Стивен Хантер - Game of Snipers

“Ah, actually,” said Jared, fighting a rise of phlegm in his throat, “I wanted to hook up with some stuff. Hard, you call it, right? Got some pals, we want to try it. That’s what I’m here for.”

The dealer sized him up. “Think yo’ know some shit cuz yo’ calls it hard, just like a bro wif two nines and a mouf-ful of gold and a shiny diamond? What yo’ know? Yo’ don’t know shit.”

Jared shrugged. “But the money is green. That should count for something.”

“Gots to try the ride? Yeah, man, dis shit give yo’ the ride. Yo’ show me the green — or is dis some bullshit fraternity test, see how long yo’ last on Seven Mile?”

“No, no, I have the money,” he said, pulling out his roll. The dealer looked at the thickness of the wad.

“Yo’ heavy, man.”

“Eight hundred, man. I want to buy that much.”

“Yo’ don’t know nuffin’! Yo’ think I got that much? I do nickel and dime bags, man. And it’s late, I done most of my business. Got two nickels and a dime left. My man be comin’ by soon. I got to put in a request, and he go load up. Then yo’ git yo’ eight dimes and go off to yo’ white-boy A-rab par-tay with all dem Beckys.”

“Shit,” said Jared. “How long do I have to stand here?”

“Yo’ come south of Seven Mile, that’s what happens, man. Okay, go ’way. Go back to that car wif yo’ friend. My man be by in a bit.”

“Do I give you money now?”

“Give me two hundred, down payment. That’s so’s I know yo’ come back, and also yo’ don’t go to no other dealers. I’m Ginger. Yo’ come back to Ginger, yo’ don’t go no other dealer or yo’ lose your two hundred dollars, get it?”

“Yeah.”

“Go ’way, come back in forty minutes, ’kay? He come, I tells him, we go load up, yo’ pay up. Yo’ gits yo’ bags and yo’ gets yo’ scared little Peter Pan ass outta here.”

They drove around the block and parked. Juba slipped out. He slid through the overgrown yard of one house, across an alley mainly used by rats, and through another yard, until he had a good vantage on the dealer.

Nothing happened for a time — no traffic, no pedestrians, no whores, no cops — but then a black SUV pulled up, and the dealer man went around to him. Juba watched as they exchanged words through the window and, finally, some cash and a plastic bag with new, but short, replenishment.

Juba turned, raced back the way he came, and jumped into the car. He pulled down the street, screamed around the corner, hit the street where the drama had played out, and turned. A couple of blocks ahead, they could make out the taillights of what could only be the SUV.

They rolled through back streets, closing the distance. Juba was counting on poor security from the runner. He wouldn’t be alert. Under normal circumstances, Juba would have followed at an eight-block increment, pulled off, waited for the next run, then eight more blocks, finally arriving near morning. But time was short. The only thing he did was turn his lights off, keeping eye contact with the taillights ahead. They turned, he turned, and when he got to Seven Mile, he had to guess which way the supplier had turned because he hadn’t made it to the street in time to see. He guessed left, put his lights back on, and pressed pedal to floor. Ah, yes, there it was, a black Jeep Cherokee, well-polished, glittering in the more vivid light of Seven Mile. He fell into place six car lengths behind, careful to keep a regular interval, low profile, nothing aggressive or hostile.

At least one person was impressed.

“Wow,” said Jared, “you’re on this guy’s tail like glue.”

“Concentrate. Eyes on the car. When it turns, I’ll go straight ahead. It’s your job to see if it turns left or right the next street over or continues.”

Jared nodded, swallowing.

The game played itself out for another three-quarters of a mile. Then, helpfully, the driver ahead signaled, slowed, and took a right.

Jared saw, from the vantage point of his own car, the SUV slow down in the middle of the intersection, saw the taillight signal, saw the vehicle swing around.

“He went left,” he said.

Juba accelerated through his block, took the right on two wheels, and pulled up at the corner, waiting for the SUV to pass him and for the chase to begin again. But it didn’t come, and he got out, ran to the corner, and saw the SUV parked in the road half a block down. A sudden shear of light signified the opening of the stash house door as the driver was admitted.

“Okay, that’s it,” he said as he got back. “Now we check it out.”

Slowly, they drove by the house. It was dilapidated, like all the others, but three lights burned in various windows. Otherwise, it was quiet.

They pulled around the corner, parked, and, catty-cornered, observed, sheltering in the lee of an abandoned place across the street.

In time, the dealer came out. He had a large paper bag with him.

“Okay, he’s loaded up, headed back with your eight dime bags,” said Juba. “We’ll give it a few minutes and then we’ll hit them.”

“Hit them? With what?” said the boy.

Interrogation room A, task force MARJORIE DAW headquarters

The interrogation of the Imam Imir el-Tariq didn’t take place until nearly 5 a.m., after various administrative tasks had been completed. The imam’s lawyer had to arrive and meet with his client, the relevant federal attorney had to be roused from bed and brought on scene, the FBI evidence retrieval had to work the room found in the basement in which a single man had lived for a week, Mrs. McDowell had to be medically attended to, cleared, debriefed, and her testimony integrated into the strategy Nick would take, the evidence collated and mastered — all of these activities backed by paperwork and cyberwork.

Finally, Nick, SAIC Houston of the Detroit Field Office, and the sleepy federal prosecutor, who was instructed to keep his mouth shut since he knew nothing, sat across from the imam and his lawyer, a well-known firebrand named Kasim. Swagger, Gold, and Chandler observed via closed-circuit TV.

Nick began by speaking into the recording device, identifying each participant and his allegiances, the date, the circumstances. Then he began in earnest.

“Imam el-Tariq, as your lawyer has undoubtedly told you, the government will indict you on the following counts: detaining a federal agent against her will, use of force against a federal agent, conspiracy to assault a federal agent, and, if necessary, kidnapping a federal agent or conspiracy to kidnap a federal agent. This could amount to a federal prison sentence of more than fifteen years. And please note that we do not anticipate filing state charges, so that the cases will not be tried in the somewhat dubious Dearborn judicial system. Hard time is a distinct possibility.”

Kasim was fast on the reply.

“Special Agent Memphis, the government’s case is extremely weak. Your own officers will testify that no doors were locked between Mrs. McDowell and themselves. There were no firearms, nor weapons of any sort, found within, according to your own evidence team. No marks of bondage were discovered or documented. No bruises, no abrasions, no physical evidence of any kind of abuse has been documented, nor can it be. At no time did the woman merely say, ‘I wish to go home.’ Had she, compliance would have been immediate.”

“She tells a different story, and the situation as discovered by the SWAT team — four men grilling a single woman under harsh lighting — is itself prima facie evidence of most of the charges. Moreover, the courts have long held that psychological intimidation — the suggestion, the intimation, the subtle inference of force— is force. Bruises are not necessary, only witness testimony of intimidation as to direction.”