The man broke his grip and slumped back against the window, both hands pressed to his face, something between a sob and a scream coming through his hands. Cunningham shook the ruined eyeball from his fist, grabbed the hair on either side of the man’s head and rammed the head against the side window three times. Four. Five. The man went quiet, his hands falling away from his face, one ruined eye and one empty, bloody socket staring at Cunningham. Then the man slumped sideways to the floor, unconscious.
Cunningham sat up and undid the buckles holding his ankles. He rolled over the side of the box onto the blinded man, rolled him onto his stomach, jerked his arms behind him. Cunningham grabbed the leather cuffs off the floor of the van, buckled them around the man’s wrists. He made a quick check on the other three, but they were all dead.
Cunningham was just stepping from the van when the door to the garage went up and two squad cars sped down the ramp. They fanned out right and left of the van, braking, two cops in each unit, all four men jumping out, crouching down behind the squad car doors, guns extended.
“Freeze and show us your hands,” one shouted.
Cunningham wasn’t sure what had gone on, but based on the wild-ass ride over and then faint sound of gunfire he’d been able to hear while he was still inside the box, he figured it was a hairball. No point doing anything right now other than assuming the position. He held out his hands, turned to the van, and leaned against the side.
“Got four in the van,” he said. “Three dead, one cuffed. My name’s Cunningham. I’m a cop.”
“We’ll see,” said one of the cops, walking up behind him. “Just give me one hand, nice and easy.”
Cunningham let the cop take his wrist, but he was getting a little tired of being cuffed.
Lynch rolled past the car and then started running north up the sidewalk toward the pickup, crouching to keep behind the line of cars. When he could see the side of the truck two cars up, he slowed, his gun extended.
An arm reached out from under the truck, holding a rifle by the top of the barrel. It dropped the rifle in the gutter next to the curb.
“Chicago police!” Lynch shouted. “Slide out from under the truck. Slowly. Head and arms first.” Lynch looked across the street. No more firing from the Manning condo. No more firing from Ferguson’s position. No more firing that Lynch could hear anywhere.
Lynch saw a man’s head and arms extend from under the truck, the man easily sliding out, rising to his feet. He was Lynch’s age, shorter, maybe five-eight, compact, his face placid.
“Show me your hands,” Lynch said.
The man raised his hands, locked them behind his head.
“My work is finished, Detective Lynch. I am at your mercy. And I am sure there is much you want to know.”
Lynch heard a thud. Fisher staggered and groaned. Two more thuds milliseconds apart, and Fisher dropped to the ground.
Lynch squatted, spun, looking for a shooter, seeing nobody. The shots had to have come from across the street, from near Manning’s condo, but he couldn’t see anyone. He hadn’t heard the shots, just the sounds of the rounds hitting Fisher’s body. He turned back to Fisher. Blood was spreading all along Fisher’s right side and sputtered from his lips as he muttered something. Lynch leaned down to hear. The Act of Contrition.
“…for having offended thee, and I regret all my sins-” Fisher’s head fell to the side, his eyes open, no more blood bubbling from his mouth.
Chen was standing next to the car when Ferguson and Jenks got there.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Not sure we got Fisher,” said Ferguson.
“I got him,” said Chen.
“That’s swell,” said Jenks. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
Lynch was sitting on the curb next to one of the ambulances that were parked in front of Manning’s condo, arm bandaged, drugs kicking in, adrenaline wearing off. Crashing. Crime scene guys all over the place — Fisher’s truck, Manning’s place, down by the church. The fake Manning and the fake priest were under tarps down that way. The press were three deep behind the barricades at either end of the block, the commissioner and a crowd of department brass hanging out in the middle of the street where they knew the TV cameras could pick them up.
Cunningham walked up and sat down on the curb next to Lynch. “Get shot again? What’s that, twice this week?”
“Yeah. How you doing? You really rip some guy’s eye out?”
“Fuckers tase me, drug me, lock me in a damn box, and sit around talking about how they’re gonna waste me and frame me for all this shit. He’s lucky all I got a hold of was his eyeball.”
Starshak walked over, still in his raid gear.
“How you doing, Lynch?”
Lynch shrugged. “Alive. Way this thing’s gone, that seems pretty good.”
“How about you, Cunningham?” Starshak asked.
“Oh, I’m just dandy. Just fucking dandy.”
“Went about the way you figured, Lynch,” Starshak said. “Most of these guys, once we showed up, they sat it out. Had their orders, and I guess shooting it out with the cops wasn’t one of them. Got six in custody, nobody’s saying nothin’ to nobody. Hear there have already been some interesting calls from DC. Even some guy from the Israeli consulate wanting to take a look at the stiff in Manning’s window.”
“How’d our side make out?”
“That Weaver puke did most of the damage. Hit a couple of the guys on my stick on their way up to the door. Nothing serious. Leg wounds. He shot low. Either he was trying to do us a favor or he was trying to miss the body armor. Take your pick. He shot up a squad car couple blocks out, driver took one through the chest. They say he’ll pull through. We got lucky.”
“I heard Manning’s OK?”
“Had her trussed up in her bedroom.”
“So who was in the church?”
“Decoy I guess. Never did find Ferguson, or any of the rest of your buddies.”
“I’m OK with that.” Lynch nodded across the street at the tarp over the body by the pick-up truck. “So that’s Fisher?”
Starshak shrugged. “May never know for sure. Whoever it is saved your ass, taking the priest out — or the fake priest, I should say. Real priest is up in the rectory, neck’s broke. If it’s Fisher, he took three transverse through the right chest. Looks like small caliber.”
Lynch nodded. Chen. “Whole damn thing is just weird.”
An EMT walked up, leaned over. “We’re ready to transport you, detective.”
Lynch nodded.
“I’ll stop by later, I ever get out of here,” Starshak said.
“I’ll be fine,” Lynch said. “Probably sleep for a week or so.”
“Don’t sleep too late. OPS wants everybody downtown in the morning.”
“They may have to subpoena me to get my ass out of bed.”
CHAPTER 63 — WASHINGTON, DC
President Hastings Clarke sat behind the desk in the Oval Office. It was late. He’d come down from the residence after watching the television coverage of the events in Chicago. No mention of him yet, but the inquiries to his press people had increased exponentially from the already fevered pace of the past day. Tomorrow. He’d already been warned. His name would be in it tomorrow.
He ran his hand over the surface of the desk — a gift to the United States from the Queen of England, constructed from the planks of the HMS Resolute. The Resolute was a British ship on an Arctic research mission that got trapped in the ice. The ship was freed by an American whaler and returned to Great Britain. Queen Victoria ordered the desk made in thanks.
Clarke loved the desk. He loved the Oval Office. He loved being president. No more sucking up to the Rileys of the world. He had his own Rileys now. Weaver, for example. But his Riley had failed him.
Clarke opened the desk and took out the one reminder he had from his days with David Hurley. Hurley’s Walther PPK.