AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Dialogue in italics is spoken in Spanish.
~ ~ Ranger – Day 8 - Afternoon Wednesday ~ ~
Ranger might not have access to the outside world while here in jail, but the outside world came in with every new offender put into a cell and with the cops who went back and forth. No one had dared say anything to Ranger's face, but he heard the whispers. He heard what they said about Stephanie. About what the two of them were doing at the time of the murder.
Suddenly the luxury of having a multi-person cell to himself was a drawback because he couldn't hand out lessons in manners to any of the whisperers. He was well aware of the position of every camera around the larger detention cells and knew that if he'd been in one, he could make his point without getting filmed doing it. A throat jab or kidney punch wouldn't leave much physical evidence either.
He was already frustrated and angry by the forced inaction of his confinement. Already frustrated and angry at this attempt to frame him for murder. Frustrated and angry at the deleterious effect that attempt was having on his business and therefore his men. So very frustrated and angry at the prosecutor's unexpected animosity. Incredibly frustrated and angry at the utter lack of control he had over every aspect of this situation.
Every night, Ranger could tell that his cortisol and adrenaline levels had risen higher than they had been the previous day. They never dropped, only rose. It had gotten to the point where milder countermeasures, such as the meditations and breathing exercises that he'd been doing, barely had any effect. What he needed was action, something to burn them off and lower the levels quickly. Put on some gloves and beat the shit out of the heavy bag in the gym. Hit the treadmill for a ten-mile run. Spar with Tank or Cal. Lead a takedown of one of the more combative FTAs on Stark Street.
Instead, all he could do was sit and wait for the next step in the plan. If the time-table held firm, he'd hear the guard's footsteps any minute. In fact … yes. He heard them now.
This time, it was Officer Nate Gaskins who walked Ranger from his cell to the visitor's room. While Eddie had made a point of coming by to see Ranger, even if it was only to escort him to a visitation, that took him away from his regular patrol. Gaskins was one of the officers on day shift in the cells and the person with whom Ranger interacted the most.
An older fellow, paunchy and tired looking, Gaskins' pale skin was mottled with liver spots. He had the careful gait of a person with bad feet and iffy joints. The later in the day it was, the more likely he was to favor his left leg. It had been at least a decade since he'd been on the beat. Now, he spent his days either riding a desk in the main room assisting with cases, or here in the jail as a glorified zookeeper. Dios help the man if an inmate ever went after him.
On the plus side, Gaskins wasn't much for talking which suited Ranger just fine, especially now. It had been a long time since he'd been so full of rage. Moreover, he'd never ever felt such antipathy toward his cousin.
When Gaskins led Ranger into the visitor's room, his lawyer and his cousin were standing on the other side of the metal table. It took every bit of control he had to stand still while Gaskins unlocked the handcuff around one of his wrists and clasped it through the heavy steel eyebolt built into the table just for this. In a minimum security facility like the TPD, this configuration was sufficient to secure an inmate yet kept one hand free to write statements or sign documents.
Ranger was too keyed up to sit. He remained standing, every muscle clenched with the unmet need for action. One glance at his face and Dinsmore stepped back, looking startled. Lester's eyes widened and he became absolutely immobile. Fortunately for Lester, Ranger couldn't reach him as it was common practice for the table to be bolted into the floor. Otherwise, even reduced to one hand and weighed down by a large piece of furniture, Ranger knew he could inflict significant damage.
Once he heard the click of the door closing as Gaskins left the room, Ranger tore into Lester verbally. His voice was half an octave lower than normal and rough from the hostility that tightened his throat. The words burst forth in a torrent, his diction precise despite the speed of his delivery.
"When I give an order, I expect it to be followed, Santos, especially when it concerns Stephanie. Do you have any idea what you've done to her? To her reputation? Every low life that's come into the jail the past two days has been talking about that damn video. The least crude thing they've called her is Manoso's woman. Most of them have much less acceptable terms for her, as well as very lurid, very graphic descriptions of what they'd like to do to her."
Ranger's shoulders were bowed up, his hands fisted, in an aggressive stance. The pounding of his heart thrummed through his chest like a drumbeat and his breathing was heavy as he continued.
"As for the Burg, I don't know what they're saying but I guarantee that they don't care that she's one of them. They'll be tearing her apart for weeks if not months to come. She'll be ostracized. Every polite door will be closed against her and that probably includes her own mother. You've made her notorious, damn you. What the fuck were you thinking? How could you do that to her?"
At the end of his outburst, there was utter silence. Ranger's famous control had slipped but nobody was dead or bleeding. Considering the fury that had been racing through his veins for the past few hours, he was counting that as a win. The only movement in the room was Dinsmore's eyes, pinging back and forth between him and Santos. From his uncertain expression, Ranger guessed that his lawyer didn't speak Spanish.
Lester seemed wary but unafraid. When he replied, he spoke softly, almost soothingly, as if to a wild animal which Ranger supposed he was at the moment.
"I swear to you, Carlos, it wasn't me. Stephanie posted that video herself."
"What?" That couldn't be right. "Why would she do that? How did she get it?"
"She got it because she's smart and resourceful. And she posted it because … well … partly it was because she was already, ah, upset that you had made the decision not to use it without consulting her. I guess she decided not to consult anyone either, because nobody on our side knew she'd even found the video until after she'd made it public."
Lester continued in English. "I had the video before she did. I got it Sunday night. It's a Rangeman account so I was able to remote into their system and copy it over. I was holding onto it as a last resort. It wasn't until Steph texted me Monday evening right after she uploaded her copy of the video that I even knew she'd found it, too."
Ranger was taken aback. Of all the ways the video could have been leaked, he'd never considered that scenario. Stephanie hadn't even been a blip on his radar. The odds of someone completely unrelated to this situation finding that video, much less releasing it, were so low that he'd discarded that idea immediately.
But Lester … Lester knew where Ranger had started that night and had seen how he'd returned to the office the next morning. Lester had already suggested that Stephanie provide his alibi and Lester was more than capable of hunting down alternative sources such as video. Lester was also stubborn enough to override Ranger's orders if he deemed it truly necessary. Knowing all of that, Ranger had focused his ire strictly on his cousin.
Shit. He'd flown off the handle based on incomplete and incorrect information which wasn't like him at all. Such behavior was unacceptable, whether as Santos' commander or as Lester's cousin. Ranger's shoulders dropped back down and his hands unclenched Breathing and heart rate were easing up as well. Apologies were in order.
Ranger pinched the bridge of his nose and pulled himself together. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. I was out of line and I apologize."
"I get it, primo." Lester shrugged. "You're under a lot of stress made worse by being stuck in here."
"No, don't let me off the hook." Ranger was disappointed in himself for his reaction. "I know better and I should have done better."
Lester grinned at him. "If you really want to be punished, I'll tell Abuela Rosa you were mean to me."
Ranger barked out a laugh. "Straight to the nuclear option, I see." Nobody could pull him out of a bad mood faster than his cousin. He sat and the other two followed suit. "Now, tell me what you meant by 'no one on our side knew' about the video."
Lester and Dinsmore exchanged a look before Lester said, "It's been an interesting couple of days and I don't just mean getting ATF, TPD, New Jersey Department of Corrections, and the warden onboard and then coordinating with all parties for tonight's op at the prison."
Ranger knew that Tank had been busting his ass trying to get the ATF involved with the investigation from the start. Even after invoking the follow-up clause of their contract, the ATF's response had been lukewarm at best. ATF, DEA, FBI, whichever. The alphabet agencies were all the same. Fickle. They were fair weather friends who'd disavow all knowledge of you at the first whiff of scandal or negative press.
He was willing to bet that if Lester hadn't found that video footage from the race track then the ATF would have backed away entirely. Once video proof tied in a local cop and Player's lieutenant to the man who'd informed on Player, just days prior to that man's death, ATF had changed their tune. They were even encouraging other agencies such as the Trenton PD and the State Department of Corrections to assist.
Maybe it was the cynic in him, but Ranger thought that last was less for his benefit than for the ATF's. Suppose something did go wrong and there was a scandal. If the shit did hit the fan, it would be spread out among more participants now. The ATF wouldn't get hit with the entire chunk.
Lester finished his report with a summary of Stephanie presenting her findings about Cartman at the meeting this morning and how that might tie back to her conversation with Cartman Monday morning.
That was one hell of a revelation. As upset as he was about Stephanie hurting herself by posting the video, he was even more proud of her for her discovery. An ADA on the take? For how long? How many cases would have to be reviewed? Hundreds? How many of those would be tainted? How many defense lawyers would use this as an excuse to get their client's case thrown out even if it wasn't one of the tainted ones? The entire Mercer County District Attorney's office and everyone connected to it would be under suspicion for a long time to come.
"I'll add Cartman to the list of names we need to get Player to say tonight." Something was still bothering him. He pointed at Dinsmore. "When you were here yesterday afternoon, did you know about the video?"
Dinsmore squared his shoulders, lifted his chin and said "Yes, but our time yesterday was limited and I needed your full focus."
That pissed him off though he tamped down the feeling. "When this is over, we're going to have a discussion about withholding information," Ranger said firmly.
Dinsmore raised one eyebrow. "I take it you're referring to the way you withheld from your defense attorney all knowledge of your actual whereabouts, witnesses to said whereabouts, and possible objective evidence of same, any one of which would have immediately exonerated you. Good," he said decisively. "I look forward to our discussion."
When they first worked together in the military, Ranger had been drawn in by Dinsmore's refusal to tolerate bullshit and the fearless way he met any obstacle head on. That attitude had been a major part of why Ranger had hired Dinsmore, but he had to admit, he liked it a whole lot better when it wasn't aimed at him.
Without acknowledging Dinsmore's rebuttal, Ranger jumped back to the initial reason for this visit. "Let's go over the final details for tonight's assignment, shall we?"
~ ~ Ranger – Day 8 - Evening Wednesday ~ ~
"Sorry, Manoso, but you can't stay here indefinitely," said Chief Wallace as Officer Jenkins snapped the cuffs on Ranger's wrists. "We need the space and Jersey State has an opening."
Wallace was playing his part, making sure anyone in earshot would know that Ranger was being transferred to the New Jersey State Prison less than two miles away. Technically, he should be transferring to the Mercer County Correctional Center thirteen miles north of here in Lambertville. The cover story was that to free up much needed cell space, Wallace and Warden Crandall had arranged the transfer requested by Cartman that Judge Hudson had denied.
As the arresting officer, Simpkins would be notified of the move but not until it was happening. That way it would be too late for him to get word to Player or Cartman until after the transfer had happened. This was especially important on the prison end because Rangeman's favorite Corrections Officer, Rookie, was playing the part of a messenger sent by Simpkins.
Wallace walked through the station with them as Jenkins escorted Ranger to the transportation loading dock. The Chief's presence served to raise the profile of the move, subtly spreading awareness. When they arrived at the loading area it was vacant though a van with the logo for New Jersey Department of Corrections was pulling up.
Confused by the absence of the TPD van, Jenkins glanced over at Wallace. "Sir?"
"Warden Crandall offered to send a van for Manoso. Saves us time and money so I agreed." Wallace clapped Jenkins on the shoulder. "All you have to do is sign Manoso over to them and you're done. I'm going to head back in. See you in a minute."
Wallace left the loading dock as the passenger door on the van opened. Special Agent Jerry Munson from the ATF's Trenton office, dressed in the uniform of a corrections officer, stepped out of the vehicle holding a datapad. Behind him in the driver's seat was Rookie. This van had the same compartment set-up as the TPD van that had taken Ranger to court Monday. So far, everything was going to plan.
Rookie's first task in this op had been to pose as a messenger from Simpkins and inform Player of Ranger's pending transfer right before leaving to pick him up. As expected, Player was eager to arrange a private meeting which Rookie would facilitate. Player would fake an injury or illness while Rookie was off to the TPD. The minute Ranger stepped foot in the prison, he'd be escorted to the infirmary for a one-on-one with Player. Additional cameras had been hidden in there specifically to capture the meeting and he'd be wired. Now, Rookie was the pick-up driver and would be the one delivering Ranger to Player.
"Is that inmate Manoso?" Munson asked Jenkins, who nodded. "Sign here and he's officially in our custody."
Jenkins took the datapad, read the screen, and then paused. He looked at Munson in front of him and then at Rookie in the cab of the van.
"I don't care what you've seen or heard, but this is one of the good guys. Treat him with respect because he deserves it. He'll be out soon enough once this gets cleared up."
Jenkins waited for affirmative responses before signing the datapad and handing it over to Munson. Then he stepped aside and folded his arms across his chest. It seemed he intended to monitor Ranger's handling by the others. That was fine - it wouldn't impact their plan or their timetable - as long as he didn't notice the bag when Munson put Ranger in the prisoner compartment behind the cab of the van. He found that he appreciated Jenkins' vote of confidence more than he had expected. This ordeal was getting to him in ways other predicaments had not.
"Well, well, well." An unwelcome voice heralded the arrival of Detective Simpkins who came over to stand next to Jenkins. "The great Ranger Manoso heading off to the Big House," he gloated. Gesturing at Jenkins, he said gruffly, "Chief wants to see you."
Jenkins frowned and looked at Ranger, seemingly reluctant to leave. Then he tapped two fingers to his forehead and snapped off a casual salute. Ranger responded with a single nod and Jenkins left.
"Yeah, you've got friends all over this station, don't you? Well don't worry. I've got friends of my own over at Jersey State. Did you know that it's the only prison in New Jersey that houses nothing but maximum security offenders? And we've got it right here in little old Trenton. Oh, but don't worry," Simpkins said with a big fake smile, "I'll make sure my friends keep an eye on you. In fact, give it a day or so and I can put together a little welcome party for you." He slapped Ranger hard on the back and laughed.
Ranger used his peripheral vision to make sure that Rookie didn't break character but he hadn't moved from the driver's seat. Right hand rested on the wheel, left elbow on the door frame. He looked relaxed and slightly bored. Perfect. Ranger didn't have to check on Munson because they had worked undercover together before. The man was an experienced professional. Unless his life or Ranger's was in imminent danger, he'd stay within his cover.
Munson had to get Ranger into the compartment but they didn't need Simpkins watching. Munson fiddled with the lock on the compartment door, stalling as they waited for Simpkins to leave. But his feet were planted as firmly to the ground as that predatory grin was planted on his face. He intended to stay and watch every second of what he saw as Ranger's humiliation.
Rookie picked up on the issue and called out to Simpkins. "Friends, huh? Which COs do you know? Maybe we got the same friends?"
Simpkins moved over to the open passenger side door of the cab and started talking to Rookie. Munson swung the compartment door open and assisted Ranger inside. Ranger sat and Munson knelt in front of him. Under the guise of securing him in his seat, Munson unlocked his cuffs, but left them in place. He handed Ranger the key and then showed him a small black bag with the wire equipment.
"Warden wouldn't allow firearms," Munson whispered, "but we got you two of these." He showed Ranger two knives, one small and one medium. Each was in a heavy nylon holster with Velcro straps.
Simpkins' voice got louder, so Munson quickly shoved the knives back in the bag and tucked the bag out of sight behind Ranger's legs. Ranger pressed his feet back, trapping the bag against the base of the seat. He put his hands, one resting in the palm of the other, where they would be if he had been properly secured. His fingers were curled lightly around the cuff key.
Simpkins poked his head around the edge of the door. "Sure would be a shame if he resisted and got all banged up."
Munson stood, hunching under the low roof, using his body to obscure Simpkins' view of Ranger. He stepped out onto the pavement.
"You want him roughed up," Munson replied, "that's gonna cost you."
"How much?"
"C-note for bruises, five times that if you want blood."
"Shit. You think I carry that kind of cash?" Simpkins waved one hand. "Everything's credit card these days."
"Yeah? And?" Munson shrugged. "How much you got on you?"
Simpkins pulled out his wallet and flipped through the bills. "What can I get for …" His lips moved as he counted. " … thirty-eight bucks?"
Munson scoffed. "For that, I'll spit in his milk and tell him he's ugly."
Ranger suppressed a grin. He'd always appreciated Munson's sardonic humor. The compartment door closed and locked, blocking Ranger's view and muffling their conversation. A small overhead light popped on automatically. He'd strain his eyes if he tried to read by it, but it would be enough to get himself geared up.
Ranger was tucking the cuff key in his mouth, between his gumline and his cheek, when he felt the van start up. The rocking motion as they drove through the streets was too mild to interfere with his movements while placing the wire against the skin of his chest. He'd had to do far more delicate work on choppy seas and in turbulent air. Besides, this wire was more of a precaution. They had the prison's own cameras plus several new ones, hidden specifically for this operation.
Positioning the knives was made simpler by the limitations of the one-piece jumpsuit. There were no pockets or a handy waistband. They didn't even have long sleeves. Neither holster had a metal clip; he couldn't attach one at the back of the collar, down his neck. They were designed to wrap around something so the larger holster went around his right ankle. He'd prefer to have the small one strapped to his forearm below his elbow but there was no sleeve to hide it. He could just strap it to the other ankle but he'd prefer to have it in a different location. After all, if he couldn't get to one ankle, odds were good that he couldn't get to the other one either.
It was a short ride from TPD to NJSP. Whatever he did it had to be quick.
Hmm … He hefted the knife, holster and all, then held it under his other arm. He doubted he'd get away with it in a true prisoner situation, but in this set up, with his people doing the transfer, the only question was whether it would stay in place. Quickly, he used the knife to cut the straps off of the holster turning it into a plain sheath. Then, using the pointed tip, he sliced into his jumpsuit just under his left armpit, continuing the cut through the white t-shirt underneath.
The next part was trickier. Leaving the knife in place, with the material halfway up the blade, he switched hands so that he was holding the hilt with his left hand. Since the blade was under his left armpit, the position was really awkward. His right hand picked up the sheath, sliding it under his clothes between his skin and the knife blade. Carefully, he slid the blade into the sheath. The only thing showing outside of his clothing was the hilt and as soon as he put his arm down, that was hidden in his armpit. It poked him, but not terribly. Besides, he needed the pressure from his arm to make sure it stayed in place and out of sight.
If all went well, neither knife would be needed. Ranger knew that, one on one, Player was no match for him. Ranger could take him with his bare hands. But despite their careful planning, there was no way to fully control the environment. If Player had managed to gather others with him or if he gotten hold of a firearm, or if Ranger was somehow incapacitated or overpowered … Those scenarios, while unlikely, had to be planned for.
Shortly after situating the second knife, Ranger felt the van come to a halt. First he heard the passenger and the driver's doors click open then each slammed shut, making the van sway. The compartment door was unlocked then opened. He blinked once at the light from the doorway before his eyes adjusted.
In order to maintain cover, he waited for Munson to come get him instead of stepping out on his own. While they were unlikely to be observed in the vehicle bay, it was best not to take chances. That adherence to their cover story was also the reason that Munson made sure Ranger's cuffs were locked, though he made them as loose as possible, before leading him from the vehicle toward the entry door. Munson had the little black bag in one hand.
"Remember," said Rookie, "once we're in there, you two are in lock-up like everyone else. I've got the keys. Wherever we are, you're not getting out by yourselves. Only a handful of people know this is going down tonight, so stick close, especially if you're wearing inmate orange."
The three men lined up so that Rookie took point with Ranger in between him and Munson. Rookie led the way past guards, through checkpoints, sign-ins, and containment vestibules into the prison. Eventually, they were alone in a corridor and could talk freely.
Rookie pointed at Ranger. "You get dropped off first. Warden said he'd deny or redirect any inmates requesting infirmary unless there's a bonafide emergency so it should just be you and Player in there, but I can't guarantee it. You," he pointed at Munson, "stick with me. Once he's in the infirmary, you and I will head straight to the room that's serving as command."
As they continued through the hallways, Ranger thought again about how he'd approach this. Thanks to his undercover career, Ranger had discovered that the trope of the talkative villain expounding at length on his plans existed in real life. On the rare occasion that he was exposed, if the target of the operation didn't try to kill him right away, it meant that he was in for a speech. Hell, even when his cover story was intact, the targets would bore their underlings repeating their clever plans.
Sometimes the villain wanted to gloat or to make sure he knew how much more cunning they were. Sometimes it was a way of twisting the metaphorical knife before tossing him in a cell or trying to kill him. All the talking gave Ranger a chance to subtly guide the conversation to the information he needed most. He'd used it to his advantage more than once. From what he remembered, Player was definitely the gloat and twist type. He had a feeling Cartman was, too, which meant Stephanie's plan should work.
Rookie paused at a metal door in the corridor that had a large polycarbonate window in the top half. The sign on the wall said 'Infirmary'. Instead of using one of the many metal keys he carried, he swiped a key card through an electronic lock. Opening the door, he exchanged looks with Ranger and Munson.
Showtime.
The door opened into the central area of the infirmary. They were the only people in sight. Like the rest of the prison, everything, even the large nurses' station in the center of the room, was made of cinderblock and concrete painted in shades of institutional beige and baby-shit brown. There were a few lightweight chairs with metal legs and plastic seats.
At even intervals around the wall were more doors of the same design that led into here. All but one of the doors around them were open. A quick glance as they passed one confirmed that those were the patients' rooms. Each had one hospital bed, one rolling night-stand with two drawers, and one plastic chair. Everything looked run down and grungy. The whole atmosphere was grim and depressing.
Rookie pointed to one of the chairs. "Wait here, Manoso."
Ranger sat where he was told. Munson stood near the entry door while Rookie walked over to the lone closed door in the unit which was on the other side of the nurse's station. He swiped his key card and unlocked it.
Opening the door a few inches he spoke to the occupant. "Cameras are disabled. You've got ten minutes at most before they're back online. Don't start shit until I'm out of here."
In truth, all cameras, both those belonging to the Department of Corrections and those temporarily installed by Rangeman, were in full working order. The 'ten minutes' remark was Player's incentive to move quickly. Rookie turned and walked back to the entry door, collecting Munson on the way.
When the door clicked shut behind them, an inmate slightly shorter than Ranger with light brown hair and blue eyes came out of the patient room. He recognized Thomas "Player" Parsley. There didn't seem to be much change from when they did the takedown in Philly. Evidently Player had been working out in prison but he didn't have the body type for adding bulk. He had put on a few pounds, filling out through the chest and had added definition in his arms, but that was it.
He was also unrestrained in any way. No cuffs, metal or flexi. Although Ranger knew that even cuffed as he was, he could take Player down, there was no need to hinder himself. Politely covering his mouth with his hands, Ranger coughed twice. Using the action as cover, he flipped the cuff key into his palm and put his hands back in his lap.
"Look who's here at my command." Malicious satisfaction dripped from every word Player uttered.
Most criminals who fancied themselves as masterminds had a pathological compulsion to get credit for their actions. They needed others to see how clever they were. The best way to get Player talking was to deny him that credit and, worse, assign it to someone else.
"I'm here because some asshole cop named Simpkins is trying to frame me." Ranger knew that if his words weren't enough, then his condescending tone should push Player's buttons. "Don't pretend you know what's going on."
That comment must have hit home because Player's face hardened and he started toward Ranger at a measured pace. Before Player cleared the nurses' station, Ranger had his cuffs unlocked but left them and his hands in his lap. No need to draw attention to his freedom yet. Player halted about six feet away, his hands closing into fists then opening back up again.
"Oh I know all right," growled Player. "I know you're buried under evidence. You ain't getting out of this. Cops got a burner phone with nothing on it but that fucking snitch setting up a meeting with you. Got a 911 call describing you down to a T. The plan was to call 911 when you were a few minutes out and then shoot that sweaty snitch, toss the gun next to him, and switch out his phone for the burner. And you? You'd be standing right over his bloody corpse as the cops pulled up."
Ranger kept pressing the same buttons. "That's not what Simpkins did. Guess you don't know anything after all."
Player started pacing in front of him. Three steps left, turn, three steps right, repeat. He faced Ranger the entire time.
"You made it harder when you canceled the meeting. Typical Manoso – ruining everything. Avie was there, running the whole show. Him and two of the guys. He didn't see that text in time to stop the guy calling 911 so the cops were already on their way and that asshole Sweats was alive and waiting for you. We almost had to call it off and try again later. But Avie? He's a quick thinker. That's why he's a good lieutenant.
"He made one of the boys switch shirts with him and made the other give him his hat so he was all in black. Told the guy with the cell phone where to hide to get video then walked up to that rat bastard snitch cool as you please. Even got him to say your name. Asked him, 'What's Ranger's last name?' and the fucker says it nice and loud. Before he has time to wonder why Avie's suddenly there and why he's asking your name, BAM! Dead."
Ranger pretended not to understand who was behind it all to goad Player into divulging more.
"Why are you helping some pissed off cop who has it out for me?"
"You got that backward. Simpkins is working for me." Player laughed loudly. "He's pissed that I made him move to Trenton but I've got him by the short and curlies and he knows it. He has to do what I say and he don't dare get mad at me. So, he gets mad at you. See? He knows that I'm the bigger badass, not you."
Player cracked his knuckles. "Who he should be mad at is all them Trenton cops. I been trying for years, but ain't found a bad one yet. I got two in Newark and a couple more in other places up there. Got them at the docks on both sides of the river in Philly and right across in Jersey. But I needed one here to get back at you. It's like one of them pie-rick victories where we both lose which means I actually won."
It had taken him a second to understand that Player meant a pyrrhic victory. Ranger guessed he'd read it but never heard it said out loud. Well, not by someone who knew how to pronounce it.
"You got pinched," said Ranger. "Sitting in a cell for a few decades doesn't look much like winning."
"Oh, ain't gonna happen. Me?" He looked smug and tapped his chest with two fingers. "I got a lawyer in my pocket."
This sounded promising, like it could be a lead up to Cartman.
"Every criminal gets a lawyer." Ranger said it like he was explaining things to a five year old. "What makes your guy so special?"
He deliberately implied a male lawyer hoping Player would correct him. He'd also have to make sure that Player said her name clearly so there'd be no doubt she was part of his criminal enterprises.
"Oh, not him. Her." Player's grin was so wide that Ranger could see he was missing one of his back molars. "I got the County ADA eating right outta my hand. She does as she's told, too. She's why you're here."
Adding a hint of shock and surprise to his voice, Ranger said, "Cynthia Cartman, the ADA prosecuting my case, is working with you?"
Player had given Ranger a natural opening to lay out her name and her complicity. Now all Player had to do was confirm, and the ATF would have a reason to get Cartman added to the official investigation for the gun running that had snagged Player.
"With me? Nope." Player curled up his lip in a sneer. "For me. Bitch gets paid well to do as I say."
"If you've got Cartman on your payroll, why go to the trouble of framing me?"
"I want you to suffer the same way you were gonna make me suffer – rotting in prison for decades. And Cartman's good, but she's gotta have something to work with." Player looked Ranger up and down. "How's it feel knowing the last thing your snitch ever did was help frame you for his murder? Because for me? It feels great. I put this all together. I got my revenge on both of you. That fucker's dead, you're heading for fucking jail, and your fucking business is about to fall apart." He laughed then boasted, "I'm a fucking genius."
Yes, you're such a genius, thought Ranger, that you gave the cameras a full confession to murder and named your conspirators.
Ranger looked into one of the visible cameras. "I think we're done here."
The message was intended more for the agents watching, but worked for his conversation with Player as well. Except that Player wasn't done.
"Oh, no. Not before I give you a little welcome present."
Player raised one knee nearly as high as his hip and reached into his sock. Ranger had been expecting something of the sort. The moment Player's leg started to move, so did Ranger. He rose from the chair, placing one foot out in front of him to push off with as he lunged forward, tackling Player before he could get the shiv entirely out of his sock. In less than two seconds, Ranger had Player face down, hands cuffed behind him, Ranger's knee on his spine. This cabron was going nowhere but back to a cell.
Ranger was glad that he hadn't needed either knife but also surprised that all the motion from taking down Player didn't dislodge the small knife under his arm. It didn't interfere with his movements either. He'd check later to see if it left any bruising. In the meantime, he'd add it to his bag of tricks in case he needed it in future.
Thirty seconds later, the door to the unit opened and uniformed people started filing in. Rookie was first, then Lester, Munson, RAC Birdsong, Warden Crandall and more. From here, Player would be taken straight to isolation so it would be difficult for him to get word of tonight's activities to Simpkins, Avie, Cartman, or any other of his cronies.
Ranger got handshakes and shoulder slaps along with congratulations for a job well done. Lester, gracias a Dios, brought him a change of clothes. He ducked quickly into one of the patient rooms, with Lester guarding the doorway – there was no way Ranger was going to risk getting locked into a room – and changed into his Rangeman uniform, including a pair of his own Bates boots.
He wasn't quite done yet. There was still the debrief and clean up. But at least he could look forward to sleeping in his own bed tonight.
Tomorrow, they'd go after Cartman.
~ ~ continued ~ ~