Urban Justice Read online

  “Good. That’s all. Leave the door open.”

  Agent Kennedy turned and left the office, all the while planning out the next steps of his investigation of Sheriff Jack Lamburt.

  7

  Catherine snuggled up to Roberto on his couch and slid her hand down his pants, landing on his crotch. She whispered in his ear, “Hey, baby, how about a little TLC?”

  “Not now. But I do need you to do me a favor.” He took out a burner cell phone and dialed. The call was answered on the second ring.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yo, Jorge, what’s up, dude?”

  “Hey, man. I’m busy. This important?”

  “Yeah, bro, your favorite girl’s here. She’s ready for some action.” Roberto looked at Catherine, winked, and stroked her bare thigh.

  “No shit? Catherine? I’ll be right over.”

  “Cool, dude. See you in a few.” He hung up the flip phone and removed its battery so that it couldn’t be traced. Too bad he didn’t know that the newer flip phones had a small rechargeable internal battery that couldn’t be disconnected, and that HSF was recording all of his calls and texts, and tracking his movements. HSF was also logged in to his microwave and fridge, as well as his electric razor.

  Catherine kissed Roberto on the neck. “Baby, I’m really not in the mood for Jorge. Can’t it just be me and you?”

  Roberto’s face reddened, and he pushed her away so hard that she fell off the couch and onto the floor. He stood over her and grabbed a handful of hair. “Not in the mood? Now you listen to me, you stupid bitch. Cosmo told you to obey me. Jorge’s my friend. You take care of him. Or else I’ll tell Cosmo that his whore didn’t treat me right. And we know what happens to Cosmos’s whores when they step out of line, right?” He raised an open hand over his head, the threat clear. “Understand?”

  She nodded yes.

  He released her hair and pushed her backwards until she lay on her back on the floor. Her knees were up in the air, and her miniskirt covered nothing. He didn’t allow her to wear any panties, and he got a full view of her freshly shaved pussy. His brain short-circuited, and any logical thought, however minute, came to a screeching halt. He reverted back to his Neanderthal brain and lost control.

  “Holy fuck, that’s hot.” He knelt down between her legs and pulled her T-shirt up, bra and all, and covered her face with it. “Jesus God, your tits are so fucking big.”

  He undid his jeans and slid into her. “Oh, fuck. So. Good.” He held her arms outstretched over her head and groaned into her neck. She crossed her ankles behind his back and pulled him in tight. He pumped her hard, and after a few seconds he let out a loud moan and collapsed on top of her.

  “Wow, that was fuckin’ great.” He knelt up between her legs and zipped up his jeans. She pulled her shirt down, smearing her mascara, and she went to kiss him. He pushed her away. “Goddammit, Catherine, go put your fuckin’ face on. I can’t let Jorge see you like that. Dumb bitch.”

  She got up and went into the bathroom. She tousled her hair in front of the cracked mirror and fixed her makeup. She removed her shirt and bra and hung the bra over a towel rack. She put her shirt back on, turned sideways, and smiled at the way her tight shirt accentuated her busty profile.

  She felt some of Roberto leaking down her leg, so she grabbed a tissue and wiped him off, wondering if Jorge knew that he’d be getting sloppy seconds. Or if he even cared.

  When she came out, Roberto and Jorge were sitting on the couch with a small line of heroin on a mirror on the coffee table in front of them. She dropped to her knees and helped herself to the one thing in her life that buried the pain of the past. The death of her sister Tiffany, of her parents, and worst of all, of her hopes and dreams.

  When she finished, she smiled up at the two men, removed her shirt, and shoulder-waved her breasts at them with a giggle.

  “Holy shit.” Jorge’s eyes stuck to her tits like bugs on flypaper. “Wow. Fuckin’ wow. No matter how many times I see those things…” He adjusted his crotch and squirmed in his seat.

  Roberto smiled, stood up, and helped her up by the arm. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

  8

  I went over the plan of action two more times, start to finish, before pouring a glass of Makers Mark and popping a bottle of Debbie’s favorite red wine. I spooled up Barry White on iTunes and put a single log in the fireplace. A moderate spring night in upstate NY didn’t really warrant a fire, but you couldn’t beat one for romantic atmosphere.

  I let Saber out for the final time of the night before stripping down and hitting the shower. The night before I left on a mission always made me feel extra alive, and with Debbie coming over after she finished work, I knew that it was going to be a long and delicious night.

  I was right.

  We spent the following day going over and fine-tuning our plans, trying to think of all kinds of ways that it could change mid-mission, and how we’d have to adjust on the fly. Everything from surveillance cameras to police cruisers to well-armed gang members was discussed. She loved the idea of the Remington 700, so I patted myself on the back for picking one up recently.

  We took a short nap in the afternoon to acclimate our sleep schedule to the late nights that were to follow. Places like Newburgh didn’t come alive until after dark. Just about the same time that I normally hit the sack. I was an early riser, usually by five a.m., so this was going to be a big change for me. Not so much for Debbie, who was used to working late at the Red Barn.

  We showered, separately so I wouldn’t be distracted, and settled down at the kitchen table for the last good meal we’d have for a while.

  After dinner, I tossed our bags into the extended cab of my Toyota, which turned out to be the perfect vehicle for this mission. Dark-colored and old, it would fit well into the tired and run-down Newburgh landscape.

  We left shortly after that, leaving our cell phones and E-ZPass on the kitchen counter. I often had Mary Sue house- and pet-sit when I went on missions, but this one was so close to home and should only be a few days, so I decided to take Saber with us. If things worked out well, we’d be back before anyone realized that we were gone.

  Our plan was to make the trip at a leisurely pace and arrive a little before dark. With my lily-white skin and her beautiful looks, we’d be sure to draw attention to ourselves, so we didn’t want to spend too much time in daylight. As an added precaution, I had Debbie wear a baseball hat, big sunglasses, and baggy old clothes to minimize her stunning figure.

  The trip to Newburgh was one hundred and eight miles, which took us two hours before we were rolling down Landers Street, also known as Blood Alley, for all the violence that took place there.

  Wow, what a change from Eminence.

  The majority of the houses were decrepit two- and three-story structures, either row homes or jammed so close together that you could barely walk between them. Most of the homes were brick-faced, but the trim and porch areas were rotten wood that, except for graffiti gang markings, hadn’t seen a coat of paint since the eighties. Many of the homes had boarded-up windows, and some even had their street addresses spray-painted across the front of them.

  Front yards were nonexistent, and the street was littered with garbage and ratty old tied-up sneakers hanging from the overhead wires. Decrepit and abandoned cars lined the broken-up curbs, and the road was filled with potholes and rusty old storm drain covers.

  “Holy shit,” Debbie said.

  “I know, right? People in America actually live like this… what a shame.”

  “You think your truck will be safe here?”

  “I don’t know, but we can’t worry about that. Let’s just find our building.”

  We drove around the neighborhood to get a feel for it, drawing our fair share of staredowns from the street toughs. Too bad I was here for Catherine and couldn’t afford to be distracted, or I could have had some real fun with these clowns. I made a mental note to plan a return trip after the smoke cleared from this one
. I had a hunch that might take some time, though. Rescue mission or not, I was determined to leave a trail of dead evildoers.

  We found a parking lot behind a closed-down industrial complex and I pulled my Toyota in. I pressed the button on Amelia’s app and brought up the route I had created earlier for her to fly. I had to modify it some, since her launch location was off by a few blocks, but in no time she was prepped and ready to go.

  I launched Amelia and watched her fly away. Her mission was to collect video and still photos of the heroin house, and I had no doubt that she’d succeed.

  I watched the live feed on my iPhone, impressed with her flying precision and the quality of the 4K video and telephoto lens. Fifteen minutes and five orbits around the heroin house later, my intrepid aviatrix ended her mission and headed for the bed of my pickup, where she made a perfect landing.

  We drove around some more, and by the time we pulled up in front of our rental unit, the sun had set and night was fast approaching. Our living quarters for the next few days was a middle-of-the-block three-story red brick-face that was covered in dead ivy and graffiti. Some of the windows on the first floor were boarded up, but the second- and third-floor windows were intact. There were a few other cars parked on the street, all old, and most with parking tickets shoved under their beaten-up wiper blades. As if these poor folks had the cash to pay them…

  A walkway on both sides of the building led to a tiny fenced-in rear yard. Debris and runaway weed growth covered most of it. We led Saber, off leash, into the backyard, where he took care of business. I found the third slate stepping stone from the rear door. I picked it up and found the envelope that contained the key to our unit. We got our luggage and keyed our way up to the second floor, which had a small landing at the top of the stairs. Our unit, 2C, was one of three doors. I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  Holy crap.

  Now I know what Jimmy the Guinea had meant when he’d said I must really like this place to pay so much money for it. The ceilings had big pieces of paint peeling from them, so much that it looked like a vermiculite in a cave. The light-colored walls were stained by cigarette smoke, and I could easily identify where posters used to hang. And this was before I turned the lights on.

  The flooring was painted plywood. Piles of garbage were swept into the corners, and the minimal amount of furniture was all broken, which was fine with me because we weren’t going to use it anyway.

  I switched on the lights in the kitchen and stuff scurried. Mostly cockroaches, with a couple of mice and a rat or two thrown in for good measure.

  All that was child’s play compared to the stench that greeted us. Debbie fought back a gag and commented that she’d rather kiss an elephant’s ass after a two-week bout of dysentery than stay in this place.

  “All for your sister, dear, all for your sister.”

  I put my arm around her shoulder and posed us in the doorway, like a happy couple moving into their first home together. I raised my burner phone with a chuckle. “Let’s take a selfie.”

  She laughed and elbowed me in the gut.

  I closed the door, and we set our go bags down in the center of the living room, then checked out the other rooms in our unit. As expected, it was more of the same.

  We heard people racing up the stairwell, their curses echoing through the building. I reached for my Glock and followed Saber over to the door. When the group reached the landing of our floor, they started banging on the door to the apartment next to us. “Open up, you bitch!”

  I shook my head and looked at Debbie. “Isn’t this just perfect?”

  “Where’s my gun?” she whispered.

  I went over to my go bag and pulled out a holstered Glock. I handed it to her and started to explain the intricacies of the fine work of art. She stared at me with a deadpan face.

  “Really, Jack?” She held the Glock out in front of her. “I’ve got over five hundred kills in my military career, and you’re going to explain to me how this works?”

  “Well, I mean, there’s no denying you’re proficient with a sniper rifle, but—”

  “Patrick. Stop talking. Right now, or I’ll order Saber to bite you in the nuts.”

  I nodded my understanding.

  She sighed and shook her head. She closed her eyes, popped out the magazine, cleared the chamber, dry-fired in a safe direction, pulled the slide pins down, slid the rail off, popped the spring off, and removed the barrel. A complete breakdown.

  “Time?” she asked, her eyes still closed.

  “Uhm. I wasn’t timing you, but maybe four seconds?”

  A few seconds later she had it all back together with a round in the chamber. She put it back in the holster, and opened her eyes.

  Holy shit. That was impressive.

  The door banging and shouting continued, and I nodded towards it, “So what now?”

  Debbie shook her head. “No. We can’t get involved. We have a mission to accomplish, and this will set us back.”

  I frowned, hating the disappointment of missing a confrontation with a couple of douche bags. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I hate to waste the opportunity, though…”

  “Just let it go.”

  I holstered my Glock and grabbed our bags. “Let’s do an equipment check.” I hoped the distraction of our work would deaden the noise from next door, which had morphed from loud banging and cursing into a woman crying and cursing. Jeez, this place had a lot of drama. So much for the abandoned building Jimmy the Guinea promised me.

  We sat down on the floor and unpacked one of the go bags, spreading the weapons out in a circle around us, which gave me a warm fuzzy. I pocketed the police scanner and took the Remington 700 out of its case. I heard Debbie’s breath catch in her chest. “No matter how many times I see one of those, I always start to tear up.”

  “Maybe someday you’ll feel that way about me?” I Tom Cruised my best smile at her.

  She raised an eyebrow and looked at me like I had three heads. Okay, then, perhaps not…

  “Can we just stay focused on the mission, please?”

  “Roger.”

  “So what time are we going over to the heroin house?”

  “I’m going over about two a.m. You’re gonna stay here with Mr. Remington and watch from the front window.” I looked at my watch, which read 10:32. “We have some time, wanna take a nap?”

  “Here? Are you kidding me? You’ll wake up to rats feeding on your toes.”

  “Yeah, good point. Wanna Barry White instead?”

  “Jesus, Jack. This place is gross. Can you please stay focused on the mission, for the umpteenth time?”

  “Fine.” She was no fun. I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall.

  A loud crash came from the apartment next door, and I sighed. “Wait until I get ahold of that Jimmy the Guinea.”

  “Seriously? You rented a place from a guy that calls himself Jimmy the Guinea? That’s his street name?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  The crying next door intensified, and I closed my eyes and shook my head. “This is freaking torture. Talk about killing my tranquility.”

  “Calm down. Why don’t you try meditation?”

  “How’s that going to help?”

  A blast that sounded like a gunshot shook the whole house. The screaming stopped and all was quiet. A few seconds later, soft weeping followed, and I stood up and shook my head. “Sorry, babe, I can’t put up with this anymore.”

  “Wait. Jack…”

  “You and Saber stay here, I’ll be right back.”

  I drew my Glock and screwed on the silencer. I opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, and tiptoed over to the apartment next to ours. I pushed open the door to 2B.

  9

  The door opened into a living room that was almost as messy as ours. Same painted plywood floor, but it had more broken furniture. The galley kitchen was off to my left, and like the living room it was empty of people. A hallway ran from the living room towards the back
of the unit, and with my Glock leading the way, I inched my way forward.

  I approached the first doorway and peeked inside. I hadn’t heard anything coming from that room since I’d entered the apartment, so I didn’t expect to see anyone inside it. There was a young child lying on the bed, on her stomach, crying softly into a pillow. She looked to be about eight years old, and she was clutching a teddy bear so tight that I could see the veins in her skinny brown arms popping out from the strain. Jeez, how does a kid get so unlucky that she’s born into this mess?

  I slid down the hall and approached the next bedroom. The door was closed, but not all the way, and I could see movement in the room as I got closer. I looked inside and couldn’t believe my eyes.

  It was the master bedroom, and it contained a king-size mattress lying on the purple shag carpet. A young lady, maybe in her twenties, was tied up on the sheetless mattress. Her hands were over her head and her ankles were tied to the corners of the mattress. Two men, their backs to the doorway, were kneeling beside her, giggling like schoolkids as they fondled her breasts through her T-shirt. One of the men took out a hypodermic needle and stuck it in her arm, depressing the plunger.

  The needle bearer elbowed the other but didn’t take his eyes from the lady. “Go get the bitch’s daughter. We’ll have some fun with her and put it on Facebook. That’ll teach Mommy to give us a hard time.”

  The man stood up and opened the door to leave the room. He bumped right into my Osprey silencer with his forehead. I raised the handle of the Glock an inch or two, pointing it downward in an attempt to keep the bullet inside his body. I hated cleaning up messes.

  I pulled the trigger.

  An audible “Phfat” silenced the other man’s giggles. His partner in crime crumpled to the floor, bullet still inside, thank God, and I silently congratulated myself on a brilliant display of cleanliness. How come Debbie was never around to see me shine?

  The other man turned his head slowly, as if that would prevent me from shooting him.