Greed: A Detective John Lynch Thriller (34 page)

 

Just before he got to the door, Lynch saw al Din spin, fire again. Nothing Lynch could do, just hold his ground, aim. First shot hit something metal. Lynch heard the sound. The second tore through the fabric of Lynch’s coat sleeve, just below the left shoulder. Either it didn’t hit him or he didn’t feel it yet. Lynch figured if the little fuck was gonna shoot at him with a .22, then he’d better hit him solid.

Lynch fired, the first round hitting al Din high in the right chest, near the shoulder, al Din not skipping a beat, just switching his weapon to the left hand, starting to bring it up. Lynch fired again, center chest. That drove al Din back into the door, al Din sliding down, leaving a smear of blood behind on the green metal.

Lynch came out from behind the car, gun up, closed on al Din. He saw al Din look down at his weapon, start to raise his left arm, trying to bring the gun up. Lynch emptied the rest of his clip into the bastard’s chest, everything hitting on the midline between his collarbone and belt buckle. Al Din’s hand opened, the pistol dropped, and he slumped to the side, his eyes fixed and open.

 

Lynch ran around the front of the car, slid to a stop next to Bernstein, who was on his back gasping. Lynch looked for a wound, saw nothing. Then Lynch saw the hole in the breast pocket of Bernstein’s blazer. He lifted the coat open, looking for an entry wound, nothing, a small tear in the shirt, a little blood from a shallow gash.

Something fell from the pocket of Bernstein’s blazer. His iPhone, the screen shattered, the silver back of the device dented, split open a little at the apex of the dent.

“I should have let the fucker live,” Lynch said. “He killed your damn phone. Fucking thing saved your life.”

Bernstein tried to laugh, grunted in pain, drew in a shallow breath. “There’s an app for that,” he said.

 

CHAPTER 90

 

On six, Hickman and Lafitpour emerged from the cars they had been hiding behind.

“What the fuck?” Hickman said.

Lafitpour said nothing, still holding his phone.

“You can hang up now,” Hardin said. “Transfer the funds.”

“We had nothing to do with this,” Lafitpour said.

“I know. It was Hernandez. Transfer the fucking money. We don’t have much time.”

Lafitpour pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, started dialing. “Damn,” he said, killing the connection, starting again.

Hardin pressed the muzzle of his gun to the center of Lafitpour’s forehead. “Concentrate,” he said.

Lafitpour dialed the number in one try, made the transfer. “Done,” he said.

Hardin looked to Wilson. “Wanna watch them a second?”

She leveled her S&W at the two men.

Hardin holstered his pistol, pulled out his phone, called Fouche.

“Can you confirm the transfer?” Hardin asked.

“I’ve been watching the screen,
mon ami
; it just hit your account.”

“OK. Start spreading it around. If somebody tries to take it back, I don’t want them to find anything.”

“In five minutes, there will be no trace and no trail.”

Hardin hung up, looked at Lafitpour. “Give me your phone.” Looked at Hickman. “You too.” They handed their phones to Hardin and he threw them over the wall onto Wells Street.

“We’re leaving,” Hardin said. “You’re not. If I see you following us, hell, if I see you ever, it isn’t going to end well.”

Hardin and Wilson turned and walked toward the stairwell. Cab would be safer than the Honda now.

Just before they reached the door, they heard a shout echo up the ramp from the floor below.

“Al Din! Police!”

Then gunfire.

“That’s between us and out,” Wilson said.

“Hate to get shot now that I’m rich,” Hardin said.

“And things were going so well,” she answered.

They ran for the stairs.

CHAPTER 91

 

Lynch heard another engine coming up the ramp fast, then tires slamming to a stop, doors opening. He stood, looked back over the roof of the Crown Vic, saw a white Lexus parked in the middle of the lane, all four doors open, four shooters getting out, three with submachine guns, one with a pistol.

Lynch grabbed Bernstein under the arms and dragged him away from the Crown Vic into the line of parked cars toward the inside wall. Bernstein grunted, his teeth clenched, clutching his chest, but as Lynch dragged him, he grabbed the pistol he’d dropped when the round hit him. Bernstein pushed with his feet, the two of them scrambling behind the engine block of an old Buick just as the first burst tore into the sheet metal.

The four gunmen were only fifteen yards back, and closing fast. Lynch had already punched out the clip he’d emptied into al Din, slammed in a new one. One more clip left after that. Couldn’t waste rounds, but he couldn’t let these guys just close on him, either. He reached up over the hood of the Buick, picking the line from his visual memory, squeezed off three quick shots.

Bernstein rolled to his stomach, fired a couple rounds from under the car, aimed at legs, clipped one guy on the calf, a shout in Spanish, the guy hopping into a line of cars toward the inside of the garage, another guy, the driver, bobbing into the same row. The two from the passenger side went right, toward the wall.

“We don’t get some backup, we’re fucked,” Lynch said.

“Called it in when we entered the garage, figure a couple minutes,” Bernstein said.

Another burst ripped into the Buick, closer this time, better angle.

“Be about a minute more than we got,” Lynch said.

Lynch hit the ground and rolled to the back of the Buick, watching the floor on that side, looking for legs, looking for the two guys who’d moved in toward the wall. Bernstein wedged himself as far under the front end as he could, watching the right for the other two shooters.

Another burst, from the left this time, glass from the windows dropping on Lynch.

Lynch saw a foot, aimed, fired. Someone screaming in Spanish.

Another burst, the bad guys learning their lesson, somebody on Lynch’s side had laid his gun flat on the floor and pulled the trigger, rounds zipping along the floor, popping noise and then a long, fading hiss from the rear tire on the other side of the car.

“Son of a bitch,” Lynch grunted. One round had skipped up, ripped a bloody line down the outside of his right thigh.

 

Hardin covered the stairway down to four while Wilson looked through the narrow, wire-meshed window out into the fifth floor of the garage.

“Got a couple cops pinned down by a Crown Vic in the middle lane. A guy named Lynch and another guy.”

“You know them?” Hardin asked.

“Know him a little,” she said. A pause. “We leave, they die.”

Hardin closed his eyes a minute, swallowed, then nodded. They were who they were and they had done what they’d done, but Wilson had been a cop for a decade now, a good one. Hardin knew she couldn’t walk away from this and live with it. Truth be told, neither could he.

“OK,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Wilson nodded, looked back out the window. “Crown Vic is the cops. Got a white sedan on the far side, four shooters, looks like three with subs and a handgun.”

A single shot from the cops’ position, one of the bad guys gave out a yell, hopped into the line of cars across the center aisle, another bad guy following him. The other two moved between the cars on the near side, toward Hardin and Wilson. One of them straightened up, put a burst on the Buick, then a single shot from the cops, more cursing in Spanish, on their side this time. Then a burst from across the aisle.

“We take the two on our side first,” Wilson said.

Hardin nodded.

“Ready?”

He nodded again.

Hardin grabbed the door handle. It would open from Wilson’s side. She stood back a step, her S&W steady, waiting for a line. Hardin pulled the door back slowly, felt a weight pushing it. Al Din’s body fell into the stairwell, shot to hell.

Wilson went through the door, hugging the wall, working for an angle. Hardin came out behind her.

One of the shooters on the far side shouted something in Spanish, turned toward Hardin and Wilson, fired a round that splattered into the concrete wall between them. Hardin knew better than to rush. You got shot, you didn’t get shot, not much you could do about that. But if you kept your shit together, aimed, you’d at least hit what you were shooting at. Nothing fancy, center mass. Hardin fired, drilling the guy just below the solar plexus, dropped him in his tracks.

A guy with an MP5 popped up two cars in front of them, firing wild, the first rounds hitting into the back quarter of a minivan, just right of Wilson, the guy trying to adjust, swinging the gun her way, his finger still locked on the trigger, the glass in the minivan busting out as the bullets tracked toward her. Wilson didn’t even flinch, just aimed and put her first shot into the middle of his face. Two down.

 

Lynch and Bernstein heard the new shooting on their left. Bernstein saw the shooter on the far side catch a round in the gut and go down.

“Cavalry’s here,” he said.

“But who are they?” answered Lynch.

“You care?”

“Nope.”

Lynch looked ahead under the car. “Can’t pick a target on this side. Let’s light up the other fucker over your way, at least keep him out of the game.”

Bernstein nodded; they both rose, squatting at the hood, firing right. Lynch’s leg tried to buckle on him, so he leaned into the car, keeping the weight on his good side.

 

The other shooter on Wilson’s side popped up, right along the wall, his short burst just missing her, slamming into the windshield of the minivan. Wilson hit the floor, spun, looking for his legs.

Hardin heard the burst, saw Wilson drop, didn’t know whether she’d been hit or not. Brought both guns to bear on the guy by the wall just as the guy saw Hardin. Hardin put six shots into the guy’s chest just as the guy pulled the trigger on him. The guy dropped, Hardin felt his left arm yank back, lost the pistol in that hand, then felt the burn. Caught at least one round high up, close to the shoulder.

“I’m OK,” Wilson called.

Hardin twisted, looked across the aisle. Should be one more shooter over there. He saw the first guy he’d hit, gut shot guy, rolling toward the aisle, reaching for his weapon. Hardin lined him up and put two in his brain pan, saw the last guy coming out. Hardin fired again, three rounds hitting the target high center mass before the slide locked back. Empty.

Hardin went to reach for his spare magazine with his left hand, but his left arm wasn’t working. Felt more pain then. Hardin dropped the empty pistol from his right, squatted down, picked up the one he’d lost when he got hit. Didn’t know what he had left in that one.

Nobody was shooting, nobody was moving.

Wilson was back up, gun out, swiveling. “That everybody?”

“Yeah.”

She saw his arm. “You OK?”

“Will be,” he said.

From below, they heard sirens, lots of them. Sounded like half the Chicago PD was pulling into the garage.

Behind them, the two cops stood up from behind the Buick, the short one’s left arm hanging, the bigger one hobbling around the front of the car, his right leg bloody.

“You’re Hardin and Wilson, right?” the tall guy said.

Hardin nodded.

Both cops raised their weapons. “Not that we don’t appreciate the help and all,” the tall guy said. “But you’re both under arrest.”

“And we’re really hoping you’ll put the guns down,” the short cop added. “Cause I think you’re better at this shit than we are.”

Hardin, shrugged, set the 9mm down on the roof of the car next to him. Wilson laid her S&W down next to it.

“Which one of you got al Din?” Hardin asked.

“Me,” said the tall guy.

“Then you’re pretty good yourself,” Hardin said.

 

CHAPTER 92

 

A couple of units reached five, lights going, sirens going, stopping at angles on either side of the Lexus that blocked the aisle. The cops leapt out, going to guns, but Lynch and Bernstein had moved to the center of the aisle, holding their badges out, and everybody calmed down.

“Radio for some buses,” Lynch yelled to one of the uniforms. “Here and on six.”

“How many?”

“Lots,” Lynch said, “Hold on.”

He yelled over the sirens to Hardin.

“Anybody wounded upstairs?”

“Not unless I’m slipping,” Hardin answered.

“How many?”

“Four.”

“So four on six, at least six here,” Lynch said to the uniform, raising his voice over the commotion. “Gonna need crime scene, ME, fuck it, we’re gonna need everybody.”

 

Five minutes later, the first two ambulances arrived. The EMTs wanted to transport Hardin and Lynch, but Lynch told them to wait. He was on a gurney they’d pulled out, his right leg out straight, the pants leg cut off halfway up his thigh. One of the techs was cleaning the wound, shooting a local into the leg in a few spots. The back of the gurney was raised so Lynch could sit up. Hardin sat on the bumper of the second unit while a short woman cleaned and bandaged his arm. Another EMT was wrapping Bernstein’s ribs. When one of the techs tried to look at Wilson’s head, she told him to fuck off.

Hickman came out the door, holding up his creds, walked over to Lynch.

“I don’t know what happened here detective, but this whole crime scene is under federal jurisdiction.”

“Fuck you,” Lynch said.

A plainclothes car stopped, half on the ramp. Starshak got out. He walked over to the gurney, looked at Lynch.

“Get to a fucking hospital,” he said, turned toward Bernstein. “You too.”

“Just as soon as Hickman stops trying to Bogart my crime scene. He says this is a Fed deal.”