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They were met with a furious onslaught of gunfire.
CHAPTER 40
TWO WAS IN the lead as the blast of gunfire shattered the Sheetrock in the stairwell, showering plaster and spent brass down on him and the other guys in the crew.
The gunfire was expected.
The three men flattened themselves against the stairwell wall. One screamed, “This is the police! Drop your weapons!”
Two aimed his CapStun launcher and fired the military-grade pepper bomb up the stairwell.
There was a loud bang. The canister dropped onto the warehouse floor and hissed as it released the fine mist. A moment later, two men on the second floor stumbled toward the head of the stairs, hands over their watering eyes, coughing helplessly, calling out, “We don’t have guns. Don’t shoot.”
One said, “I’m sorry, but put yourselves in my place.”
He fired two short bursts with his M-16, then stepped out of the way as the bodies tumbled heavily down the stairwell.
The shooters climbed to the second floor, and One looked around the warehouse, which was just as the snitch had described it. It took up the whole second floor.
In front, against the wall facing the street, were stacks of wicker furniture. In back, around where One and his crew stood, office equipment was lined up on the various tables and shelves. There were copiers, rolls of plastic and tape, scales and money counters, cardboard cartons, and a laptop with the screen showing a quadrant security camera view of the inside and outside of the factory, including the static from the camera he’d shot out over the back door.
There was a gun safe in the corner, five by three by two, and it was open, saving them the trouble of blowing off the door with explosive charges. The safe was full of packets of heroin, and next to the safe were stacks of small cardboard cartons and a half dozen army-green duffel bags. Three unzipped the bags and announced, “A whole lot of cash, One.”
One heard a racking cough coming from a closet. Gun readied, he opened the door to find a man sitting in a crouch, covering his eyes with his arms. The man looked up, his face swollen from the pepper bomb. He cried out, “I can’t see.”
One said, “Where’s Donnie? Where’s Rascal?”
The man in the closet hacked and wheezed. “They left.”
One said, “OK. Sorry. I have to do this, bro.”
He pointed his weapon at the man on the closet floor and fired. The guy screamed, then collapsed.
One called out, “You guys OK?”
After Two and Three said they were fine, One went over to the cartons stacked on the floor. He opened flaps and did a rough tally of the eight-by-six-by-four-inch parcels, neatly wrapped in glittery paper, taped and labeled BLUE WAVE, MAD FANTASY, SUNNY DRAGON.
There were hundreds of pounds of synthetic pot in these packets, the kilos of H in the gun safe. With the duffel bags of cash already packed, they were good to go.
The three men made several trips up and down the stairs, which were littered with bodies and shell casings. They carried the bags of money, the cartons and packets of drugs, and the laptop down to the van.
When the last of the haul was safely stowed, One went back into the house, where he checked to make sure the downed men were all dead. Then he turned out the lights and locked the door.
Wicker House was out of business, but One and his crew were very damned close to early retirement.
Job well done.
CHAPTER 41
THE BLEEPING PHONE rang way too early.
Joe said to me in his sleep, “I’ll get her.”
“Stand down, pardner,” I muttered. “I got this.”
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and noticed that the time was 5:51 and that my caller was Brady. As far as I knew, I was off duty. I took the phone into the bathroom. “What’s wrong, Brady? Personal or business?”
“Business.”
