chapter 2: ante meridiem
The burlap sack contained a very frightened hooker. I left her the Irishman's phone with instructions to call the police. I didn't want to leave her with what was left of the Irishman, but those are the breaks.
My body still ached from the encounter with the cattle prod. I threw up once on the drive home. I could barely stand once I reached my bed. I touched my chest where I was hit. It stung like hell. I looked in the mirror, and saw two small burns next to each other. They had turned an ugly shade of red. I didn't have any painkillers or antibiotics.
"Fuck it."
I put on some burn ointment and applied a bandage on top of it. Antibiotics would have to wait. I slept for what felt like a million years. I slept. And I dreamed.
----------------------
There is no rest for the wicked.
---------------------
Detective Hugh Blackfield used to think the world could be made whole again. He used to believe that the world was really a good place. That people were basically good, deep down inside. He believed that he could make a difference. He joined the NYPD, thinking he could make a difference.
He was wrong.
He learned quick enough. He learned as he lay bleeding in a back alleyway, having taken a 9mm slug to the chest. He learned as drug addicts and gang bangers and people who just didn't give a shit simply walked away or stared or ignored.
Shit.
He swallowed a Vicodin and washed it down with some whiskey he had found in the cupboard.
He sat down in his recliner and looked beside him at the picture on the small table. It was a photograph taken a long time ago. It was a photograph of a woman with striking blue eyes and hair the colour of night. She was smiling and for a moment, Blackfield's heart warmed. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. Sarah.
He turned on the television.
The top story was about a homicide somewhere in the Bronx. Something about a slaughter house. Cops had found a woman inside, scared but safe. She had told them about a man who saved her from some crazy fuck with a chainsaw.
Blackfield smirked.
There was a file on the kitchen table. Blackfield had a call to make in the morning.
----------------------
The deal would go down tomorrow evening. Hugo Lacerda smiled to himself. Tomorrow, he'd be a much richer man than today. Not much concerned Lacerda, asides from money and power.
Robert Witts, Lacerda's new right hand man projected an outward aura of confidence, but was nervous as hell inside. He had been undercover with Lacerda for the last year and a half. Tomorrow oughta be the final nail in Lacerda's coffin.
The FBI doesn't fuck around.
------------------------
Rockton left the whorehouse a much happier man. Life was looking good. The deal tomorrow night, the girls now, and hell... the Captain even let him lead this time.
He was on top of the world.
------------------------------------
I find the file taped to the underside of a phonebooth in Queens. This is one of several dead drops that Blackfield's arranged for me. His inside information is incredibly useful. It makes everything far more efficient. I don't think Blackfield helps me out of the kindness in his heart. He has his own reasons.
Blackfield has access to a huge network of career criminals and rats. He's by far the most useful weapon in my arsenal.
The subject of the file is Hugo Lacerda. Big-time coke dealer. He escaped me once, let himself be arrested by the cops rather than face me. Smart bastard.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
Lacerda wasn't leaving the docks tonight unless it was in a body bag.
-----------------------
I'm in place at the docks, waiting for the buyers to show up. Lacerda's been there for about 15 minutes when they finally show up. Three guys, all white and dressed in black, get out of their black Crown Vic. They start talking to Lacerda.
I move in for the kill when it happens. I hear shouts and see the three buyers pointing suppressed pistols at Lacerda. Lacerda's head vanishes in a puff of red smoke. Lacerda's three guards are down in a split second.
I bring the M-4 to my shoulder and fire a burst at the buyers. One goes down as the 5.56 round blows a hole through his throat. He begins to thrash around on the ground as the other two swing to return fire. They take cover and begin to exchange fire with me. Something's not right here.
These aren't some piece of shit cokeheads. These guys are trained. Right away, I can tell... they're soldiers.
The driver of the Crown Vic rolls down the window, and I see it. An M-79 Grenade Launcher. He fires a round towards me.
I hear someone scream, "Rockton, get in!".
I dive out of the way as the round passes over my head and blows a hole in a metal container. Shrapnel fills the air. Sharp pieces strike my arms and legs. A cut forms across my cheek. I take cover behind another metal container. By the time I turn around to return fire, the Crown Vic is gone, along with it's passengers, including the man with the bleeding throat. All that's left of them are spent brass and a blood puddle.
I head towards the bodies. I quickly check the pockets of the sellers. No identification. I then take a look at Lacerda and his boys. I start checking the pockets when I see it. My heart feels as if it's about to explode. My lungs seize up.
I pick up the bloody piece of metal besides one of Lacerda's boys. I wipe some of the blood off, hoping it's not what I think it is. I tell myself that this was some sort of mistake.
I take a look at the shield. I gaze at the dead man. He looks barely out of high school.
I look back at the piece of metal in my hand, and the identification next to it. His name was Robert Witts. I see the three large letters above his picture and name.
FBI.
I'm holding a dead cop's badge.
Sirens fill the night.