Chapter 12: Saving Them

At first, Josh thought the cars were Mafia or additional Brawley PD units, but they seemed more focused on the other cops then him. They wore suits, not uniforms, and pointed their guns at the cop cars.

“FBI!” he heard one of them yell, “Roll down your windows, throw your weapons out of the car, and then put your hands over your heads. NOW!”

One of the cop’s guns started to seem a bit pointed, and a shot was fired into the ground near that cop’s car, “Last warning, DROP THEM!”

The cops complied, their weapons on the floor. One of the agents went around collecting the guns off the floor while the other five covered him.

“Now, get out of the car, with your hands raised, and move away from them, one at a time,” he pointed a gun at one of the cars, “You first.”

The cops complied, and one by one all three cop cars emptied of cops, the cops with their hands in the air. It was a bizarre situation, men with suits holding cops with their hands in the air. Then one of the Brawley PD asked, “I want to see some fucking ID.”

“Sure thing,” the agent in charge said, walked over to him, and sucker punched the cop, causing him to double over and kneel on the floor, “I’d think that would be good enough, but here’s my ID, asshole. I fucking hate dirty cops!”

Josh was nervous, but he slid open the passengers door of the van and leaned out, “Excuse me,” he yelled, “Here am I. The weapons, I have in my van, and also, the holding of one I am doing. A prisoner I have in my van, also. Drop the gun I will when covering me you are.”

“Stay put, kid,” the agent in charge said, “Let me attend to this garbage first.”

Josh watched nervously as the agents individually hand cuffed the cops, and forced them into their unmarked Crown Victorias and Caprice. Then the agent turned back to him, and motioned other agents to cover the van with their guns.

“You’re Joshua Abati, right?” the agent asked.

“I am he,” Josh replied, “But how do you know this?”

“Special Agent Toomey,” the agent said by way of introduction, “Your firm employs three men, ones a spic, one’s a giant, and you’re neither. Process of elimination.”

“No,” Josh said grumpily, “the one you’d call a kyke, I am.”

“I’m sick of amateurs getting into the middle of big cases, I’m sorry for the language, kid,” the agent said with modest placation.

“Amatuers, feh,” Josh spat, “Tied up in my van, the mob boss is.”

“The mob boss?” Toomey asked eyebrows raised, “Frankie’s in the hospital.”

“The other mob boss, meshugge goyim,” Josh said, “Lawrence Mendalbaum. Horning in on Frankie he was trying to do. Whaddidya think this was about anyway?”

“You mean the Lombardi mob?” Toomey said airily, “Larry works for Frankie. Frederico Lombardi is the head of the mob out of Miami, and he’s-.”

“Rico the head?” Josh chuckled, “And an amateur you call me? The lollipop gang Rico couldn’t do the leading of! Out of a cartoon that putz is!” Pointing to Larry tied up on the floor, he continued, “This schmuck is the macher! Oy veigh ist mehr, kein yiddishkopf, dem putz.”

“We are taking both of you in,” McCarthy said.

“I’m a fucking Fed!” Jack roared.

“You have until the number three, little Bruiser,” Akilah said with the ice of the arctic flowing from her once long ago meek voice, but now with the confidence of a femme fatale- a femme tres fatale, “One. Two. Thr-”

“WE MOVED ON THOSE COPS!” Jack screamed, suddenly scared for his life, “He’s s-s-safe f-fr-om them. I-I sw-swear to god.”

Akilah clicked on the safety, but didn’t lower the gun, “What cops do you talk about?”

“Brawle- Brawley PD,” Jack said, “Plea-please lower the- the gun. The Brawley police had him under watch, we moved on them.”

“That is good,” Akilah said, unable to hide her relief fully, lowering but not holstering the gun, “Now, George and I are going to go into that building and collect our friend. Do you find my intention clear, Mr. DiAbbruzzo?”

“Ver-very clear, Ahkyleh,” Jack said, “We will cover you.”

“It is pronounced Ah-KEY-lah,” Akilah said with some frost, but less, “It is good we are clear on this. Let us move, George.”

“Sure thing, Akilah,” George said, her full name being a warning that George thought she was going too far.

“Laqad kan yaskhar miniy mae zawji,” Akilah replied evenly as they moved towards the building, “Laqad kan mahzuzan ‘anani lam ‘atliq alnaar ealayhi.”

“I know he is lucky to be alive,” George said softly as they were out of earshot, “But even I don’t have pull to get you off for shooting a fed over him being a jackass about Josh.”

“Then we are both lucky,” Akilah said evenly, opening the door as George stood with his gun pointed at it with both hands.

“Yes,” George peered into the darkness, and flicked on his Stetchkin’s flashlight, and slowly walking in, illuminating the room strategically, “Clear.”

Akilah followed in with him, holding her Desert Eagle the same way, letting her eyes adjust to the dark. It was the back room of a supermarket, mostly empty. A table was off to the side with six chairs around it, cards and chips strewn about it. “Of course it would be poker, would it not?”

“Five card draw, too, I swear this is a cartoon,” George replied, “The freezer?”

“That seems to be logical, yes,” Akilah acknowledged, “I will stand behind you.”

Akilah stood directly facing the door opening, and George opened the door while standing back. Akilah did not have a flashlight, but seeing no interior latch on the door, deduced there were no enemies within. George started to move to go into the freezer, as a nagging feeling started in her senses.

It happened quickly. George made one silent step into the door, and Akilah heard a tap. It was the tap of a leather soled shoe worn by somebody who didn’t know how to be quiet. Her ears triangulated the sound, and she pointed, saw, and shot. Between the tap and the shot was less than half a second. In the empty but enclosed space, the report of the Desert Eagle was dull yet deafening. A split second later, there was a distinct thud and a sort of cracking sound, followed by a heavier thud.

George spun the Stechkin towards the heavy thud, and a large, but not muscular man in a sweat suit lay on the floor. From what was left of his large, fat head, he had black hair and a cauliflower ear, but the rest of the back of his head was no longer there. A blood spatter of massive proportions existed on the wall.