. It was obvious from the smell they’d hit the bowels. How the hell he’d lived through the drive ...

  “Fuck, it hurts.”

  Red grabbed his friend’s hand, bringing his face close. When Fritter looked up Jayce was there too, holding Richey’s other hand.

  “Hold on, Richey. Just hold on, man.”

  Richey looked to his President. “I got two of them. I fucking got two of them.”

  “You’re the man, Richey. You get through this and Knuckles will hook you up with the triplets.”

  Richey laughed, and the sound was wet. Mottled. At least it took his mind off of what was happening.

  Richey Tatlow died three minutes later under the florescent lights of the board room, bleeding onto an old office reject conference table, his grey eyes focused on stained ceiling tiles. Twenty-four years old, and very far from his home in Illinois.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Well, I found something more painful than childbirth, Sharon mused as she kicked off her heels—not high, just high for her—the second she was through her front door. Public debate. How fucking awful.

  She was pretty sure she handled herself all right. For every snarky comment Turnbull had, Sharon had an answer that began with “At the police academy we learned,” and that always managed to come off sounding like she was educating, not making fun of.

  But she was sorta making fun of his asinine digs that were phrased to sound like questions.

  Only one thing hurt her. His point about there being plenty of criminals in town, and they all rode motorcycles.

  It wasn’t that statement that was death blow. Sharon pointed out that motorcycles weren’t illegal, and no matter what vehicles were being driven people were welcome to report crimes to the Sheriff’s department and they would be investigated.

  Turnbull’s counter point was the start of an uncomfortable exchange. “But sometimes these criminals are allowed to carry on with the Sheriff’s blessing.”

  As stupid as it was, she was shocked by that. And so was the room; she heard the gasps of surprise and wondered if maybe it hadn’t been a stupid move on Turnbull’s part.

  She asked for an example, and he used the example of his son being assaulted by a “biker” at a nightclub who in turn had not served a day of jail time.

  Tank had been jumped in jail and ended up in a coma. But she wasn’t bringing that up. Instead she rebutted that Turnbull’s son had presumed to put hands on a woman at that nightclub, then called her a derogatory term when she refused his attentions, of course implying his son required limited sympathy in the matter. And, in actuality, Williams was arrested and the charges were later dropped. So how that could be seen as a neglect of her duty was a bit of a mystery.

  He took that rebuttal but there was something in the room that had her back up. It didn’t feel like anyone was really on her side suddenly. She watched the crowd as Turnbull spoke and saw the majority of people nodding in agreement.

  Not that the turnout for a debate was a great cross-section for voters. But she had her first little twinge of doubt.

  Now as she sank into her sofa with a cold bottle of beer, still in her “fancy” clothes—just a navy pants suit and white blouse—she looked around the living room and wondered how the hell she’d live if she lost this job.

  Those were fucking depressing thoughts. Pushing herself back to her feet she shrugged out of the suit jacket and headed to her bedroom to change into something comfortable, draining the beer as she went.

  Brayden was out. How he made friends in less than two weeks she had no idea, but when he wasn’t working he was off with kids he’d met working at the garage. They didn’t work there, weren’t affiliated with the club thank God, but they were kids that hung out downtown in the summer working at the hardware store, shoe store, and greasy spoon diner. She was glad. Her schedule normally would have made her feel guilty leaving him alone as much as she did, but he found his own life for the next couple months.

  Still wasn’t doing his damn laundry, though.

  She pulled on flannel pants and a T-shirt, washed the make-up off her face, then the phone rang. A special ring she’d programmed when it was work. Come to think of it, that was unnecessary. No one else called her.

  “Hello?” she said into the bedroom receiver.

  When Martin spoke she knew immediately something big had happened. “Sheriff?” There were voices in the background, ringing phones, so much activity she doubted where he was calling from for a minute.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Fuck. I don’t ... I can’t even tell you. I’ve called in everyone else to block off crime scenes. We need more people.”

  “Wait, what happened?”

  He took a deep breath. “Six break and enters. Twenty-seven homicides. I got a gun storage house, a meth lab, and what might have been another trafficking depot that have been hit. Everyone’s dead. Fuck, there’s not a survivor in any location.”

  She sat on the edge of her bed. “Jesus.”

  “What do I do?”

  “You called the coroner?”

  “Yeah, he’s on his way to the first place closest to his house.”

  “All the scenes are being processed?”

  “Yeah. Is it ... is it okay if I call ATF and DEA? I mean, one place had a huge gun drop in the basement. They even had a Browning machine gun. M16s. I mean, Jesus. We’re not talking a few handguns with the numbers filed off. And one basement was definitely a meth lab.”

  Sharon was already nodding. “Yeah, definitely call in the big boys. You call ATF, I got the DEA.”

  “Okay. Are you ... can you come in?”

  Shit. One beer did not make her drunk but ... well, fuck it. She had to. “Yeah. I’ll change and be right in.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry, I know it’s your night off.”

  Sharon laughed at that. “What’s a night off again?”

  Martin laughed with her. “Yeah, tell me about it. Life got fucking crazy the last little while.”

  “Yes, it did. I’ll be in as soon as I can.”

  She didn’t bother with her full uniform. Jeans, sweatshirt, gun in a shoulder holster under her Markham County Sheriff’s Departm
ent windbreaker. Before leaving the house she called up the number she’d entered in her phone the day she’d received Agent Terrance Hogan’s card.

  When he answered she tried to keep her voice light. “Hey, it’s Downey in Markham County.”

  “Sheriff,” his voice sounded warm, like he was happy she’d called. Well, she’d fix that.

  “I think I know why you want to take me for dinner.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I always call you with the most interesting stories to tell.”

  He chuckled, and it was a good, masculine sound. “Okay, sock it to me, Sheriff.”

  “Tonight we had six residences broken into, and we currently have twenty-seven very dead bodies to sort out.”

  His pause almost made her laugh as she unlocked the doors to her Focus.

  “One of the sites was housing a weapon store with some pretty illegal models. But specifically for your enjoyment, another house had a meth lab in the basement.”

  “Jesus.”

  “This is too big for my department. I’m barely able to tape off and process all these scenes.”

  “Were all the victims connected?”

  Sharon started her car. “I’m assuming they were. We are processing the scenes. I just need help on this one, too. It’s too big.”

  “I understand. We find an organized crime link and that’ll ease some of the load.”

  She sighed. “Thank you so much.”

  “I’ll get some guys together. You calling ATF?”

  “My deputy is.”

  “We’ll take the meth lab. This sounds like a turf war.”

  She nodded, then remembered she was on the phone. “Yeah. It does. But every time I turn around there’s more players in this bullshit game.”

  “I’ll be there in a few hours. Maybe I’ll have to take you for brunch instead of dinner.”

  She laughed at that. “Sure. We’ll see. Might have to be lunch.”

  “Take care. See you soon.”

  She hung up the phone, her stomach feeling warm. See you soon. That was said so nice, so reassuring. Professional courtesy, but a little bit more.

  What the hell was she doing? She had twenty-seven homicides to sort out.