Kill Zone: A Lucy Guardino FBI Thriller (9 page)

“It’s just that we’ve heard chatter about the cartels looking for new routes to expand east of the Mississippi. Detroit, Philly, and Baltimore top the list of potential operation centers. My bet was on Detroit. With the kind of money a cartel has, they could buy the PD and police union, fire all the honest cops, and run the entire city within a week. The way things are up there, the citizens might even be better off.”

“Detroit, Philly and Baltimore are all port cities.”

He nodded at her like she was an exceptionally bright student. Lucy decided to let it pass. They had more important things to worry about than her ego. “Right. Control one of those ports and a cartel would have a backstage all-access pass to the entire Eastern seaboard.”

Pittsburgh wasn’t exactly a “seaboard” city. It had three rivers and tons of barge traffic that went from the Ohio River to the Mississippi and Missouri rivers. But she doubted that counted.

Haddad continued, “All that bullshit about tunnels and submarines filled with drugs? Just the tip of the iceberg, believe me. They’ve already infiltrated California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, moved up into Colorado and the Pacific Northwest. But the real prize is east of the Mississippi. Own that real estate and you’ve hit the jackpot as far as the cartels are concerned.”

“Let’s leave exotic narcoterrorist schemes aside and concentrate on the threats you and Raziq received.” Lucy said.

He shrugged. But his detachment didn’t make it to his face. He looked worried, as if he’d missed something. Something that had left two girls dead and the rest of their family in danger. “We’ve been through all this with Jenna. There’s no one.”

He wasn’t giving her much to work with if she wanted to get Fatima and the baby back alive. Lucy ground her teeth together, a bad habit. Still too many possibilities, too many directions the threats could have come from.
 

Then Haddad asked the question she’d been dreading. “Do you think Fatima and Ali are dead already? Or would they keep them alive, use them as bait to get Raziq?”

<><><> 

Text message received at 1812:

Cinqo: Ready.

Z: Bring it down.

Another text, this time to his man following the federales: Close the trap. Bring R to me.

He tapped the last character and smiled. Ten men had brought the city of Mumbai, a metropolis of twenty million, to its knees during the terrorist attacks of 2008.

He had twice that many, plus the gangbangers to use as cannon fodder.

Pittsburgh didn’t stand a chance.

Chapter 10

“Nice to see some familiar faces,” Andre said when Mad Dog and his two boys were half way across the street. More to let the Doc know he had things under control than anything else.
 

Funny thing was, for the first time since being evac’d from Hajji Baba, Andre actually did feel in control. No panic, no dread apprehension as he waited for the pain of the next procedure or the next person who looked at him like he was less than human. Most of all, no sense that anything Mad Dog or the Rippers said or did could affect his life.

He’d finally done what Grams had urged him to do all those years ago when he first began running with the Rippers. He’d risen above them and become a better man.

Not a good man, never that, not with the voices of seven dead Marines and twenty-three dead schoolgirls rattling through his brain. But better than these street dogs? Hell yeah. Roger that.

Mad Dog stopped a safe distance away and tilted his head, staring at Andre’s mask. Then he flashed a grin, complete with gold grill spelling out his initials. Did he have any idea how stupid he looked?
 

“Wasn’t sure you’d remember yo’ old friends,” he said, his tone one of rebuke. “Sho haven’t shown us any love since you been back.”

“Busy. Grams needed taking care of.” Andre took two steps towards home, gauging their reaction. He didn’t want anything they were selling, so best to just part ways here and now.

“Well, we’s gots somethings need takin’ care of, too. Darius wants to see you.”

“Sorry, Grams is waiting.” Darius had brought Andre into the Rippers when he was twelve. Taught him everything he needed to know to stay alive on the street—including how to take a fall for the OG’s like Darius when the cops came knocking. When he’d left the Rippers eight years ago, first to Juvie then to the Marines, Darius had run this block. From the way MD talked, it sounded like Darius had moved up in the ranks to major shot caller.
 

Mad Dog jerked his chin and his two boys sidled to block Andre’s path. “She needs to wait a little longer. You don’t want to keep Darius waiting. No sir.”

Andre didn’t move. He simply blinked at MD. He realized the advantage there was in facing another man while wearing a mask. Andre could read every emotion that crossed MD’s face but Mad Dog got nothing in return. Andre’s finger caressed the Beretta’s trigger guard. He could take them all out—
pop, pop, pop
—and be halfway home before their bodies hit the ground.

Easier than taking out the trash.

He actually considered it for a moment—a fleeting pleasure, a quiet fantasy. Most of his time at war was made up of so many moments like this: more about imagining what could be rather than actual doing. Because when the shit rained down, the doing was so automatic there was no thinking. No time for anything except remembering to breathe between the bullets and for doing whatever it took to keep his men safe.

Seeing Mad Dog and the other Rippers, he was tempted. So damn tempted. What was the worst anyone could do to him? Lock him up? Solitary confinement? Hell, he was already there.

 No. He needed to keep the peace—couldn’t put Grams in the crossfire.

“Where's Darius at?” No way was Andre getting into a vehicle with these punks.

“Just across the way at Kujo’s.”
 

Kujo’s was an old three story house—once white, now painted Ripper red with that gingerbread trim the Doc was talking about—that the Rippers had taken over from an old man after his wife had died, literally forcing the poor guy out of his own home. Back when Andre had been with them it was a stash house, but Darius always talked about making it his own. His “HQ” he’d called it, like he was Ruby Avenue’s answer to Donald Trump.

“Ten minutes,” Andre said as he slid his finger away from the Beretta’s trigger. “I’ll give Darius ten minutes.”

The three men crowded and jostled against Andre as they pushed across the street. Like they were still on the school playground, vying for the title of King of the Hill. Andre just shrugged it off.
 

Darius had fortified Kujo's with metal shutters and two guards on the porch. Mad Dog nodded to them and they were granted entrance.

The interior of the old Victorian style house had been redone in classic Ripper fashion: spray painted graffiti, disco ball spinning where the dining room chandelier used to hang, antique dining room table now serving as a catwalk where two naked women, one black, one white, danced as jeering men watched. The dining room chairs had been removed to make more room for men to stand.
 

Across the hall the front parlor was jammed with sofas and chairs of every design where Rippers relaxed, getting lap dances, blow jobs, cleaning their guns, smoking meth or crack with the women, or playing video games on the large plasma screen TV that blocked the front of the fireplace.

Different music blared from each room, competing with the gunshots from the video game and making Andre’s teeth ache. All the women were naked, even the one who greeted them at the front door like a hostess at an upscale restaurant and ushered Andre and Mad Dog to the only interior room with a proper door still on it.
 

“Darius is waiting for you,” she said, eyeing Andre with open curiosity. She was gorgeous. Light skinned black or dark skinned Hispanic or some delicious mix of both. Generous breasts, thick lips and wide smile, black hair flowing down to her waist except where she had it pinned up in curls and braids and what-not to frame her face. “Can I get you gentlemen anything?”

“Nah, Giselle, we good.” MD opened the door, motioned for Andre to go before him.

Andre hesitated, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light and taking a look before committing. The room was a library—or had been in a past life. The floor to ceiling oak shelves were still filled with books, there was a large fireplace and elegant velvet drapes. The couch was squared-off and modern; black leather and chrome—Darius’ idea of style—and in the center of the room was a round glass-topped table with two black leather upholstered chairs. Darius waited in one chair, sipping champagne from a gold-rimmed flute. He nodded to the other chair for Andre.

“He strapped,” MD told Darius. Andre wasn't surprised he knew; it wasn't like the M9 was small enough to conceal. Andre stood tall, daring Mad Dog to try to take the Beretta from him.

“That's okay,” Darius said dismissively, as if he were bulletproof.

Andre stepped into the room. Mad Dog followed and closed the door behind him, leaving his goons on the other side. Giselle moved to refill Darius’ glass and poured one for Andre, bending over as she set it down, a well-practiced seductive pout crossing her features.
 

She started to sit on Darius’ lap, but he shooed her off and she sat on the couch instead, stretching her long legs in their six-inch stiletto heels along its length.
 

“Andre,” Darius said without standing. “Good to see you back.” His gaze ranged over Andre’s body. “In more or less one piece.”

Andre couldn’t answer, not right away. Giselle had distracted him. It’d been a long time…too long. She smiled and blinked slowly at him, the light from the chandelier sparkling off her eye makeup. Then she reached behind her and brought out a glass pipe that she lit with a rhinestone covered lighter. Crack or meth. No wonder she was so bright and eager to please. Just a strawberry, whoring her body for another hit.

“Who knew the trick to keeping the women in line was so simple?” Darius said as Andre stared. “Keep ‘em naked. I’m making almost as much money off the ho’s as the dope these days. ‘Cept of course for the product they inhale and the freebies for the crew. Still, not a bad business model.”

Darius fancied himself an entrepreneur. No wonder he’d graduated to the head of the Rippers’ food chain. Andre slid his gaze from Giselle to examine his former mentor. Darius had brought Andre into the Rippers when Andre was just a kid and taught him everything he needed to know to survive... right up until the moment when Darius had betrayed him, and left Andre to rot in jail for something Darius had done. But that was just Darius being Darius. Nothing personal.

Unlike the bangers outside, Darius was dressed in a designer suit.  He wore gold rings on each finger, a gold silk shirt unbuttoned almost to his waist, gold chains draped around his neck. A cross between the Godfather and a pimp. Probably exactly the look Darius was aiming for.

“Before we get started, Andre,” he said, in a condescending tone that made Andre itch to pop him a good left jab just on basic principle. Darius was only a few years older than Andre, but always talked like he was the shot-caller and Andre was a know-nothing punk. “I don’t do business with men except face to face. Take off the mask.”

Giselle sat up in anticipation, eyes wide as she took one long drag on the glass. Mad Dog made a snickering noise and shifted to the side so he could watch as well. Darius leaned back in his chair and sipped champagne.

Andre suddenly understood what a zoo animal must feel like, all those humans gawking. Except Darius and the others weren’t human. They were monsters just like he was. But where Andre’s humanity had been stolen from him, scorched away inch-by-inch, Darius and his crew had surrendered theirs willingly. Sold their souls.

Anger seared through Andre and he wondered if the Doc was still watching his vitals. He wished he’d never left the phone on. Too late now. But this rage he felt was very different than the shame and fear and humiliation that kept him from leaving the house because he couldn’t bear for people to see the monster he’d become.

There was none of that shame here.
 

“I said take off the mask,” Darius repeated. “Now.”

He thought he was ordering Andre. It almost made Andre smile. Because as soon as the mask came off, Andre would be the one set free.
 

He nodded to Darius and peeled off his gloves. They were made of the same special compression material as his mask and the long sleeved shirt he wore. Back in Hajji Baba his Nomex shooting gloves had protected his hands, so they weren’t too badly damaged. Lost the left pinky finger, but thanks to a few surgeries and a lot of intensive rehab, both hands functioned. He folded the gloves into his pocket then raised his arms to carefully undo the mask.

It had taken five months of PT and three surgeries to release scars and muscle contractures enough to allow him to raise his arms above his shoulders, but Andre’s audience didn’t appreciate the feat. They were waiting for the finale.

The compression mask was custom fitted to his face and head. It couldn’t be put on or removed quickly. Andre felt like a stripper teasing the crowd as he slowly, careful of the sensitive nubs of tissue where his ears used to be, inched the mask off.