Reaper (17 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

June 25th

Max sat across from Chief Morris Flanders, in his office.  The changes in him since their last meeting were nothing short of remarkable.  His usual sharply creased uniform was wrinkled, his eyes were swollen and puffy from lack of sleep, the muscle tone in his face was all but gone, and he seemed to walk, stand, and sit hunched over.  Even his desk was a mess.

He waived Max off when Max started to go into the shootings he and Steve had been involved in.  “I know all about them, or enough about them anyway.  I’m more concerned right now with Homeland Security trying to take over the substation.”  He leaned forward, squinted, and pointed a finger. “Under no circumstances are you to allow them to do that, understand me?  If it wasn’t for you and the substation, we’d have no police department.  We can’t keep up with the calls for service now.  You absolutely have to keep things together.  Our people need to know their families are safe when they’re at work or they won’t come to work.”

“I’ll keep them safe, Chief, and DHS out,” Max said, hoping he could keep that promise.

“Do you need anything?”

Max was prepared for this.  “Yes.  I need transportation; a couple of marked SUV’s and a passenger van.  I want to start an armed shuttle service from the substation to here and back.  I could use some more money, too.  Not much, maybe another five grand.”

“Shuttle service …good idea …great idea.  I’ll call the garage and give the okay for the SUV’s and have them get you one of those ten-passenger vans.  That work for you?”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll also take care of putting more on the credit card I gave you, ten thousand.  This is going to go on for some time.  What else?”

“I want to top off the tanks powering the back-up generators.  We’ve had two outages so far.  One of the non-sworn is going to see what he can do about installing some temporary solar panels as well, but that’s still a ways off.”

The Chief nodded his head and jotted a note.

Max took a breath and went for the hard one.  “I also need some more pistols, carbines, and shotguns, along with ammunition, leather gear, and ballistic vests.”  He went on to explain how he was training some of the non-sworn to shoot and why.

The Chief spun his chair sideways and stared out the window, obviously thinking.  Max knew this was going to be a hard decision for him.  Max had even thought about not telling him and just doing his best at arming the non-sworn.

“Look, I’ll be frank with you, I don’t like it.  The lawyers would crap their pants at the mere mention of it.”  And then almost arguing with himself, “But that’s almost not a consideration anymore.”  He took a deep breath, audibly let it out, made eye contact and added, “But I also understand you’re reasons, and I trust you to make the right decisions.  It’s a completely different world out there right now.  We already have some neighborhoods blocking off streets with armed men at the barricades.  We’ve got shootings, stabbings,” he waived his hand at Max, “bombings, gang wars ….  So I guess I have to factor that in.  Whatever we can spare is yours,” he pointed his finger, “but don’t fuck things up.  I don’t want to give anyone a reason to take over control of the substation.  That idiot Godfrey has already spoken with several of the council members claiming you’re over your head, and, I’m sure, also promising them favors if he’s put in charge.”

“I won’t let you down, Chief.  I’ll pair non-sworn with sworn.”  He told himself to shut-up.  He got what he wanted.

Another deep breath.  “Okay, so now tell me how our injured are doing.”

When Max got back to the substation, there was a flatbed unloading a big stack of two by fours and plywood, under Will’s supervision.

“What’s this?” Max asked.

“Jessica’s doing.  Good idea, though.  Some of the residents were complaining about lack of privacy.  A husband of a records clerk is a carpenter and said he could build small, individual apartments, for lack of a better term, inside the building for about a hundred and fifty each.  Just plywood and two by fours, no ceiling, a curtain for a door, a hundred and twenty square-feet each; ten by twelve by eight high.  She’s got the money to do it.”

Max was going to tell him he thought it a good idea, too, but was interrupted by the sound of a fast approaching, low flying helicopter.  Both men stopped talking and looked in the direction of the sound.

A dark blue or black helicopter with DHS markings shot over the top of the building, banked, spun a one-eighty, and hovered for several seconds, before taking off again.

Max immediately looked to the gate, half expecting to see Homeland Security storm troopers stacking up, ready to bust in.  With his eyes on the gate, he said, “Shit.  When we gonna get that front loader?”

“For now, that’s the best I can do,” Will said.

Max looked in the direction Will was pointing and saw one of those trucks used for hauling rock, dirt, or sand, with a big blade added to the front of it.

“Why?” Will asked.

“Why?  I’m half expecting DHS to make an attempt to force their way in, is why.”

“Well, they ain’t getting past that.  There’s a load of sand in the back, probably nine, ten thousand pounds.  Added to the weight of the truck, it just ain’t gonna happen.”

“Can you pull it in front of the gate?”

“Now?”

“Yep, right now.  And leave the keys with the on-duty security team.”

Will shrugged his shoulders.  “Sure, if you think it’s necessary.”

Max said nothing further because he saw Walt Briggs crossing the lot.  “Hey Walt, you have anything going for the next hour or so?”

“No, why?”

“I need to pick up some vehicles and equipment down at the department.”

“Okay, well, just let me know when you’re ready,” Walt said.

Louis Espinosa drove Max, Walt, and Maureen to the police department to pick up the van, and the two San Jose P.D. marked SUVs.  While Louis headed back, the others stacked the ballistic vests, weapons, and ammunition in the back of the van.  Max climbed behind the wheel of one of the SUVs, advised Communications he was putting the vehicle in-service, but noticed he was just below half a tank of gas.  Thinking it would be smart to top-off the tank using the pumps at the P.D. rather than using the credit card at a gas station, he signaled the others to go on ahead, explaining he’d catch up with them at the substation.

As he pulled away from the pumps, the words of the Chief, “Don’t fuck things up,” crossed his mind, which in turn moved him to dial-up Walt and remind him to lock the guns and ammunition in the gun locker. Just as he turned out of the back gate heading down the alley toward San Pedro Street, Walt answered.

Max said, “Hey, Walt …” but stopped when he saw Lieutenant Godfrey, in full uniform, get out of a marked four-door Ford, step out into the alleyway, and put up a hand indicating Max should stop.

Instead of finishing his sentence to Walt, he said, “Now what does this asshole want?”

It crossed his mind that he should just ignore him and drive right on past, but talked himself out of it.  Godfrey was still a resident of the substation, even if only a part time one.  He had to at least pretend he cared.

“What asshole?” Walt asked.

“Godfrey.  He flagged me down.  Hang on.”

Max exited and as he got within a couple of steps of Godfrey he saw Tattoo and Shorty, the two DHS cops, step out from the adjacent entrance to the underground parking garage.  They quickly approached him, each grabbing an arm.

“We got a pick up order out on you, tough guy,” Tattoo said, smiling.  “You’re coming with us.”

“Hell I am,” Max said and kicked Shorty in the side of his knee, causing it to buckle and Shorty to cry out in pain.  This allowed him to free one arm and turn his attention on Tattoo, who had jumped on his back and was trying to apply a chokehold.  Max dropped his cell phone to free up both hands.

Tattoo had maneuvered behind Max, had his arm around Max’s neck, but hadn’t managed to accomplish the most important thing, getting Max off balance.  So Max dropped his weight straight down, stepped to the side with his right foot opening up his stance, followed by bringing his left foot to his right and then around behind Tattoo’s legs.  He brought his left fist down like a hammer into the DHS cop’s groin, heard the grunt and felt the reaction, brought his elbow above the same hand straight up into Tattoo’s chin, and swept his arm back, essentially flipping Tattoo over backwards.  Only, Tattoo had managed to halfway hold on to Max’s neck, taking him down, too.

Max was quick to get out of it, though, got to his feet, and was just about to deliver a boot to Tattoo’s ribs when he heard a popping sound and was immediately racked with pain so intense, it dropped him to the ground.

Max heard Godfrey say, “Cuff him, you idiot, and hurry before someone drives by.  Then put him in his car and get out of here.  I’ll meet you at the court house later.”

When they stood him up, Max saw Godfrey holding a stun gun with the wires still attached to the darts imbedded in Max’s back.  Godfrey disconnected the wires, turned away from Max and said, “You just wouldn’t go along with the program, would you?”

As Godfrey drove off, the DHS cops drug Max to the marked SUV and opened the back door.  Before putting him inside, Shorty said, “Turn him around a sec.”

When Max was facing them, Shorty delivered a short right hook to Max’s head, causing his knees to weaken and to almost lose consciousness.

“Come on, man, there’ll be plenty of time for that,” Tattoo said.  “Let’s get out of here.”

“Just wanted to warm him up a little.”

They shoved Max into the backseat, and Shorty climbed in beside him.  Tattoo drove the marked San Jose car out to San Pedro, turned left, and made the next right on Hedding Street.

As the shock and pain from Godfrey’s stun gun and Shorty’s fist began to wear off, it was replaced with anger so complete, so intense, it seemed his body temperature rose a hundred degrees.  His neck muscles swelled.  Sweat poured out across his chest and shoulders.  He strained against the handcuffs, oblivious to the pain it caused. 

He snuck a look at the door lock configuration to see if there was a button that would unlock the rear doors.  There was, and since these cars were generally reserved for command staff, and so normally wouldn’t be used to transport prisoners, the rear doors locking mechanisms may not have been deactivated as it was in most marked cars.  But he still wasn’t sure.  He’d never personally driven one before.  He figured it was his only reasonable chance, though; that or grabbing Shorty’s gun.

Max turned and faced Shorty.  “How’s the knee feel, dick head?  Hurt?  Bet I tore a ligament.”  Just moving his jaw made the whole side of his face throb.  It also seemed as if his teeth didn’t line up anymore, probably due to swelling.

Shorty turned sideways in his seat, grabbed Max’s shirt front, shoved his face right in Max’s, and said, “We got a real special place just for you, Calloway.  It makes Abu Ghraib look like a playhouse.  And before I go off duty tonight, go home to enjoy a nice big juicy steak dinner, I’m going to take you to this little room we got there.  It’s got no windows and lots of soundproofing.  It’ll be just you and me.  And I promise you, I’ll be the only one walking out the door.”

Tattoo made the turn onto North Fourth Street, and just as he did, Max threw all his strength into a head butt, driving the top of his forehead into Shorty’s nose.  He heard the satisfying crunch of disintegrating cartilage and felt the warm spray of blood all over him. As much as it hurt Max, too, he delivered another one to Shorty’s left eye socket and could have sworn he heard the bone breaking.  Shorty was out cold.

The pain to his own head was almost overwhelming, but he knew seconds mattered.  He had to get the door open and get out.  He slid his back to the door and felt first for the door handle.  Locked.  He next searched for the locking switch.  As he was doing that, Tattoo stepped hard on the brakes, causing Max to slide against the back of the front passenger seat and part way down onto the floorboard. With his hands cuffed behind his back, it was a struggle to get back up on the seat and into a position where he could reach the door lock.

He was still only half on the seat when he heard Tattoo getting out of the car.  An instant later, his passenger door was opened causing his head and shoulders to fall out.  Tattoo grabbed him by the back of his shirt and pulled him from the car, down onto the street.

The first kick landed mostly on Max’s upper arm and shoulder.  The second one, though, was a stomp to the ribs that knocked the wind out of him and made his head swim.  The rest, he was only vaguely aware of.

There was the sound of a car or cars braking.

Someone shouted, “Stop!”

He heard other sounds like movement, maybe running, because it seemed to fade.

After what seemed a long time, but was probably only seconds, he started getting his wits and his breath back.  He was beginning to think again.  The beating had stopped.  The pain was subsiding …a little.  He got the feeling that Tattoo was no longer there.

When he rolled onto his side and sat up, he was again racked with pain, and it crossed his mind that maybe he had a broken rib.  Despite all that, he rocked himself up onto his knees, got one foot on the ground, and managed to gain his feet.  That’s when he saw a second San Jose marked SUV and the white, ten-passenger van stopped in the street.  Looking around, he observed Walt and Maureen escorting a bleeding and handcuffed Tattoo back toward him.