W. Griffin: The Vigilantes

Payne looked toward the basement entrance in time to see the head of a black male-whose hand was bringing up a black semiautomatic pistol.

The shooter swung the pistol at Payne. But before Matt could squeeze off a shot, Will Curtis stepped between them-and then came three shots from the black male.

Two of the bullets hit Curtis in the left shoulder, the third in his left chest.

As Matt dove for cover at the foot of the steps leading upstairs, he thought, Did he step in the way on purpose?

He did! He took those damn bullets for me!

Matt saw Charley Bell peering around a corner at the back end of the hall. The shooter did, too, and fired three shots at him. Two struck the wall at the corner, sending Sheetrock flying. The third found Bell’s forearm.

“Fuck! I’m hit!” he shouted.

Curtis fell forward and grabbed the Glock he’d been told to drop, then remarkably squeezed off five shots in the direction of the shooter.

Then Will Curtis finally collapsed, blood from his wounds beginning to pool around him.

The long-haired black male was now cowering behind Payne, lying flat on the floor against the wall.

Payne carefully looked past the edge of the stairs toward the basement entrance, trying to get a clear line of fire on the shooter.

He saw the entrance but not the shooter.

Sonofabitch!

Keeping low, he stepped into the hallway and moved toward the basement entrance. The worn wooden flooring squeaked under his weight.

“You okay, Charley?” Payne called out.

“Get that sonofabitch, Matt!”

Payne looked back at the black male. He was still cowering against the wall, but now he stared wide-eyed at the old man lying in the pool of blood.

As Payne moved closer to the basement entrance, Tony Harris appeared from around the bullet-pocked corner. He motioned toward the basement, then motioned that he’d cover Matt. Matt nodded.

When Payne got to the top of the stairs, he saw a heavy blood trail leading down the wooden treads.

Will Curtis hit the bastard.

“Police!” Matt yelled down the steps. “Drop your weapons!”

Payne and Harris slowly descended the stairs.

When they reached the bottom, there were two rooms. They cleared the first, then followed the blood trail to the door of the second. A light was on inside it, and when Payne looked around the edge of the door frame, he saw two black males-both dead.

One was on the floor at the end of the heavy blood trail. The shooter had at least one enormous hole through his neck. The semiautomatic 9-millimeter Baretta was still in his right hand. The other dead male was lying on an old twin bed. He had been strangled. Two foot-long plastic zip ties strung end-to-end cut deeply into his bruised neck.

A black duffel bag with stacks of banded cash and clear plastic bags full of pills was on the floor.

Matt and Tony then heard fast footfalls on the wooden flooring above their heads.

Then they heard Charley Bell yell, “Stop! Police!”

Payne exchanged a fast glance with Harris, then bolted up the steps.

At the top, Payne turned toward the open front door as he heard the minivan starting and then its tires spinning as it squealed away.

He looked toward the back of the house and saw Bell standing with what looked like a dirty dish towel wrapped around his left forearm. It was blood-soaked.

“The sonofabitch grabbed the old man’s keys,” Bell said. “And got his Glock, too!”

Matt looked at the towel.

“I’m okay,” Bell said. “Go! Go! Go!”

Matt pointed down the basement stairs.

“Clear the house with Tony,” he said.

Then, stepping around the dead body of the old man who’d sacrificed his life for Matt’s, Payne was out the door.

The first thing Matt Payne saw when he came running out of the row house was a huge, nasty-looking garbage truck. It was stopped right beside the PECO van, and Payne realized that if he didn’t run faster to reach the Crown Vic, the truck was going to move up and block him.

As he ran, he yelled “Stop! Police!” to the driver, holding his left-hand palm out, anxiously signaling him to stay put. But after he got in the car and finally had it moving off the sidewalk, he saw the last plastic garbage bag from the corner being tossed into the back of the garbage truck as the truck moved forward.

Matt hammered the heel of his right hand on the horn as he floored the accelerator. Yanking the steering wheel to the right, he had to hop the curb to narrowly miss both the front of the garbage truck and the rear of a parked car.

Payne pursued the Ford minivan as it raced up Richmond Street.

He thought about calling in for backup, but dismissed that immediately.

No police radio. And I’m not about to try juggling my cell right now.

He flipped down the sun visors, then reached down and plugged in the emergency lights and threw the switch for the siren.

Two cars were stopped up ahead, waiting for the traffic light at Allegheny Avenue. He watched as the minivan’s brake lights came on for a second, then went off. The van then swung into the oncoming traffic lane to get around the two cars. Then it blew through the red light, cutting a hard right and going down Allegheny Avenue.

Matt came up on the two cars but could not pass because a pickup truck had just turned down Richmond, blocking his way. He could see the red-and-blue strobes reflecting off the back glass of the vehicle ahead of him. He hammered the horn out of habit, but its sound was mostly lost in the loud whoop-whoop of the siren.

The traffic light cycled to green, the first car started to roll, then both finally moved quickly out of the way.

Matt made the corner just in time to see the tail of the minivan going up an on-ramp, headed southbound on the Delaware Expressway.

He pulled on the gear-selector stalk on the steering column, dumping the transmission into second gear, then floored the accelerator.

Just before the ramp at the next block, with the high-revving engine roaring, Matt tapped the brakes once before turning, then put the Police Interceptor into a squealing right turn. He corrected the skid, then floored the accelerator again and bumped the transmission into high gear.

This section of Interstate 95 was four lanes in each direction, and Matt saw that the minivan was weaving through the heavy traffic.

Sonofabitch is using all the lanes!

The other vehicles were quickly becoming aware of the reckless minivan. Just past the point where the expressway became elevated, some began moving out of the wild driver’s way. Matt figured that the driver of a full-size Dodge SUV must have seen the Ford minivan flying up on its tail. It tried to move quickly into the lane to its left-and immediately sideswiped the Honda Accord that was traveling in that lane.

Oh, shit!

The impact from the heavier truck forced the lighter compact car into the far inside lane, which fortunately was unoccupied.

That Honda was damn lucky it didn’t slam into the concrete divider.

Or completely lose control.

The Ford minivan, apparently anticipating the Dodge SUV swerving back into its lane, then darted through a gap in the right lane. It flew past a half-dozen vehicles before again having to brake heavily, this time almost at the Vine Street Expressway.

After checking the nearby lanes for traffic, Matt calmly steered to follow it.

I wonder how many violations I’ve made so far of our department’s pursuit policies.

Plenty, I’m sure.

And I’m also sure someone will be more than happy to point them out as we review the video of it in the ECC.

His cell phone began ringing, and he dug it out of his pocket and glanced at the caller ID. Payne was amazed the earbud was still in his ear. When he answered the call, he wondered if all Harris would hear would be his siren wails and horn honks.