Chicago Vendetta

“What about you?”

“They can’t prove I was with you, can they? This could be a lead just you and Hillman were following up. My name need not even come into it.”

“What about my partner? He’ll probably be under twenty-four-hour guard now, since the brass might think a buddy of one of those shooters might come calling. There’s no way we’ll be able to corroborate our stories.”

“Maybe send a note in with his nurse? Call it police business.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Johnny. I’ve already made up my mind I’m gonna trust you on this one. But under one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You deal me in on the full story, no bullshit and no withholding anything.”

“Would you settle for 99 percent?”

“No, but I suppose I don’t have much choice. My career as a cop is on the line either way at this point.”

Johnny smiled. “Then we have a deal, Lakea.”

“Uh-huh. And why does it feel like I just made it with the Devil?”

* * *

The man who stood before Lakea Rusch no longer wore the garb of battle. He’d shed the skintight blacksuit and combat boots for blue jeans and a black V-necked pullover. A leather shoulder rig supported a pistol, and nearby on an oval table lay a stainless steel .44 Magnum Desert Eagle.

The weapons didn’t impress Rusch anywhere near as much as their owner. He moved and spoke with the air of a man in complete command of himself and his surroundings. She estimated he was well over six feet, maybe two hundred pounds, or a bit more, with dark hair. His eyes were a striking blue, and they seemed to appraise everything and everyone with the deadly menace of a tiger seeking prey.

The man had seemed pretty calm and collected when Johnny first introduced them in his rented condo. But she had questions, and plenty of them, and she wasn’t going to let him sidetrack her. She’d get answers, and if she didn’t like them, if everything didn’t seem like it was straight on the up-and-up, she’d put this dude in handcuffs and haul him downtown for interrogation.

* * *

Seated on the couch in the condo, the police sergeant introduced as Lakea Rusch crossed her legs and took in the view around her before looking at Johnny. “Pretty nice place for a private investigator, Johnny.”

He shrugged. “I told you, I’m good at my job.”

“I see.” Rusch turned her attention to Mack Bolan. “And you. I suppose if I asked for your name, you’d only lie to me.”

“You can call me Blanski. Or Mike, if you prefer.”

As Bolan took a seat at the table, Rusch said, “Johnny’s told me you’re here to help us.” When met with silence, she continued, “I’m counting on the fact he’s telling me the truth. I’ve disobeyed orders and failed to follow procedure on this entire thing since you guys breezed into town. My career is on the line.”

“It’s more than your career,” Bolan said. “Your life is on the line, along with the lives of your brothers and sisters in blue.”

“How many?”

“All of them, if Grec gets his way.”

“Who?” Rusch and Johnny echoed simultaneously.

“I’ve come across—” Bolan paused a moment and looked squarely at his brother “—that is, we have come across intel that suggests the incidents you linked together, Johnny, were all the brainchild of a man named Shalib Grec. Now, I could produce a litany of crimes he has committed, but since we’ve already determined he’s likely behind the deaths of police officers, there’s no point in airing out all of his lesser offenses. Bottom line, he needs to be stopped.”

“And you’re here to stop him,” Rusch interjected.

“I am.”

“So how did you know where to find us?” Johnny asked.

“I looked for you here, first, then at the station but had been told I’d just missed you. From there, I figured a call to our friend at the Farm would give me your position.”

Johnny nodded at his aha moment. “Of course...my laptop.”

“Your laptop,” Bolan repeated.

He returned his gaze to Rusch. “Johnny’s intuition about your man Esparza was correct. I got intel on the address to where you tailed him. It’s a former brewing company.”

“I knew that,” Rusch said. “I know my own city, Blanski.”

“Well, did you know that it’s supposedly an art warehouse now? One that’s owned by a shell corporation that’s linked back to Grec? The man isn’t an art dealer or brewer. He’s a smuggler, be it weapons, or sex slaves or drugs.” Bolan paused. “Or terrorists. He’s also one of the worst of his kind. Schooled by high-value insiders from ISIL to al Qaeda. He’s a radical Islamic who doesn’t actually practice the religion, and he’s probably responsible for the murder of hundreds if not thousands of innocent people, not to mention those he sees as his enemies. I think he was working with Axel Madera and set up the ambush at the neighborhood where two of your officers on the warrant squad were killed. I also think he hired the bomber who murdered the Walburn family.”

“Okay,” Rusch said. “Suppose you’re right? What proof do you have? We can’t just haul the guy in on supposition and conjecture.”

Bolan put an edge to his voice. “I have no intention of taking him into custody.”

* * *

Detective Javier Esparza wouldn’t have believed it had he not been watching the scene unfold before his eyes.

Axel Madera hadn’t been joking when he’d bragged about the video surveillance around the former brewery the employees of the drug lord’s associate had converted into an art warehouse with a loft apartment. Of course, Esparza had cited his address of record to be the home where his sister lived, but the warehouse was where he spent most of his evenings with his various lady friends either wrapped up in parties or just with their legs around him. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be going back there. He’d escaped through a basement tunnel that led to a boarded-up store next door, and with good reason. The man he knew only as muntaqim owned that property, too.

Esparza sighed. Living what amounted to a double life could be tiring. He knew he’d have to take a bucket of shit from Madera for letting his colleagues on the other side of the line tail him. Now as he sat in Madera’s safehouse and watched the video replay, he scratched his chin while trying not to slosh his drink.

Madera paused the video at one particular point that captured the grainy faces of all four of the enemy combatants who’d gone up against Madera’s guns.

“Recognize any of them?” Madera asked.

Esparza leaned forward and set the double bourbon on the lead crystal top of the coffee table. He squinted at the screen and then withdrew his glasses. He donned them and looked again.

“Two of them. The guy there in the jacket and tie is Hillman.” When Madera only stared at him, Esparza added quickly, “A TAC sergeant who moved over to IA after you smoked Brett and Taylor outside your house.”

“I’m sure I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Madera said, although clearly agitated.

Esparza remain nonplussed as he looked back at the screen. “The woman is Hillman’s partner, Lakea Rusch. She’s also in IA, but she’s been there quite a while.”

“And the other two?”

“No idea,” Esparza said, shaking his head. He removed his glasses and put them away before grabbing his drink and leaning back on the couch. He kicked off his loafers with a sigh.

Madera looked at him for a time, and Esparza just stared absently into his glass, where the liquor made swirling patterns among the melting ice. Madera didn’t bother him. The guy was a big-time drug dealer, but just a two-bit hood in Esparza’s book. He’d taken down a dozen hoods like Madera without even breaking a sweat, a record that had earned him a detective’s shield and a permanent gig in CPD’s narcotics division for as long as he cared to stay.

The only thing that bothered Esparza was Madera’s connections to the mysterious muntaqim. The drug lord’s associate was obviously some sort of very high roller, maybe even a terrorist, and he had a hard-on for cops. He enjoyed killing them. When Esparza discovered that and saw the kind of resources at the man’s disposal, he’d opted to come over to the other side in order to keep breathing. Esparza hadn’t been involved in whatever had forced muntaqim’s hand, but he thought he knew the particular incident in question. Esparza figured the identity of a principal character killed in that incident would probably give him firsthand knowledge about the identity of muntaqim, but so far Intelligence had been keeping that information tightly under wraps.

“Since you don’t know the other two, we’ll deal with them,” Madera said. “But we’re going to rely on you to take out Hillman and Rusch.”

Esparza took a long pull of his drink before lighting a cigarette. “Not going to happen. I told you going into this that I won’t kill any cops. We had a deal.”

“My associate is altering the deal,” Madera said dangerously.

“Over my dead body.”

“That’s always an option,” another voice said, the cultured tone echoing through the high ceilings of Madera’s vast office.

From the shadows emerged a tall, thin man with dark hair flecked by white at the temples. Impeccably attired, he moved confidently. Authoritatively. Some of that was probably due to the four men who surrounded him with the practiced ease of high-priced security. The newcomer’s dark eyes bore a wicked glint, and the sunken flesh around his cheeks and chin made his cheekbones seem prominent. As the man drew closer, Esparza noticed a long, thin scar that arched over his left eyebrow and traced an irregular pattern until it dipped out of sight beneath the very angular left jaw.

The net result left Esparza with the sense he’d looked into the partially decomposed skull of a mummy.

“Mr. Esparza,” the man continued. “In addition to the considerable sum of money I’ve paid you, and the extra tangible benefits you’ve enjoyed at my sole expense, there is your family to consider. For example, your lovely sister remains under my full protection, but that can change.”

Esparza stood defiantly. “It would be unwise to threaten my family.”

“Sit down!” Madera commanded.

Esparza looked at the drug kingpin a long time before taking his seat.

The gaunt man presented a withering smile. “My reference to your sister is not intended as a threat. Rather a reminder that I’m the provider of your rather lavish lifestyle. It would take only a single phone call to certain persons within your department for all your perks to come crashing down around your ears.”

He took a seat in front of Esparza, and this second smile bore more cruelty than the first. “Now that was a fucking threat, Mr. Esparza. You see, if you’re not for me any longer, then you are against me. And I’m not a person you’d want for an enemy, believe me.”

“I don’t even know your name, friend. How could I be any threat to you?”

“Fair enough. My name is Shalib Grec and I can be, to coin an old Americanism, either your best friend or your worst nightmare.”

“What do you want?” Esparza asked after a beat.

“Much better. I want you to find Hillman and Rusch and kill them. Simple. Just kill them. You’ve killed people before.”

“I’ve killed scum.” Esparza let his eyes flick toward Madera ever so imperceptibly. Or so he thought.

“Careful, Mr. Esparza.” Grec waved casually at the drug dealer. “Mr. Madera is a valued associate, and I would not take kindly to anyone who had an issue with him. It’s probably no secret that I hate your kind.”

“You mean cops.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. But you’ve proven a useful ally in my war on the police in this city. When I’ve achieved my final objectives, I will leave here and you will neither hear from nor see me again. And the bonus is I’ll let you live to a ripe old age.”

“What guarantee do I have of that?”

“Have I given you any reason to doubt my word so far?” Grec asked, arching an eyebrow and wrinkling the scar. “I’m a businessman, Mr. Esparza, plain and simply. I’m not interested in killing you, because you are insignificant. And because Mr. Madera has told me you may be of additional use to him. So you see, we have a deal. You do as you are told, and when our mutual business is concluded, I let you live.”

Esparza downed the remainder of his drink and looked at Madera, who nodded.

“It’s true,” the drug dealer said.

Esparza looked at the video still paused on the faces of two cops he’d known for years and had, until just that moment, considered friends. “Hillman will be easy. I can find out what hospital he’s in. Rusch may be more difficult as I need to get her alone. Isolated.”

Grec stood as he replied, “I will leave the details to you. I don’t care how you do it, or where. Just that it’s done.”

“It’ll be done by tomorrow night,” Esparza replied.

Chapter Four

Mack Bolan sat behind the wheel of Johnny’s sedan and watched the front entrance of the Stratus Club. A half-dozen security types, most likely thugs employed by Axel Madera, were overseeing a line of hopeful entrants cordoned against the side of the club by a scarlet rope running through chrome uprights. Through a bit of creative hacking by Kurtzman at Stony Man Farm and based on the intel Johnny had gleaned in talking with Rusch, they’d managed to work out that this was one of Esparza’s key hangouts. After his frank conversation with Rusch, Bolan had concluded Esparza was the number one candidate for being Shalib Grec’s mole inside CPD’s ranks.

The Executioner kept his attention on the club entrance, waiting for any sign of Esparza. He’d also kept one eye on the vehicle that tailed him from the condo. He couldn’t make out the occupant, but he had a pretty good idea who it was. If Lakea Rusch was anything, it was tenacious. He admired her guts and her loyalty, but she wasn’t much for being low-key in situations like this. Then again, who could blame her? She’d been forced into her situation by events outside her control, and all she really wanted was justice for her friends.

Bolan didn’t know anything about her partner, Hillman, but he didn’t have any reason to think the guy was part of Grec’s cadre. All fingers pointed in Esparza’s direction, so that’s the play the Executioner decided to back. Not to mention Johnny and his new allies had nearly gotten their heads blown off tailing the narcotics detective. That meant something, and Bolan planned to find out what.

Just as soon as he dealt with his tail. Bolan looked toward the entrance again and checked his rearview one more time before exiting the car. He walked around front, stepped onto the sidewalk and made his way to the nearest alley. He found a position in a darkened alcove, pressed his back to the wall and produced a Benchmade 810BK Osborne Contego combat knife. At 3.98 inches, the reverse Tanto-style blade was a perfect companion for urban close quarters combat.

It spoke tales of instant death in the hands of Mack Bolan.

A shadowy figure moved past Bolan a minute later. The soldier stepped from his spot and encircled the follower with a muscular forearm while his other hand jabbed the knife tip hard against the area around the right kidney. His quarry reacted with admirable speed by driving an elbow into where his ribs would’ve been, but Bolan knew the play and had already turned his body so the blow caught the fleshy part of his lower abdomen. He executed a flexing motion that completely cut off air in the woman’s windpipe.

“This is a small sample of what could happen to those who don’t play by the rules because they don’t know the game they’re playing.”

Bolan released Lakea Rusch and pushed her away just far enough that her back kick aimed at his shin or kneecap missed. He shook his head as he folded and sheathed his knife.

“You’re an ass,” she said, her voice a bit raspy as she rubbed at her throat.

“And you seem to have a hearing problem,” Bolan replied.

“Look—”

“No, you look,” Bolan said. “I told you in no uncertain terms how this was going to play out. You should’ve trusted me.”

“I don’t know you.”

“I saved your life. You know enough.”

“Yeah, but you’re not police. Even Johnny admits that much.”

“And because of that you don’t trust me,” Bolan finished.

“Right.”

“You won’t live long with that attitude.”

She cocked her head and smiled. “You talk like you know something about it.”

“I do. Look, we should be working on the same side. I’ve never considered the police my enemy, even though my methods admittedly skirt law and order.”

“Obviously,” she interjected, as she continued to rub her sore throat.

“But I also know what you’re up against, and you won’t win this fight on your own. These people are playing for keeps.”

“And who are these people?”

“Esparza for one.”

That caused Rusch to give pause. “So, you think he’s dirty?”

“After what happened in that alley, don’t you?” Bolan countered.

“I guess,” Rusch said with a sigh. “But I sure didn’t want him to be.”

“You can’t wish this away no matter how hard you try.” Bolan grimaced, hesitant to say more, but he felt it was the only way he could get Rusch to come around to thinking clearly about the situation. “And I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but what I’ve learned about Shalib Grec leads me to believe half the Chicago Police Department has a target painted on its back. The only way we can stop him from killing any more of this city’s finest is by going through Esparza to find him.”

“And you’re convinced Esparza’s here,” Rusch said, inclining her head. “At this club. Of all the places in this city.”

“I am.”

Rusch took a deep breath, sighed and studied Bolan for a time before finally nodding. “Okay, I’m willing to try this your way. What’s the plan?”

“I’m sure Esparza isn’t directly connected to a guy like Grec,” Bolan told her. “After all, Grec hates cops. My guess is that Esparza does know Axel Madera, and Madera owns this club.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.