Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

He was instantly rewarded with a long burst of gunfire. Bullets tore up the doorframe and bit into the ground in front of him. He heard the whizzing whine of a ricochet off the concrete steps.

The van continued slowly along the street. The two gunmen still outside moved next to it, using it as cover. Every couple of seconds, one of them stepped from behind the van and sent a few rounds in his direction. He’d seen this tactic somewhere before, but couldn’t remember where. Then the man inside the van started firing at him and he rolled to his left.

A few more rounds peppered the house. One of the men shouted something in a guttural tone. Then came the sound of slamming doors and an accelerating engine.

DeShawn lay still for a long moment, shell-shocked. The distant wail of sirens brought him out of it. He cursed and clambered to his feet. The wooden doorframe was chewed up from the gunfire-chunks were missing, and splintered edges pointed out at sharp angles.

There was a long, painful moan from the front yard, but DeShawn ignored it. He had to take care of his gun first. He went out into the yard, where two of his boys lay on the ragged grass. One, Sweaty, twisted and turned while he moaned in pain. The other lay still.

DeShawn peered closer at the still body. It was Ronnie.

Shit, DeShawn thought. A pang of grief jumped up in his chest. Not for the dumb-ass punk on the grass, but for his little cousin. La La was going to take it hard.

The sirens drew closer.

Gotta do what I gotta do.

DeShawn wiped the grip of his gun with his shirt, then squatted next to Ronnie and tucked the pistol into his slack hand.

“Sorry, G,” he whispered. “You was never shit, but at least you can die like a good soldier.”

He wanted to know who got away and who got hit. It was also important to know right now who fought back, because if he didn’t, he knew there’d be plenty of lying going on about it later. He moved away from the fallen boy and tried to survey the yard, but it was too dark, and he couldn’t see anything.

The yelp of the police siren burst onto the street and the patrol car screeched to a halt.

DeShawn held his hands in the air. He didn’t want some nervous cop busting a cap on him. Not after surviving the assault he’d just been through.

He glanced down at Ronnie’s still body. As sad as Little La La was going to be, this did solve the problem. Of course, now DeShawn had a host of new problems to deal with, ones that wouldn’t be quite so simple.

A young officer approached slowly, his shotgun leveled at DeShawn. “Police!” he shouted. “Don’t move!”

“Easy,” DeShawn told him. “I’m the motherfuckin’ victim here.”

0614 hours

Thomas Chisolm stood next to the gang banger, his pen poised above his open notepad.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“I go by Dee.”

“That’s great,” Chisolm said, “but what’s your name?”

The man gave him a hard look, then answered, “DeShawn Brown.”

Chisolm scribbled the name on his notepad. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he had to admire the man’s composure. He’d just been shot at with high-powered automatic rifles, seen one of his buddies killed and another wounded, and yet he didn’t seem too shaken up. Chisolm had seen his type before, both in the military and since coming on the job. There was a simple word for it. The man was a warrior. Too bad he was throwing his life away being a gangbanger maggot.

“What happened next?” he asked.

DeShawn pointed. “A van pulled up right over there. Them motherfuckers wit guns came out of their hiding places and walked to it. Then they-”

“Wait a minute. They walked to the van?”

“That’s what I said. You need a hearing aid, pops?”

Chisolm glared at him. DeShawn blinked and stared back. Chisolm shook his head. “Just answer my questions. I’m trying to help you here.”

“If you’da been doing your job, this never woulda happened,” DeShawn snapped. “Where was you at, anyways? Off shoving donuts in your hole or something?”

Chisolm smiled humorlessly. “You’ll want to curb that talk,” he said in a low voice.

DeShawn opened his mouth to shoot back another comment, but Chisolm twitched his fingers next to his handcuff case. DeShawn noticed, and after a moment he closed his mouth and pressed his lips together. “What you wanna know, pops?” he asked, his voice more neutral.

“Were they wearing masks?” Chisolm asked.

DeShawn shook his head.

“Did they say anything?”

“Somethin’, but I couldn’t tell what. It sounded like some foreign shit.”

Chisolm nodded. “Show me where they were hiding before the van showed up.”

DeShawn pointed out the three locations. Chisolm noted the perfect triangulation of fire-whoever set this up had a strong understanding of military tactics. He would have to make sure the investigating detectives knew.

“Somethin’ else, too,” DeShawn said. “They didn’t all get in the van right away. Two of ’em walked behind it while they were shooting at me.”

“They used it for cover,” Chisolm muttered. “Great.”

“Thas right,” DeShawn said. “I saw that before once. I didn’t remember before, but I do now. It was in a movie.”

“What movie?”

DeShawn scratched his chin. “That Vietnam movie. The one with the little Oriental bitch sayin’ ‘me so horny’ and shit.”

“ Full Metal Jacket ,” Chisolm said.

DeShawn snapped his fingers and pointed. “Thas right. Them dudes was walking along next to a tank, just like these motherfuckers were doin’ with that van.”

Chisolm resisted the urge to sigh. Using a tank or an APC for cover while on the move was a fairly common military tactic. But it took knowing the tactic, as well as a little bit of planning ahead and practice.

“Can I go check on my little cousin?” DeShawn asked. He pointed to the neighbor’s house where a teenage girl sat huddled on the porch in a blanket.

“Sure,” Chisolm said. “But don’t go anywhere.”

DeShawn nodded and walked directly toward the girl.

Chisolm glanced around the crime scene’s inner perimeter. Yellow tape cordoned off the front yard of DeShawn’s house as well as the area across the street. At the edge of the outer perimeter Sergeant Shen sat in his cruiser with the door propped open, working his phone. Chisolm knew he was talking to Lieutenant Crawford in Major Crimes. He’d arrive soon, along with his detectives. They’d take over the scene and conduct the remainder of the investigation.

“Homicide, step aside,” Chisolm muttered to himself, snapping his notebook shut.

Day shift would be out soon to relieve the graveyard officers, but he decided he’d stay on scene until the detectives made it out. He hoped it was Detective Tower or Detective Browning, either of which he figured would listen to the bad news he was going to have to tell them.

0719 hours

Officer Mark Ridgeway took a deep drag from his cigarette and watched the young man in a business suit approach the edge of the crime scene. He noted the uptight, cocky swagger and the slight bulge under the left arm.

“Fed,” he muttered, and cursed silently. So much for wrapping the scene up in a timely manner.

The agent stopped in front of Ridgeway and looked him over, contempt plain in his eyes. Then he reached into his jacket and removed a billfold. “Special Agent Payne,” he announced, flashing his tin at an unimpressed Ridgeway. “FBI.”

Ridgeway nodded slowly, and blew out a stream of smoke. “You expected in there?”

Payne’s eyes narrowed. “I was requested .”

“Oh, I see.” Ridgeway raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “Requested.”