Tom Barber - One Way

Calvin had joined the force at 22; by the time he was 26, he was on his way to becoming wealthy. By his 28th birthday, he was a secret millionaire. And the whole time, he covered his tracks and made sure all his guys did the same. Amongst all the dirty activity, the team also performed some legitimate high-profile busts and provided security for VIPs visiting the city as part of their responsibilities as an SRT team, mixing the lawful operations in with all the scamming, to keep their reputations clean and avoid any unwelcome attention or suspicion. It worked. The newspapers, the city, the Mayor and the rest of the Department viewed them as loyal public servants. Men of honour. Although money laundering was now illegal, if a man was smart with the stolen cash and either banked it off-shore or invested it the right way, the funds could never be traced.

The war on drugs had spoils, just like any other conflict. The same as the soldiers who raided Hitler’s retreat once World War Two was over, Calvin and his men were making the most of a highly profitable situation. It was ideal. Collectively they had millions of dollars stored away from years of skimming. You make a few legit busts and take down a few collars, the Department superiors and the press applauded you for doing a great job. No one would ever think you were dirty.

It had worked like a dream. In the almost eleven years Calvin had been a cop, he’d earned close to four million dollars in illegal drug money.

And that was just his share, not including the cash the rest of his guys had taken.

Although the vast majority of the cops in Miami-Dade PD were clean, Calvin and his team weren’t the only ones abusing the system. Some of these other officers were about as intelligent as third graders. They didn’t take sufficient precautions, got careless about paying off the right people, left a trail that a child in the woods could follow. Internal Affairs were always hanging around the Keys on the hunt for these guys and it was like sharks with blood in the water when they found them. They knew how tempting all that money and coke could be to someone with a gun and authority. They were always on the prowl.

The Department tried to keep quiet about guys who got popped for corruption; most of them were shunted into retirement and threatened with severe consequences if they talked. Others were made an example of and ended up in the State pen, sharing a cell with the same people they used to bust.

But Calvin and his team were smart. He had an instinct for those who would never take a cut, and he could sense the SRT Commander had some reservations about him and his team. In eighteen months they successfully worked around a handful of officers who’d been assigned to his squad as definite marks and from whom they needed to keep their activities well hidden.

But then they screwed up.

They got comfortable.

And Officer Alice Vargas joined the First Team of SRT.

Inside an NYPD safe house downtown on Remington Street, Hendricks finished cuffing Mike Lombardi to a chair. It was a single room in a Lower East Side apartment, often used for meet-ups with undercover cops or as protection for anyone laying low in wit sec, not for working over mob bosses and extracting information. This was definitely a first. The place had one window, which had been covered over and the two men were alone.

Hendricks pulled a bag off the man’s head, tossing it to the floor.

In the seat, the Mob leader blinked as his eyes readjusted to the light, filling with defiance as he looked up at Hendricks, who drew his pistol and pulled the slide.

‘You realise what you’re doing?’ Lombardi said, without fear. ‘You know who I am?’

Hendricks leaned in close.

‘These walls are soundproof. That means no-one will hear you scream.’

Reaching into Lombardi’s pocket, Hendricks pulled out a cell phone and held it up.

‘You’re gonna call your team right now and tell them to come out of the building. Weapons thrown out of the door first, followed by all of them, hands on their heads, fingers interlaced, walking slow.’

Lombardi frowned.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

Hendricks’s face darkened. He put his gun against Lombardi’s groin, burying the barrel into the fabric of his jeans.

‘Make the call, asshole.’

‘Whoa! Wait! Wait! I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

‘Yes, you do!’ Hendricks shouted, pushing the gun down. ‘Make the call!’

‘What people? What the hell are you talking about?’

‘The building. The Marshals!’

‘What Marshals? That thing uptown?’

‘Yes!’

Hendricks dragged back the hammer of the pistol, the barrel buried in Lombardi’s groin.

‘Last chance. Don’t think I’m joking.’

‘I don’t know anything about that!’ Mike shouted. ‘Why the hell would I want to kill some people in some building?’

His finger halfway down the trigger, Hendricks looked in the man’s eyes. They were as wide as dinner plates but there was an honesty there that only a gun to the balls could bring.

This wasn’t the first time he’d used this particular interrogation method; it had a knack of cutting right to the truth.

‘The girl,’ he said, quieter and slower. ‘In the building.’

‘What girl?’ Mike shouted back.

Hendricks’s stared into the Mob leader’s wide eyes. There was a long moment, filled by panicked breaths from Lombardi. Then Hendricks withdrew the gun from the man’s groin, easing the hammer down. He looked away, thinking fast.

Then he turned and started walking away towards the door.

‘Hey!’ Lombardi said, jerking his arms, the handcuffs rattling and locking him in place. ‘Hey! Uncuff me! Hey!’

Hendricks ignored him, walking out of the safe house and slamming the door shut behind him, heading for his car.

Taking a seat inside the maintenance office on the 1st floor of the tenement building, his M4A1 still in his hands, Calvin cursed himself at his stupidity, thinking back to the beginning of last year when he’d let Vargas join his squad. He’d fallen for a well-planned set-up, taken the bait and that was all it had taken for over a decade of work to completely fall apart.

And now, they were in the deepest of shit.

Just over a year ago, a member of First Team, Hayworth, had been leaving Miami and SRT for Arizona and they’d needed a replacement. Hayworth had been a choirboy, Calvin and his team working around him for just over a year, and they were all sick of doing so. They wanted an officer who they wouldn’t need to hide everything from; it took too much time and energy so they decided to go fishing from the pool.

Out of all the current prospective candidates who’d put in applications and were accepted for SRT training school at the time, Vargas had stood out. She’d seemed legitimate; five foot four, a buck-twenty with a nice ass and a bad history. He and Denton had done extensive checks on her background but she seemed to be the real deal. She’d transferred from Orlando and had a high-ranking friend who put in a good word and got her a position at SRT school. There were rumours that she’d been investigated for racketeering, though there was nothing on the file.

She was abrasive and tough, and Calvin had been completely deceived; at her sit-down interview with the committee, he’d watched her closely. The physical aspect of their work meant there were fewer female applicants than male, but she looked hardy. She wasn’t green or unabatedly loyal to the Department like many other recruits. He’d requested she join his team and after a cautious feeling-out process, Calvin decided to test her and see if she could be trusted. If she reacted badly or refused, they’d made plans for that. However, she’d been game, not surprised at what they were up to and saying she’d keep her mouth shut if they made sure she wasn’t left out. With that, he shrugged off any remaining doubt.