Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

Chisolm didn’t hesitate. He worked his way back to the driver’s side, got behind the wheel, and rolled his cruiser forward. Steam rose from the engine. The temperature gauge was pinned. When he got within ten feet of the Mercedes he killed the engine.

Chisolm moved tactically to a position of advantage behind his cruiser. At this distance he could see the dark wetness on the pavement beside the man’s chest. Chisolm took a deep breath and let it out. One down.

He worked his way back to the driver’s side. His radio was full of frantic cross-traffic. He hunkered down beside his driver’s doorpost and considered his situation again. Maybe the best thing to do was to hold his ground. The suspects might escape out the back, but going in after them was way too dangerous.

Chisolm reached for the radio to direct units into the area to set a perimeter. What he heard stopped him cold.

“Medics will be transporting Officer Battaglia to Holy Family Hospital,” a broken voice that he barely recognized as Sully’s transmitted. “I need officers to block intersections along the route.”

“Copy,” replied the dispatcher.

“Update his condition,” Lieutenant Saylor directed over the clear air.

There was a short pause, then Sully came over the air briefly. “ Probably DOA.”

Chisolm holstered his pistol. Instead of reaching for the radio, he hit the button for the shotgun release.

2215 hours

Val ran through the dim light of the warehouse, nearly slipping in a small puddle. The slender Yuri scampered ahead of him like a rabbit.

He wished he’d had the foresight to bring a second gun. He’d heard gunshots being exchanged between Black Ivan and the cop outside, but now it was silent. If Ivan had won that battle, he’d already be joining them inside the warehouse. So the cop must have killed Ivan. That meant he was coming for them.

Yuri reached the far side of the warehouse and opened the door, but the small room was even darker inside.

“Wait!” Val shouted.

Yuri pulled up short. Val could see his outline in the darkness as he turned back toward him.

“Give me your pistol,” he ordered, holding out his hand. “I’ll hold off the police while you get the car ready.”

Yuri didn’t hesitate. He held out the butt end of his black 9 mm. Val took it, racked the slide, and rested his thumb on the safety. Yuri disappeared into the dark room. A moment later the outer door popped open and swung wide. Light from a streetlamp flooded in, haloing Yuri as he passed through the door.

Val looked away, searching the interior of the warehouse for the far door that he’d come through. The streetlight had taken away his night vision, so the best he could make out was a guess at the general location. He held the pistol loosely in his hand and waited.

Chisolm racked the shotgun to chamber a round. Then he made his way toward the door that he’d seen the other two suspects run through.

This is the stupidest thing you’ve done outside of Vietnam, he told himself.

He shook his head. He needed to focus. If they were waiting inside the doorway to ambush him, he was toast. He needed to get inside and buttonhook out of the fatal funnel, then move to some kind of cover.

His mind flashed back to a summer night several years ago when he tracked the Scarface robber’s blood trail through a field. He remembered the hatred in his heart as he followed the man who’d killed Officer Karl Winter and wounded Officer Stefan Kopriva.

Now one of these bastards had killed Battaglia. Maybe it had been the one with the shotgun, but it might’ve been one of the two who’d run into the warehouse.

Thomas Chisolm wasn’t taking any chances.

There would be no mercy.

Val heard Yuri pulling the tarp off the car behind the warehouse. A moment later a car door opened and the engine rumbled to life. Val smiled.

The door swung open across the warehouse. A shadow flitted through and disappeared into the surrounding darkness.

Val raised his gun and fired.

Chisolm ducked behind a half-filled pallet of boxes as the shots rang out. Rounds skipped across the pavement near him, but none hit him. He recognized the sound as a small caliber handgun. Probably shooting at a distance, maybe even from across the warehouse. Which made his shotgun less effective.

Chisolm waited a moment, then rose to a half crouch and fired in the general direction of the shooter. He knew it wasn’t the best tactic. For one thing, it gave his position away. But he wanted the son of a bitch to know he shot back.

Where was the second gunman? Chisolm dropped into a low crouch and shuffled around to the far side of the pallet. He waited and listened. He heard the faint sound of a car door close. Tires chirped and an engine raced.

Then it was silent.

“Drive quickly,” Val ordered, “but not too fast.”

Yuri nodded, steering the car out of the alley behind the warehouse and onto the main road. Val could hear the approaching sirens.

“Go that way,” he directed, pointing in the opposite direction from their arrival. “I don’t want to pass police cars on their way in. They may not be looking for this car, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

Yuri accelerated away from the warehouse.

Val looked over his shoulder. In the distance he saw flashing lights, but all of them clustered toward the warehouse. He smiled and turned forward.

“Police,” Yuri said, nodding ahead of them.

A single patrol car hurtled toward them, lights flashing and siren blaring.

Val’s smile melted. “Do as you’re supposed to,” he said. “Pull to the side and let him pass.”

Yuri’s face darkened for a moment, but he obeyed. He pulled the car to the side of the road and stopped. The two men sat in stony silence as the police car approached at Mach 2.

“If he stops, you go,” Val said simply.

Yuri nodded.

Val curled his hand around the pistol and waited.

The car flew past them toward the warehouse.

It was Yuri’s turn to smile. He looked at Val and raised his eyebrows. “We go?”

Val nodded.

It was done.

2216 hours

Chisolm stood at the rear of the warehouse, staring down at the car tarp on the ground.

Son of a bitch. They were gone.

He clenched his jaw and walked back through the warehouse. As he came through the front door, several patrol cars screeched to a halt in the parking lot. Chisolm held up four fingers, indicating that the situation was Code Four, under control.

Except it really wasn’t. Two of the shooters had gotten away.

Chisolm glanced down at the large man with the shotgun. The chest wound had continued to bleed, creating a large dark pool around his left side. Chisolm moved to the car and looked inside.

He saw another suspect lying on the back seat with a large revolver in his right hand.

Chisolm raised the shotgun. “Don’t move!” he yelled.

There was no reaction. Chisolm kept the barrel of the shotgun trained on the figure. Kahn and Hiero ran toward him with weapons drawn.

“I think he’s DOA,” Chisolm said. “But I’m not sure.”

Hiero crept up to the opposite side of the car and peeked in through the rear window. Then he lowered his pistol. “Head shot,” he explained. “This one’s dead.”

“Nice job, Tom,” Kahn said. The admiration in his voice was sincere, but Chisolm shook his head.

“Two of them got away,” he said. “It’s all shit.”