Thorpe had learned from previous surveillance the only structure on the property was a dilapidated barn, void of any human activity. An old metal farm gate blocked the drive another ten yards north of the property line. Thorpe used a small pair of bolt cutters on a section of barbed wire fence just to his left. He could have easily scaled the gate, but the act would create noise, and as his primary escape route, would also slow his departure.
Faintly illuminated by moonlight, he strode up the old drive, wincing when the occasional patch of gravel crunched under foot. Though not audible more than a few yards away, in Thorpe’s ears the noise sounded like thunder; his senses were hyperaware.
Thorpe followed the drive deeper into the woods until reaching a stone marker he lifted and tossed into the weeds. Turning and trekking into the thicket, he stopped and uncovered a large, water-resistant canvas bag, which he’d concealed under dead vegetation and fallen branches during an earlier scouting mission. Collecting the bag, Thorpe began picking his way through the trees. Spidery limbs and prickly vines grabbed at his clothing as he trudged toward the deserted barn. Winter-stripped of their canopy, the barren trees filtered enough moon and starlight so he could navigate without use of artificial light.
Stepping into a clearing, the barn loomed before him. Thorpe pulled open its rickety door and inspected the inky black with a flashlight. Drawing in a deep breath, Thorpe entered the darkness, removed equipment from the canvas bag, and began preparations.
Five minutes later, the creaky door burped Thorpe into the night; he made his way back southwest until he came to another barbed wire fence. There, he secreted himself inside the tree line with Marcel’s Cutlass twelve to thirteen yards directly in front of his place of concealment. The yellow glow from the distant streetlight didn’t reach his position and neither would the illumination from Marcel’s porch light if activated.
As a member of the Fifty-Seventh Street Hoover Crips, Marcel Newman was one of the “smarter dealers,” and directly responsible for several murders within the Tulsa area. He’d been charged with homicide twice; one of his victims was an innocent six-year-old girl who happened to be playing in a yard behind Marcel’s intended target. Charges were dropped after frightened witnesses refused to testify. Marcel Newman was a killer, and he associated with other known killers.
Thorpe’s Organized Gang Unit (OGU), along with Vice, had conducted a lengthy surveillance of Marcel’s activities. The operation had ended approximately a week and a half earlier with little result. During surveillance, officers noted Marcel would leave his grandmother’s house here and drive to a nearby convenience store where he would buy breakfast sandwiches and drinks. Afterward, he’d continue to his girlfriend’s apartment on the northeast side of town. Why Marcel arose so early and why he slept at his grandmother’s house was never determined.
The investigation did reveal one useful piece of information: Marcel left this residence every weekday at six in the morning. No exceptions. No one who led Marcel’s lifestyle should keep such regular patterns; one day it would come back to bite his ass. This was the day.
MARCEL WOKE AT 5:45 A.M., groggily pulled the blankets aside, and slung his legs over the edge of the bed. He reached and turned off an alarm radio blaring a nineties rap song, then slipped into his baggy black jeans, extra-long white t-shirt, puffy black coat, and Timberland boots—his “Tims.” Marcel liked to sleep at his nana’s house because it sat on a dead-end street, which decreased the likelihood of his rivals attempting a drive-by. Plus, he’d never conducted business at the residence so he wouldn’t likely be bothered in the middle of the night by an annoying search warrant service. In short, he felt safe at his grandmother’s house.
Marcel shuffled into the kitchen, pulled the refrigerator out a couple of feet, and reached around until he fingered a nylon holster secured to the back with duct tape. He slipped a Taurus 9mm Millennium Pro out of its cocoon and stood admiring the pistol’s weight. The weapon had a matte stainless-steel slide with a black-checked polymer grip. He’d had an acquaintance purchase the weapon for him at a gun show at the Tulsa County Fair Grounds; it was far superior to the Ravens and Jennings pistols most of his associates carried and well worth the 400-plus dollars he’d paid. The magazine held ten rounds plus another in the throat. At just over six inches in length, the weapon slipped easily into his coat pocket and could be withdrawn rapidly. Marcel dug his heels into the puke-green linoleum, pushed the heavy refrigerator back into place, walked to the front door, and flipped on the porch light. Swinging open the frost-covered storm door, he stood behind the threshold, uncommitted.
Marcel scanned the area, then offered himself to the dark, placid morning.
WHEN MARCEL ACTIVATED THE PORCH light, Thorpe was ready. He’d already used the same pair of bolt cutters to cut the three strands of barbed wire separating himself from the Cutlass. He watched Marcel cascade from the steps like an NFL halfback alighting from the team bus. At an inch or two under six feet, his foe was solid. Thorpe had been wise to bring along the weapon. Marcel probably fought like most any other gangbanger, his head down, swinging wildly with absolutely no technique. But one lucky punch slipping through Thorpe’s defenses could be devastating. It amazed him how some guys amassed so much muscle by sitting and smoking dope all day. During surveillance, his squad had never seen Marcel exercise once. Of course when a guy went to prison, the government ensured he got his requisite time with the weights. They generally entered society with an extra twenty pounds of muscle along with a reenergized hatred for authority.
As Marcel rounded the front of the Cutlass and stood near the driver’s side door, Thorpe watched through a red-dot scope as his target looked cautiously to the south. He kept the sight level as Marcel turned and peered directly at his position. Thorpe held his breath fearing the rising condensation would be visible in the frigid morning. Marcel seemed to shrug off whatever alarmed him and returned his attention to the car. Should have trusted your instincts, asshole. Thorpe sighted down and left from the edge of Marcel’s right shoulder, taking into account approximately four inches of coat insulation.
AS MARCEL STEPPED AROUND THE front of his Cutlass and stuffed his right hand into his pants pocket for the vehicle’s keys, he tried to shake the chill crawling its way up his spine. He turned back to his car, cupped his hands against the lightly frosted glass, and checked his backseat floorboard in one last salute to his paranoia. Seeing nothing, he took the key out of his pocket and inserted it into the lock.
Marcel heard it as much as he felt it—the thwack that drove his right shoulder forward. As the pain registered, he instinctively reached across with his left hand to probe for injury. Brain playing catch up, he attempted to retrieve pistol from coat pocket, finding his right arm unresponsive. Switching to his left, he was suddenly yanked back by the injured shoulder as if his body were conspiring against him. Marcel landed flat on his back; he tried to push himself up with his good arm when it was kicked out from under him. A boot crashed down on his injured arm. A knee pinned his other to the pavement. Above him loomed a masked man in coveralls. The dark figure pressed a large knife into the skin below Marcel’s left eye.
“If I wanted you dead, you would be. You make one sound, I’ll pop your fucking eye out and feed it to you.” Burning green eyes, remarkably brilliant in the darkness, reinforced the stranger’s threats.
NOT WANTING TO LINGER IN the street, Thorpe quickly gagged Marcel with a rag and duct tape. He rolled him over and cranked his left arm behind his back. The wounded right shoulder offered little resistance as Thorpe brought the wrists together and bound them with tape. He removed Marcel’s pistol, unzipped his own coveralls and secured the weapon. Then he directed his captive to draw up to his knees. Marcel complied, and Thorpe pulled him to his feet. When Thorpe spun Marcel around and pushed him toward the woods, a muffled cry emanated from beneath the tape. Apparently Marcel had hoped they’d be heading back to the house, with the stranger unaware his grandmother was inside. Marcel stumbled into the ditch and purposely fell to the ground; Thorpe would have to drag him the rest of the way. Off the street and in the shadows, Thorpe switched on a hands-free LED headlamp mounted on his forehead.