The Filthy Few: A Steve Nastos Mystery (23 page)

Vince checked the exits and saw they were blocked. Each biker gang had a door controlled by a large man who had co-opted the responsibility of security. Vince checked the bar and saw a man, a Hells Angel, in a heated discussion with the owner, Jen. She was brushing her hair back, pursing her lips and cringing while he jabbed a finger at her. A feeling of dread washed over him. She wasn't going to call the cops. All he wanted her to think about was getting out of here alive before the gunfire started.

Between the heavy beats and pulses of light, Vince saw Nastos, ducking down at a table. He moved and saw that he was with two other men, Morrison and the lawyer. They were trapped too. Someone bumped into him hard and when he turned around he saw that it was someone from his gang, who didn't look happy.

It was Miles. Long black hair, facial hair so black he had the illusion of a full beard in two days of not shaving. A thick jaw and full lips. The guys call him Face. His good looks drew women's attention almost as much as the Harley and gang tattoos. He was a man Vince both liked and respected. Miles growled, “Drop by for a cheese sandwich?”

“What?”

“Word is you're a fucking rat, Vince. We got a text from Christian over an hour ago that he thought you were setting him up. You didn't like him taking the top job. He told us to come here. We show up and two chapters of the fucking Angels are already inside. You tell me you're not a rat?”

Vince shrugged.

“And where the hell in Christian?”

Vince considered his options. “Here. I'll show ya.”

He pulled out his gun and fired two rounds into Miles' perfect face. As Miles fell backward the dancer on the stage froze in place as gore from the dead man's brains dribbled down her legs.

30

Karen was crouching behind a black SUV in the parking lot. The air had become cooler than the dew point and droplets of water were welling up like frigid tears on the hood of the vehicle. She had given Nastos the only chance she could and she hoped that it was enough. She pulled out her BlackBerry and checked for messages for what felt like the twentieth time. Nothing. She decided to keep it in her hand. At this point it was more useful than the gun she held, still loosely pointed at the front door of the Boom Boom Room. So far she had received no return message from Viktor, nor had she heard from Jacques since she had told him that it was all going down here and now.

Then a car, a black Chevy Impala, screeched to a halt in the parking lot. Jacques bolted from the driver's seat but slowed after he had run a few paces. He must have been expecting a wild west shootout or dozens of shell-shocked people milling around. Instead there was no one except Karen hiding behind an
SUV
.

“Karen?”

She waved frantically and he reluctantly jogged over. “What the hell, Karen? I was expecting World War Three.”

“Trust me, it's happening right now.”

“All I hear is stripper music. Aerosmith, I think.”

“Did you call the cops?”

He exhaled and turned a crinkled face to her. “Oh yeah, I called. Any minute now about forty cops, the Emergency Task Force, K
9
, you fucking name it, the entire Toronto Police Service is going to get here and take turns laughing in my face.” He shook his head and made a sound of disgust. He had a cigarette halfway out of a pack when he noticed her gun. “Jesus Christ, Karen, you might want to put that thing away before the cops get here.”

She twisted the gun sideways and jammed it up to his face. “Smell it.”

He recoiled, “Holy shit.” Inadvertently he did inhale and obviously smelled the burnt gunpowder.

“I fired rounds off for a reason, Jacques. Nastos is down there with the bikers. They are going to kill him. I was on a concrete staircase, a fatal funnel, or I would have charged. But with you —”

“With me?”

“Well, the two of us, maybe we can give it a try.”

“I'm not even supposed to be here. I was told to go to Windsor, remember? Good thing I was late leaving.”

“Intuition.”

“You can't be a cop and not believe in it.”

“If this turns out to be bogus . . .”

“The worst they can do is put me in uniform and make me work nights. Big deal.” He shrugged. “The road is where the action is.”

They waited in silence until the first of the sirens could be heard. The rapid high-low pulse echoed from the buildings and the road itself.

To an officer in need of assistance, in a fight for one's life, the directionless cry of sirens was the sound of angels, brothers and sisters in uniform. Karen had felt it before while in life-and-death struggles with crack addicts in Fifty-One Division. Those days felt like a century ago. Now, with the love of her life unarmed and trapped in a concrete cage by the Filthy Few, there could not be a more welcome sound.

The first cruiser lurched to a stop deep within the parking lot, making room for the others that soon followed. The first officer slowly climbed out of the car, a shorter stocky man with a shaved head and strong jaw. He had as much an expression of confusion as Jacques had had just a moment ago.
Another false alarm
, he must have been thinking.

Jacques jabbed a finger at Karen's gun. “I said put that thing away. Now let me do the talking.”

Karen concealed the gun. It was just another in a long line of signs that she was divorced from the family.

Jacques approached the cop with his badge held up high. Karen followed, the gun feeling like an anchor in her pocket.

Jacques spoke first. “Detective Lapierre, I called this in.”

Karen stood back, watching as he took control, sacrificing his career on her say-so despite knowing her to be a sell-out. He waited until a group of half a dozen officers gathered around him. Most were too young for this sort of work. How could a twenty-five-year-old be prepared to shoot someone to death and have it not affect him forever? How could they be prepared to die when they had only begun to live?

Jacques turned sideways, keeping an eye on the bar. “There are plainclothes officers and armed private security officers in the basement in a gunfight with an outlaw motorcycle gang. It's going to be hard to know who is who, but they need our help.”

The first officer asked, “What are you asking us to do?”

“It's going to be a gunpoint takedown on everyone. And to be honest, our guys will drop their guns if we get in there and take control of the place. So we're going to treat this as an active shooter and flood the rooms.”

Another officer, an older woman, pointed out, “Maybe we should just wait for Tac. They are on the way.”

Jacques ignored her. “You and you,” he pointed to two cops, “Take the back corners and arrest and search any male who leaves the place. No one leaves here without giving a statement. I want two guys at every exit. Double up, both on one side of the breach, and protect each other. I want the next cops coming in to shut down the roads and I'll take command until the Duty Inspector gets here. I need one officer to record every licence plate in the parking lot then start up each street for three hundred metres.”

The young cops looked around at each other, trying to decide whether or not they were going to respect this stranger's orders. The female cop asked, “If this is an active shooter, how come we don't hear anything?”

“Yeah, that's right. And we need more guys here before we go in anyways,” another said.

Karen turned sharply back to the bar. She thought she had heard something. Her eyes were drawn to the valance and its silhouettes of women with exaggerated curves and pouty lips, the polyester material pulsing in the wind. Maybe that was all it was. The contrast of the black women on the white screen was the last thing she remembered seeing before all hell broke loose. The front double doors of the Boom Boom Room burst open and there were men and naked women pouring out and the sounds of loud music, screams, breaking glass and gunfire.

Karen hit the deck behind a minivan and was joined by Jacques. She watched as the police vainly tried to stop the rushing crowd, then relented and also took positions of cover behind vehicles. The thunderous gunfire filled Karen with dread. She visualized the bullets ripping into Nastos' body and knew in her heart that he could not survive in there. The last time she had heard that kind of continuous volley of fire was on a gun range. But here, outside the building, it reminded her of a Canada Day fireworks display. A gale of images whipped through her mind of bullets tearing into flesh, bones fragmenting and heads coming apart.

“Steve is in there,” she said.

“I know,” Jacques replied. She glanced down the road, hoping to see a Tac van. They'd have ballistic shields, an armoured truck. But she knew those options were useless. No Tac Team would go in there while this was going on. Nastos was on his own in there.

When the gunfire began Nastos hit the floor, pulling Carscadden and Morrison down with him. The floor was sticky, coated in god knew what mixed with stale beer and dirt. The table they had ducked under was made of a metal frame and cheap particleboard, providing neither cover nor concealment. The gunfire was deafening but surprisingly, the music was louder. He reached out toward the stage and saw that under it were massive subwoofers, base speakers that thumped so loud it felt like he was getting kicked in the chest. He saw that they were partially covered with a curtain. He pulled it back and saw space.

He turned back to Carscadden. “Follow me.” He crawled on his elbows under the stage, having to drop his ass down to stuff himself inside. Once behind the speakers it was quieter, but from underneath he could hear stray bullets blasting through the stage and ricocheting in every direction. The ground itself vibrated. He had no idea where he was going but Carscadden was following and that was all that mattered. If Morrison was back there, all the better. He aimed for what should be the back of the stage, scraping and banging his knees on framework and gouging his back on the splinters caused by the bullets that had come through the stage above.

He felt a hand grip his ankle and turned. “What?”

“Maybe we can wait it out in here.”

Nastos considered it. Then a few rounds split through the stage in front of him leaving beams of red light. “No, we keep moving until we get backstage.”

There were shouts of men from everywhere then a snapping bang-bang-bang as someone ran across the stage. The man's foot sank through the stage, getting caught when he tried to pull it out. Nastos barely had time to enjoy the humour of it — the big, tough man dropping like a klutz. Stuck like that, he essentially became an easy target on the stage and his writhing body became a bullet magnet for the other side as he struggled to pull free. All Nastos could do was suck down near a speaker and wait for the bullets to find their target and shred him to pieces before he moved forward again. Eventually the body attached to the leg came crashing down on the stage and the foot popped back up. There was an awful crunch of the leg dislocating at the knee and drips of blood pooling on the floor below.

When Nastos hit a brick wall he veered to the left, which was north and away from the door they had come in and nearer the back of the stage where they had been aiming. The shooting was more sporadic now. It seemed like the survivors were identifying members from the other side and finishing them off with headshots.

It almost became quiet when someone shouted, “Cops outside. Cops are here.”

It would be easy for a biker not known to police, a reprobate or hang-around to drop his gun, strip off his coat and just run outside. He could provide a phony name, give a statement and probably make a run for it. Nastos had basically the same idea. He spun around and saw that both Carscadden and Morrison were behind him, frantic and panting. After a moment of silence Nastos looked out from the curtain. There was an exit maybe twenty feet away, wide open, as inviting as free money. All he had to do was stand up in the middle of a shooting gallery, surrounded by a couple dozen armed psychopaths and make a run for it.

He took a moment and crept out a little further. The room was silent. Bodies lay everywhere. The bar smelled like a gun range, burnt black powder and cordite. And with the moving of a fan he detected another layer of smell, of open intestines, the copper smell of blood and burned skin.

Both Carscadden and Morrison remained silent as Nastos took his time. He had edged his entire body out from under the curtain, lying on his back. The gun he had taken from Morrison had eight rounds left in it.

He whispered, “Looks clear.” He glanced down at his right arm. It didn't hurt as much if he kept his hand and wrist still. The bleeding had slowed and it was only weeping blood.

He handed the gun to Carscadden. “There's an alcove near the door. I'll wait there.”

“What's this for?” Carscadden looked at the gun as if he'd never seen one before.

“I can't run and shoot at the same time. If I don't draw any fire, wait ten seconds then you go.”

Carscadden reached out and pulled Nastos close. He didn't say anything. They just looked each other in the eye.

Nastos said, “Yeah, I know. Come on now, for the girls.”

Nastos rose to a crouch and glanced around one last time. When he saw no movement he made his move. Only now he noticed how quiet it was. With the music gone and the din of gunfire that left the air feeling thick and hot now quiet, there was only the sound of his footsteps. Once around the corner he screeched to a stop. Sitting slumped against the door was Vince. In his left arm was the body of a woman. She was wearing all black, her thick, curly hair drawn back from her pale lifeless face. Mouth open, eyes vacant, she had been shot in the head. The blood pooled everywhere. Vince was in rough shape, wheezing as he worked to breathe, yet he still had the strength to hold a gun up to Nastos, who froze in his tracks.