Chicago Vendetta. Don Pendleton
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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.”