DIVA (33 page)

Eyes that sent a clear message.
Do what we say or I’ll rip out your throat
.

Had no problem doing what they said, had a problem with what AK might say.

A voice spoke into his ear “Yo, speak to me.”

“AK, we gotta talk, man.”

“Heh, heh, heh.” AK’s evil chuckle. “How you doin’, Antoine? How come you didn’t wanna talk to me on Sunday, went and run off like that?”

He glanced at Renzi, who motioned with his hand, reminding him to repeat what AK said so they’d know what was happening. “Didn’t wanna talk to you on Sunday, seemed like you was fixin' to kill me.”

“No such thing! We just wanted to talk.”

“You wanna talk, let’s do it now. How come you done what you done to Chantelle?”

“You wanna talk, come on over to Iberville.”

“Talk at Iberville?” he said, and looked at Renzi.

Renzi shook his head, scissored his hands back and forth. The cops had already told him:
No meet at the project. Meet him at City Park.

“No way I be meeting you at Iberville, your posse be there. Got to be someplace neutral.”

“You fixin’ for a fight?”

“Damn straight. Meet me in the sculpture garden at the art museum in City Park. No guns, no backup, just you and me.” His hand clenched in a fist. He wanted to ram it down AK’s throat, take some teeth with it. “Let’s see if you man enough to come by yourself and not hide behind your homeboys. I’ll whup yo ass.”

“Fuck you, Antoine. I don’t need no help to whup yo ass. Meet me behind the Shell Station, corner of North Rampart and Esplanade, half an hour.”

“North Rampart and . . .” Feeling four pairs of eyes on him, he tried to tell the location, realized the time factor was more important.

“Wait. Half an hour? That’s too soon—”

Heard a loud click in his ear.

He looked at the hard-eyed cops. “AK says meet him behind the Shell Station, corner of North Rampart and Esplanade in half an hour.”

“Fuck!” said the head honcho. “That’s too soon! We need more time to set up.”

_____

Three loud thumps interrupted his pushups.

He glanced at Oz, cowering in his cage.

More thumps. Louder. Insistent. Then a deep voice. “I know you in there. Paint your van black don’t fool me none. Open up!”

He scrambled to his feet and grabbed his wallet, composing excuses on his way to the door. When he opened it a dark presence confronted him.

Six-foot-six Aristide Ortiz, with a big frown on his ugly ebony-skinned puss. “You ain’t paid your rent in three months.”

He took a wad of bills out of his wallet, two hundred dollars, all that remained of Belinda’s check. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ortiz. I’ve been too busy to get over to your house and pay you.”

Got back an implacable stare. “You owe me twelve-hundred bucks.”

The man’s menacing eyes gave him pause. His buck knife was in the van. Useless. His arsenal was in a storage locker. He set his palm against the door, about to slam it shut.

A mean-looking Glock-9 appeared in Ortiz’s hand.

“Lemme in, ‘less you want a muthafuckin' hole in your chest.”

He backed away and Ortiz followed him into the bed-sitting room.

“The fuck is this?” Gesturing at the cage with his Glock. “I tol’ you no pets!”

Terrified by the man’s loud voice, Oz cowered in a corner.

“It’s just a rabbit to keep me company. He stays in his cage. He won’t damage anything.”

The landlord’s nostrils flared. “Whole place stinks of shit. Where’s the money?”

He thrust the cash at him. “Here’s two hundred. I’ll have to go to the bank for the rest.”

Ortiz snatched the bills. “Two hundred ain’t jackshit. A thousand bucks you still owe me.”

“I told you. I’ll go to the bank and get it.”

“Bet yo ass you will or you be full of more holes than that rabbit cage. Noon tomorrow I be back with my sons. You don’t have the loot, we bust your balls, truck yo stuff to the dump.” He gestured at Oz. “Take yo rabbit home and have us some boiled bunny for dinner.”

He wanted to punch the man’s ugly puss, would have if a Glock-9 hadn’t been aimed at his heart. He forced a smile. “I’ll have it tomorrow, Mr. Ortiz, don’t you worry.”

“I ain’t the one needs to worry. That be
you
.” Ortiz turned and stomped out of the apartment.

A fierce ache pounded his temples. Ortiz was bad enough. His sons were probably just as big and twice as ugly. Go to the bank and get the cash? What a joke. He had no bank account. His only cash was in his storage locker. Special Ops Rules: Always prepare a Doomsday Plan in case things turn ugly. Like now.

He massaged his temples, his mind churning. Then he smiled.

What was he thinking? He didn’t need a doomsday plan. Belinda hadn’t been her usual gracious self lately, but this was an emergency. Once she understood the danger he was in, she was certain to help him.

After all he had done for her, how could she not?

CHAPTER 33

Frank jumped into Miller’s unmarked Chevy Caprice.

“Get going,” he said. “AK told Antoine to meet him at the Shell Station, North Rampart and Esplanade, half an hour.”

Two more unmarked cars idled at the curb behind them: Kelly and Warren Wood in one, Otis Jones and Sam Wallace in another. The SWAT team Hummer was parked around the corner out of sight.

Miller pulled away from the curb, cutting off a startled motorist. “Don’t leave us much time to set up. That’s fourteen blocks from here.”

“No kidding. Too many lights on Rampart. Take Burgundy. It’s only got stop signs. Lean on the horn, we can blow through them.”

Miller slewed right on Burgundy and floored the accelerator.

A woman on the sidewalk sprang back, glaring at them as they passed. In the wing mirror, he glimpsed Warren’s car speeding north on Canal Street. Vobitch, riding in front with Warren, would coordinate the operation. Kelly was riding in back. She’d be safe with Vobitch. His big worry: Chuck Duncan was driving Antoine to the meet in the surveillance van. Antoine wouldn’t be involved in the takedown, but Vobitch wanted him nearby in case AK didn’t show and Antoine had to call him again.

His radio crackled to life. Vobitch with an update. “The phone tech pinpointed AK’s cell phone location, corner of North Rampart and Esplanade, must have been at the Shell Station when he took the call. All units proceed with caution. No lights, no sirens. Chuck, park the van at the corner of Esplanade and Burgundy, get in back and stay there. Out.”

Miller shook his head. “Bad news.”

Frank nodded as they zoomed east on Burgundy toward Esplanade, Miller touching the brakes before each intersection and leaning on the horn.

Five blocks down, nine to go. The radio crackled to life again.

Vobitch: “Dispatch says two D-Eight patrol cars are in the vicinity of the Shell Station. I told Dispatch to send those units as backup. Out.”

Bad idea, Frank thought. The patrol cops hadn’t been briefed. But it wasn’t his call. Vobitch was running the show. No matter how well you planned an operation, shit happened.

Miller slewed to a stop at the next intersection, horn blaring as a yellow taxi crossed in front of them. Four blocks to Esplanade. Ten minutes to get in position. Their hastily revised plan: Block the escape routes. Warren, Kelly and Vobitch would park two blocks west of the Shell Station. Otis and Sam would park on Rampart across from the station. Miller would park their car one block south of the station on Burgundy.

That eased his mind somewhat. They would be near the surveillance van so he could watch out for Antoine. Or so he hoped.

When they reached Esplanade, the black surveillance van was already parked on the corner of Burgundy, headed north toward the Shell Station.

“Chuck made good time,” Miller said.

He nodded. Tension clawed his gut like a jungle cat tearing meat.

Miller eased the Chevy across Esplanade. This part of Burgundy was one-way west and they were driving east. Fortunately, no cars were approaching. Miller wheeled into a driveway, reversed direction and pulled into a vacant space a half block down from Esplanade. From here, Frank could just make out the rear fender of the surveillance van.

An adrenaline rush jumped his heart rate, the buzz he always got before the action. He racked his SIG. Miller did the same with his Glock.

As they left the car a bald man with a gray beard came out of the house across the street and gawked at them. Like Miller, Frank wore loose-fitting navy-blue sweats, but Miller was an imposing presence: a six-foot-six black man with a shaven pate and a soul patch. Both of them were bulked out with body armor and packing semi-automatics.

Not your average Joes in the ‘hood. The gray-bearded man jumped into a lemon yellow VW Bug and drove off.

Frank gestured at the small white cottage with green shutters beside their car. “Let’s cut through the backyard and check out the Shell Station.”

With guns drawn, they crept alongside the one-story house. In the backyard, two white bed-sheets on a clothesline flapped in the breeze. Near the back fence, flies buzzed the lids of four black trashcans.

Off in the distance, a siren sounded.

“Damn,” Miller said. “AK hears that, he might run.”

A flash of motion exploded off to their left. His heart jolted.

Three men with automatic rifles, AK and his goons racing toward Esplanade. And the surveillance van.

He took off running. If they made the surveillance van, Antoine was dead. The van looked innocuous enough, chipped black paint, dark-tinted windows, a blacked out rear window.

But if AK spotted the telltale antennas on the roof . . .

A giant fist gripped his gut. He ran faster. Beside him, Miller matched his speed, their feet pounding the sidewalk as they raced toward the corner.

The surveillance van was moving. Good, he thought. Get Antoine out of there. He saw it back up, then pull forward. Then, a burst of shots.

The van lurched to a stop and rocked back and forth. More shots.

His heart slammed his chest. He rounded the corner and stopped, horrified. Dancing alongside the van, AK raked it with automatic weapon fire, heavy-duty slugs penetrating the van like a hot knife cutting butter.

He fired three rounds. Saw AK’s baggy pants jerk as a slug hit them. Miller was firing too, but AK whirled and ran behind a row of hedges in front of the next house.

More automatic fire, directed at them now.

They ran for cover, charged across the lawn of the two-story house on the corner and ducked behind the porch. He motioned at Miller to circle the house and studied the van. Even from here, thirty yards away, he could see blood on the windshield. Chuck was hit. No telling about Antoine.

He keyed his handset: “Officer down at Burgundy and Esplanade. AK shot up the surveillance van. Renzi and Miller in pursuit.”

He wanted to check the van and see if Antoine was okay, but another burst of automatic fire came at him, too many rounds to count. He dropped to the ground and crawled under the porch.

More shots, AK’s thugs pinning him down with AK-47s. A fine weapon, fast and accurate, easy to use. Load the 30-round magazine with 7.62x39 caliber hollow-point slugs and it was a killer.

Shrill sirens filled the air, approaching from all directions.

Hugging the ground, he crawled to the other end of the porch. No more shots, lots of sirens. He squirmed out from under the porch. Eased his torso up until his head was level with the porch floor. Looked around the corner.

Twenty yards away AK stood on the sidewalk, wearing a white shirt and baggy cargo pants. Acting like he didn’t have a care in the world, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh magazine.

Frank heard a faint chink as AK rammed the clip into his AK-47.

The street was deserted. Hearing this many shots, anyone in the houses along the street knew enough to stay inside.

A District-Eight squad car with flashing lights barreled down the street, siren screaming. AK opened up on it with his automatic, smoke rising from the barrel. The sound was deafening.

He saw spent brass casings scatter over the sidewalk. Saw the left front tire of the squad car blow out, an explosion of black rubber spiraling along the pavement. The car slewed to a stop. He took aim at AK, but AK broke left, firing as he zigzagged down the sidewalk.

One of the patrol cops went down and lay still beside the squad, arms flung out. AK strolled toward the cop and raised his weapon.

Frank braced his shooting hand on his left forearm, took careful aim and fired. Saw AK spin left, drop his weapon and clutch his shoulder.

A barrage of bullets came at him. AK’s goons pinning him down again.

He dove under the porch.

The giant cat clawed his gut, and guilty thoughts churned his mind.

Was Antoine okay? Antoine was the innocent bystander inside the van, because Frank had talked him into helping them corral AK. And what about Chuck? He’d seen a lot of blood on the van windshield.

He flattened himself on the ground. Inched forward under the porch. Saw AK run through the yard beside the next house.

He took aim and fired.

_____

Verging on panic, he clamped the cell phone to his ear, silently begging his beloved to answer.
Please answer, just this once
.

Her voicemail came on again. Enraged, he clenched his fist. He’d called four times in the last thirty minutes. His stomach was an acid bath, eating him alive, killing him slowly. He had to talk to her.

“Belinda, it’s Barry. Please pick up. I need to talk to you. It’s an emergency!” He scratched his cheek, willing her to answer. “Please answer the phone, Belinda. I have to talk to you. It’s an emergency.”

His fingernails dug into his cheek.

She’d pay for this, making him grovel.

“Stop calling me, Mr. Silverman. I don’t want to talk to you.”

His heart soared at the sound of her voice. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Belinda, but my landlord was just here, threatening me. I’m behind on my rent. He’s coming back tomorrow and—”