Chicago Vendetta
Rusch frowned. “How do you know all of this? We just received that report.”
“I told you, I’m a good investigator with good sources. This was a professional job, and whoever did it knew you were coming. That much is obvious.”
“You see?” Rusch said. “I told you someone else outside the department would figure this out when they started sniffing around. This was never going to be a secret for as long as we’d hoped to keep it.”
Hillman leaned forward, elbows on knees, and leveled a stern gaze at Johnny. “I don’t like private investigators, but over the years I’ve found they can be handy at times. I’m trusting you because you were Rich’s friend. But you need to understand something before we go any further. Everything we’re about to tell you is strictly confidential. Understand?”
“You’d be pretty surprised to know some of the secrets I keep, Sergeant.” When Hillman didn’t say anything, Johnny added, “Yes, confidential...understood.”
Hillman cleared his throat. “There’s a good reason I got transferred to IA. We’ve pretty much figured out the same thing you have. The brass sent me here because they suspect someone on the inside piped the information to whoever was responsible for sniping Mick and Iggy. As for Walburn and James, their deaths occurring around the same time could not be coincidence. The guy who bombed the Italian café had to know Rich was going to be there, and Kendra James’s house fire was ruled as arson.”
“So in all those cases,” Rusch said, “the perpetrators knew these were all employees of the police department. They knew their habits and their neighborhoods, and they knew about otherwise highly confidential police operations.”
“Okay, fair enough,” Johnny conceded. “But what makes the department think it’s an insider or mole responsible?”
“The victims. As you know, Rich Walburn was a computer forensics investigator. Kendra James was a security operations dispatcher.”
“And Iggy and Mick were both on the warrant squad,” Hillman added. “All of these individuals have regular access to the same information because they all worked out of this building, so we’re convinced our mole is here.”
“And the powers that be decided to take someone who has the experience in gathering intelligence, transfer them to IA, and give the insider a boost in confidence nobody’s onto him. Or her.” He looked at Rusch. “Nothing personal.”
She inclined her head. “Fair enough. Everyone’s a suspect at this point, Mr. Gray.”
Hillman scoffed. “Lakea’s not a suspect. I’ve worked with her for years. She comes from a family of cops, and there’s no way this is in her character.”
“And obviously CPD has reason to think you’re above reproach,” Johnny observed. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have transferred you to IA and made such a show of it, to boot.”
“Smart, Gray,” Hillman replied. “You’ve a good head on your shoulders. But you don’t know shit about law enforcement in Chicago. No offense. The blue line here is solid, probably not like anywhere you else you’ve ever been. If someone inside is dirty, it won’t be easy to flush them out, and especially not for an outsider, despite whatever skills you claim to possess.”
Johnny forced a grin. “Maybe not. But I have something that might be of interest to you, something you might not yet even possess.”
“And that is?” Rusch asked, arching an eyebrow.
“A lead,” Johnny said.
* * *
Hillman and Rusch sat a vigilant post in their unmarked squad car in a darkened corner of a parking lot. One of them had an eye on the entrance to the grocery store at all times, determined not to miss their quarry. Parked close by in his rental was Gray, who was keeping his own sort of vigil, despite being told it was against policy to allow him on the team. They agreed to share information, but go their separate ways. Hillman and Rusch knew the private investigator wouldn’t listen, and his presence confirmed it.
“So what do you think?” Hillman asked as he looked out the passenger window at Gray’s car and sighed.
“About what?” Rusch replied, never taking her eyes from the store. “Gray?”
“Yeah.”
“I think...” She paused to lick her lips. “I think the guy’s truly looking out for our best interests while trying to find his friend’s killer. I’d be doing the same thing.”
Hillman looked at his partner askance. “Really? I got just the opposite sense after he told us about his lead but refused to give us any idea where the information came from. And how does he get information so fast?”
“I don’t know. It’s just something in my gut. Call it instinct.” Rusch looked over at Gray’s car, too. “He just seems like a straight shooter. There’s something kind of no-nonsense about him.”
“He’s a private dick,” Hillman replied. “Not one of us.”
“Hold up,” Rusch told him. “There he is.”
A thirtysomething Latino male in a leather jacket emerged. He had a canvas satchel in his grip, and his head moved as if mounted on a swivel. Rusch and Hillman remained still. Any sudden movement or attempt to obfuscate their positions inside the car now would just draw unwanted attention. The man didn’t appear to spot them, or if he had, he didn’t give any sign of it.
Hillman whipped out his cell phone and called Gray. When he answered, the detective said, “Even though you’re not supposed to be here, that’s our guy who just came out. Leather jacket and dark hair, climbing into that silver Toyota.”
* * *
Johnny listened carefully, then acknowledgd Hillman’s intel and disconnected.
Neither of the detectives had been eager to pursue his theory that a young decorated narcotics officer named Javier Esparza could be the mole. Johnny couldn’t blame them, as it didn’t make much sense to him, either. But the fact remained that Esparza had some pretty interesting facets to his personal life. For one thing he had a single younger sister with a checking account on which he was an authorized signer. Despite her unemployed status, Esparza’s sister managed to deposit five thousand in cash into the account every week. Esparza also drove a silver Toyota Avalon that wasn’t registered in his name. The car title was free and clear, and the corresponding insurance and sales agreement for the vehicle had been executed in the name of Omeco Industries, which had the earmarks of a shell corporation based on the data Johnny had received from Aaron Kurtzman at the Farm.
Johnny watched as Esparza climbed behind the wheel of his car and left the parking lot, then drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he waited to see what Hillman and Rusch would do. Finally the lights came on and their vehicle rolled forward to tail Esparza. Johnny started the engine of his vehicle and fell into line behind the detectives, keeping a distance of a few car lengths at all times. Fortunately, they were on the back side of rush hour, so there were enough vehicles in play to make a tail possible.
* * *
“So, what do you think was in the satchel?” Hillman asked.
“It certainly wasn’t groceries,” Rusch replied with a shrug. “But if I had to guess, I’d say cash. Lots of it.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, too,” Hillman replied. “You know, Gray could be right and Esparza is our guy after all. But maybe he had nothing to do with what happened to Mick and Iggy. Maybe he’s just on the take.”
“Good old-fashioned dirty is better?” Rusch asked in surprise.
“I’m not saying that,” Hillman said tersely, wincing as he rubbed at his stiff neck. “But I’d rather bust the guy doing something like that than think he was responsible for the deaths of fellow police officers. Frankly, this whole thing sucks. It’s not like we don’t have enough to worry about out there. We got the damn courts and press breathing down our necks and crying brutality every time we look at a perp cross-eyed.
“Now we add the recent uptick in violence, wrongful deaths that are going both ways, while we’re out here putting our asses on the line for what amounts to shitty pay. After what happened to Mick and Iggy, I just don’t know what to think anymore, Lakea. Sometimes I wonder if it would be better to just hang it up and do something else.”
“What something else?” Rusch replied with a snort. “You love being a cop, Chuck. Don’t deny it.”
“I don’t. But don’t you ever think about a change?”
The city lights flickered in her eyes as she braked for a red light and then turned her head to meet his gaze. “I do. But then I think of all the good I’m doing, and all the times that might have gone wrong if I hadn’t just happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. And I figure that’s reward enough.”
As soon as the light changed and cars began to move, Esparza abruptly crossed two lanes of traffic in the intersection to make a right-hand turn onto North Morgan Street. Several angry drivers leaned on their horns while one made a bit of a stronger gesture out the window in true Windy City fashion. There was no way for Rusch to get over, but she noticed Gray had dropped back far enough so that he could adjust.
And he did.
Chapter Two
Johnny saw the radical maneuver Esparza pulled and instantly realized Sergeant Rusch would be unable to compensate and continue the tail. However, he had ample opportunity to get over and he did—not all the drivers in Chicago were rude, and they let him ease over when he put on his signal and wave for permission to cross in front of them. As soon as Johnny got onto Morgan, his mobile phone rang and Hillman’s name came up.
Johnny couldn’t repress a smile as he answered. “I thought I might hear from you.”
“Very funny. Do you have eyes on our guy?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“I think he made us. There wasn’t any other reason for him to do that.”
“Unless he was just playing it careful,” Johnny suggested.
A long pause followed that, and then Hillman said, “Okay, you may have a point. Just keep an eye on him and stay on the phone with us. We’ll get back to you. We’re two blocks down and now turning north.”
Johnny kept one eye on the signs while trying to make sure he didn’t let their quarry out of sight. He reported, “Okay, we’re continuing north and going under some tracks. He’s signaling to make a right-hand turn.”
“All right, good,” Hillman replied. “That would be Hubbard Street he’s turning onto. So he’s now going east on Hubbard.”
“Right. He’s picking up speed now and...wait a minute.” Johnny confirmed Esparza had applied the brakes and suddenly did another right-hand turn into what looked like a broad private drive more than a street.
“I’m not sure where he’s going. He’s turning right again, and he’s now going back under the tracks. It looks like some kind of business or factory.”
“I know where you’re talking about,” Hillman said. “Stay with him. We’ll be there in a few minutes. And Gray?”
“Yeah?”
“Watch your ass. Esparza is an experienced cop, and he might be savvy to someone following him. Don’t take any chances.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Johnny said before he disconnected and shut off his lights as he turned right to pull in behind Esparza’s car.
Buildings towered on either side of Johnny’s car. Such a place would’ve provided an opportune location for an ambush, but he had some sense that Esparza figured his little maneuver back at the intersection would’ve shaken any pursuers. Still, he wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking that Esparza didn’t have street smarts. Underestimating an opponent got people killed. It was a concept that had been driven into Johnny time and again by his big brother. Mack was a consummate professional and soldier who looked at the world with an icy stare, constantly wary and calculating every advantage. He lived life on the edge, every move tactical, and he’d paid for it dearly by sacrificing any sort of personal life or truly intimate relationships.
Johnny stopped his car and killed the engine, operating on pure instinct at this point. The private drive had continued on between a series buildings, like an alleyway, and with dusk nearly gone, it was getting difficult to clearly see what was beyond the nearest building. He peered through the windshield, and sudden movement directly ahead caused his breath to catch in his throat. It looked like Esparza in silhouette, and Johnny was betting the guy had gone inside whatever business occupied the warehouse-size building situated at the end of the alley-like drive.
The California PI reached beneath his jacket and rested his hand on the cold, reassuring butt of a SIG Sauer P320.
Johnny started at the sudden rap on the passenger window. He looked to see Hillman leaned over, his face fully staring back at him expectantly. He stabbed the power lock switch, and the detective immediately climbed inside, barely giving Johnny the chance to get his laptop off the seat.
“So what’s going on?” he asked.
“I think Esparza went inside there.”
“Did he have the satchel?”
“Couldn’t tell for sure. He was heading inside by the time I got here,” Johnny replied. “But probably.”
Hillman squinted through the windshield. “Not sure if I’m remembering correctly, but I think the building is actually an old brewery.”
“Maybe Esparza is just stopping off for a beer.”
“Doubtful.” Hillman sucked air through his teeth. “Lakea and I were talking about this some. I think Esparza is working as a bagman. But for who? That’s the question.”
“If you’re right, the ‘who’ might give you some idea how to connect the recent deaths in your department.”
Hillman nodded in agreement. “Yeah. It may even—”
“Look out!”
* * *
The shadowy forms that suddenly appeared were trouble. Lakea Rusch noted the shapes of the weapons in their hands, and she watched as the gunners rushed toward her position with obvious purpose. Esparza had led them here, and none of them had the faintest idea what the narcotics cop had become involved in. Still, it wasn’t as if she or Hillman had actually believed Esparza had been up to no good. He could’ve been doing something as simple as a favor for a friend or attending night classes. Hell, there could have been textbooks or a laptop in that satchel.
But the half-dozen approaching gunmen pretty much cinched it. Gray had been right about Esparza, and now she, her partner and the PI were up to their necks in trouble.
Rusch had kept the engine running. She put the gearshift in Reverse and stomped the accelerator, thinking she’d need to make room for Hillman and Gray to back up, as well. Instead, she watched those two idiots climb out of Gray’s sedan and rush to the rear of the vehicle to take cover. By this time, the hardmen had opened up with a full-auto burn. Their weapons produced a furious chatter as they sprayed the alley. Bullets smacked into Gray’s car or whined off the building walls and pavement of the narrow drive.
Rusch slammed on the brakes and went EVA, too, clearing her pistol from leather and drawing a bead on the closest gunman. Gray and Hillman were waving at her to get clear, both men shouting at her to leave them. Or at least that’s what she was assuming by their expressions and gestures of panic mixed with obvious frustration. Rusch then saw what appeared to be a dark stain over Hillman’s left shoulder. He’d been hit—he’d let them get the drop on him and wound up shot!
It wasn’t looking good. The fire zone seemed so heavy that neither Gray nor Hillman would’ve been able to get a clear shot, and now the gunmen seemed to realize, even as Rusch shot the first guy dead with a double-tap to the chest, that they held a clear advantage. The enemy had them outgunned, outnumbered and outflanked.
As muzzle-flashes became visible from where she stood, Rusch suddenly felt a strong hand grab her shoulder and shove her into the car.
She lost her balance, and the pistol got knocked from her wrist when it struck the center console. She turned her eyes toward the source of the shove, a curse on her lips, and found herself staring back at features that looked as if they’d been chiseled from granite. The body, all muscle and sinew, was dressed in a blacksuit, complete with a harness from which dangled a half dozen or so deadly implements of war.
“Pull up!” the stranger commanded.
Rusch chose not to argue with those ice-blue eyes that bore more authority and deadly intent than she’d ever seen in another human being.
She put the car in Drive and smoothly accelerated toward Gray and Hillman’s position. The plan seemed so obvious now that she kicked herself. They couldn’t have hoped to escape in Gray’s car, and she’d backed up like an idiot and given them no place to run.
* * *
As soon as Mack Bolan got the petite black woman inside the car and thinking correctly about the direction she should be going, he turned to the more pressing job at hand. The main weapon for his opening play was an FN FNC. The Belgium-made carbine Model 6000 was chambered to fire the 5.56 mm M193 round. It could deliver 700 rounds per minute at a muzzle velocity exceeding 3,100 feet per second.
In the hands of the Executioner, it sent a particularly lethal message, as the remaining aggressors learned all too well over the next sixty seconds.
Bolan triggered the first volley on the run as he got behind the late-model Dodge, an obvious unmarked police unit. All four rounds nearly decapitated the Executioner’s first target. The torso topped by a now-mangled head wandered drunkenly for a moment before it fell to the grimy pavement. Another gunner realized they had a new threat and tried to adjust his position while searching for cover, but Bolan beat him to it in his beeline behind the police car. The man in black came up a winner on the other side of the vehicle in time to cut a swathing burst across the gunman’s midsection. The guy screamed as the weapon flew from his hand, and he seemed to sit hard first before falling backward to his final resting place.
One of the remaining gunners spun on his heel and attempted a very undignified retreat, but it was Johnny who ended up taking him down as Rusch assisted Hillman to his feet. Three 9 mm Parabellum rounds left the younger Bolan’s P320 pistol, punching into the running man’s back. One clipped the spine, which ceased all communication to the brain as the force drove the runner into an odd tumble exacerbated by the slight downward slope of the drive.
Bolan got the last hardmen with a rising burst that stitched his enemies from crotch to sternum. Red holes drilled into their chests, and the bullets blew plum-size holes out their backs. The men staggered and twitched under the impacts before they finally crumpled to the ground.
“Don’t know who the hell you are, mister,” Hillman said moments later as Rusch eased him into the passenger seat. “But we owe you one.”
Bolan nodded grimly, then looked at Rusch. “Hurry. He’s losing blood.”
She sized him up warily but did as instructed. Bolan kept one eye on the entrance to the alleyway while engaging his brother with a strong handshake. He could tell Johnny wanted to throw his arms around him and fought the urge to initiate a hug. The only way they could protect each other was by maintaining the anonymity of their relationship, and the only way to do that was to make it seem from any outward appearance they were passing acquaintances at best.
“Good to see you,” Johnny said with a steady grin.
“Likewise.”
“I see you got my message.”
“I did,” Bolan replied. “And I have quite a bit of new info.”
The distant wail of sirens brought the two men back to the scene at hand. Johnny said, “They’re playing your song.”
“I can’t get caught up with this right now,” Bolan said, turning on his heel. “Go with them to the hospital, and I’ll meet up with you later at the condo.”
Johnny expressed surprise. “You’re not coming with us?”
“Well, the blacksuit does stand out,” Bolan said drily. “It’s time for me to make myself scarce.” With that, the Executioner wheeled and trotted away.
Some things just never seemed to change.
Chapter Three
After medical staff took charge of Hillman, Rusch didn’t waste any time cornering Johnny in a vacant consultation room off to one corner of the ER waiting area.
“Okay, you want to explain what the hell happened back there?”
Johnny splayed his hands. “What do you mean? You were there. You saw everything I did.”
“Don’t play games with me, Gray,” Rusch said, stabbing a petite but hardened finger into Johnny’s sternum. “You know damn well what I mean. We get pinned down by a half-dozen men armed with automatic weapons. Then in jumps a stranger in black out of nowhere like Captain Commando. It’s obvious you knew him, so you’d best start talking or I’ll turn you over to my superiors and let you take your chances.”
“I’m not sure I’d mention that either of us knew him. Or even saw him for that matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s here to help us.”
“And you know this for a fact,” she said, her head bobbing in a flagrant demonstration of her disbelief.
“I do,” he replied matter-of-factly.
Rusch blew a strand of hair out of her eye and put her hands on her hips. She canted her body backward slightly and cocked her head to study him with a practiced eye. “Why should I believe you?”
Johnny knew there was no way he could tell her that Mack Bolan, the Executioner, was alive and well. That secret had to remain just that. Instead, he came up with a comfortable lie, which sometimes was true. Sort of. “He’s working with the Justice Department.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He is. But not officially. He’s more like a freelance troubleshooter, a page not in the book. Call it what you will to make the cake taste sweeter, because anything else I could say would sound trite.”
“You’re looking at trite in the rearview mirror, Johnny.”
At least she’d called him by his first name this time. “Look, if you expose him or try to hunt him down and ask him to explain himself, you’ll only be doing your team and the whole rest of the Chicago PD a severe injustice. He’s on our side, and you have to believe me.”
“But how do I know that?”
“Because all three of us are still alive and the guys who tried to ventilate us are all dead. That has to count for something.”
“Maybe he was covering.”
“For who? Listen to yourself, it doesn’t even make sense.”
“I suppose.”
“There’s something else.”
“What’s that?”
“I have to leave.”
Rusch expressed disdain. “What? You can’t just leave me here like this to fend for myself. I’m going to need a witness, and the only other person who can explain what happened out there is about to go under the knife for a bullet wound!”
“I’m sorry, Lakea. And I know it’s a shitty thing to do—a shitty thing. But I have to go meet with our man in black.”
“Even if I wanted to go along with some cockamamy story, there’s no way the department would buy it. None of us were armed-up. We couldn’t very well explain how they all wound up dead when we weren’t carrying anything but pistols. Ballistics will nail our asses to the wall.”
“Call it a rival gang war.”
“What?”
“Sure,” Johnny said, attempting to keep a dispassionate expression. “With all the violence in today’s world and all the weapons available out there, it wouldn’t be a hard sell. And especially not if you can tie Esparza into it. We followed him there and then during what we suspected was the drop, a gun battle broke out with what we assumed was a rival gang. We defended ourselves, which would explain how one of your bullets got in one of the deceased, and the rest were taken down by other as-yet-unidentified well-armed subjects.”
“They won’t buy it.”
“Maybe not in the end, but it will buy us time. And that’s something our mutual friend will need.”