This story is part of an ongoing series.
The chronological order of my stories is listed in WifeWatchman's biography.
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constructive
criticism is very much appreciated, and I encourage feedback for ideas.
This story contains graphic scenes, language and actions that might be extremely offensive to some people. These scenes, words and actions are used only for the literary purposes of this story. The author does not condone murder, racial language, violence, rape or violence against women, and any depictions of any of these in this story should not be construed as acceptance of the above.
Part 17 - Trapped
"Ah, so it
was
you." I said as O'Brady and I raised our hands.
"Don't give yourself airs, Mr. Iron Crowbar." snarled McGinty, though with a look of smug satisfaction on his pug face. "You had no idea it was me until I just pulled this gun on you. And you disappoint me: that's what all of them said, too; that bitch Reese, that nigger Jones, and then Cash. And it was the last thing they said before they died, too."
"And Sullivan?" I asked.
"That wasn't me, I swear to God it wasn't me." McGinty said. "Jeff Farley was the bastard that gave me the wrong directions that made us late, and then he went to I.A. and said it was me."
"And they believed him over you." I said. "Even set it up with a dirty FBI Agent to make sure you were blamed."
"Yeah, that's right." said McGinty. "It was only after I became a P.I. that the Consultant of Crime contacted me, and recruited me to take over the smuggling operations from Farley. Farley was a dirtbag, started working with another dirtbag named Ferrell in the SBI. They weren't part of the Consultant's operations."
"And you're the ringleader, eh?" I said. "Who's
your
boss? Who's 'Mr. Big'?"
"Wouldn't you like to know." said McGinty. "I'll tell you this: it ain't Granger. He's worthless, a hopeless fuck-up too." He then said: "All right, Q&A is over. Take out your guns, pinch the butts, slowly take them out and slide them over here."
I did so immediately; O'Brady was a bit slower, but finally complied as he looked down the barrel of McGinty's pistol. McGinty watched us like a cat as he bent down and retrieved our guns, then stuffed them into the top of his pants, held in place by his belt.
"Now your jackets, and your armor." said McGinty. We had no choice but to drop our coats to the ground, mine landing with a thud because my red crowbar was in its pocket. Then we took off our chest armor. I still had the 'girdle' on under my shirt, but fat lot of good it would do to protect my head and upper chest.
"All right, let's go. In there." said McGinty, pointing his thumb at the other room, the occupied one. "And no tricks. You scare me, Iron Crowbar; I'm twitchy, and my trigger finger is itchy. Move, nice and slow." I walked into the warehouse room, followed by Shane, our hands up.
"That's far enough." said McGinty, coming into the room behind us. We stopped near the pole upon which the plexiglass sheet was attached as the workers in the room noticed us and began moving towards us. McGinty had moved to his left, away from the door and out of the direct line of sight... of the two dozen red laser dots that suddenly appeared on my and O'Brady 's chests.
Only now I saw shadowy figures on an overlooking catwalk, and some people on the ground aiming their laser-equipped weapons at us. M-4s, a couple of AK-47s. Powerful weapons whose bullets would shred our bodies to pieces.
"Light 'em up, boys!" ordered McGinty as he moved on out of the way.
"Now!" I barked. O'Brady and I jumped behind the plexiglass sheet as the red dots transferred themselves to McGinty's body. He'd raised his weapon to shoot at me, but it was too late. He was still holding the pistol, but was spreading his arms wide, and the firearm was pointed at the ground.
"As you can see, McGinty," I said, "I wasn't giving myself airs. I had you pegged all along."
"How?" asked McGinty, his face connoting defeat.
"Wouldn't you like to know." I said. "And I'll tell you at the Station, in exchange for you telling me who your boss is. So why don't you make things easier on yourself, put the gun down, and let's go, eh?"
"Yeah," said McGinty, "I'll make things easier on myself." With that, he put his handgun to his temple, and pulled the trigger. He crumpled to the ground as my ears rang from the deafening sound of the gunshot.
Bundy McGinty... was dead. Three very good Police Detectives... were avenged.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
1:30am, Friday, March 22d. We were at the Federal Building. Dwight Stevens had led the Federal team that had taken down McGinty's perps and replaced them in the warehouse. The perps were now in Federal custody in the City, and we were in the FBI offices.
SBI Reservist Cindy Ross and the Crowbar Clan's Teresa Croyle had spearheaded the group that had been listening to the microphones in my SUV and on my clothing, and had gotten the Federal Assault Team the info they needed on where to go. They were here with us, as well.
"I just wish we could've taken him alive." said FBI Supervisory Agent Martin Nash, who had been one of the 'perps' in the warehouse. "He might've led us to Granger, who might've led us to Barsbane, who might've led us to Shimono, Trent, and Quint."
"We just busted a major-ass drug ring." said FBI Special Agent in Charge Jack Muscone. "And Don and O'Brady made it out alive. I'll take that, any day."
"I'll take the part about coming out of it alive." I said. "But maybe if someone had shot him in the arm and made his drop his weapon? I'd have taken that, too."
