Читать книгу State Of Attack - Gary Haynes - Страница 30

Chapter 21

When the grenade had landed the three front FBI men had flung themselves to the ground and had called out warnings to their unseen buddies. The two that had shields had used them to cover their heads, even though they were wearing standard-issue protective Kevlar helmets.

But no explosion occurred.

Three seconds later, a lanky black man in his late twenties opened the door and raced out, barefoot. He was dressed only in a pair of tight, ripped jeans. He had a machete in his hand and looked wide-eyed and crazy. Stoned, Crane guessed.

The FBI men got up. An agent with a pump shotgun shouted at the black man to drop the weapon, to get down on the ground. But he only shouted back in a foreign language that Crane recognized. He drew the machete back behind his shoulder, as if he was about to hurl it at the agent with the pump.

The dumb sonofabitch, Crane thought. But before he could intervene the blast from the shotgun hit the man in the chest and lifted him off his feet. He landed with a thud on the grass. The other two SWAT men had already entered the front of the house and Crane heard shouting and screaming. He ran forwards, his Kimber Eclipse II in hand, with its five-inch barrel and iron dovetail sights.

As soon as he got to the black man, he could tell he was close to death. He was gasping for air like a fish on a line. The wound to his chest was awful. The pellets had imbedded themselves in such a manner that the skin looked diced. Like hamburger meat. He heard him mumbling. His few words were indecipherable. Tears rolled from his wide eyes. Then he was just staring into space, and Crane knew he’d just died.

“A mad crack addict,” the SWAT man said, coming up to Crane’s shoulder. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Crane turned on him. “That blade would’ve bounced off ya ballistic vest like a rubber ball off a wall,” he said, shaking his head.

The FBI guy looked dumbfounded.

Crane walked over to the missile that had been tossed from the broken window after the chair. He knelt down and examined it, without touching it. It was a black paperweight, designed to look like a grenade. Hearing a commotion, he looked up. Two black women of similar ages to the deceased were being led from the bungalow. They were heavily made-up and wore pink bikinis and multicoloured headscarves. They were shouting and struggling. The SWAT guys had cuffed them and were gently pushing them forwards, despite the tirade. When they saw the dead man, they began to wail.

Then a second back male appeared. He had a beard and out-of-control hair, and looked about thirty-five. He was barefoot, like all the others, but he was wearing a pair of combat pants, a red silk shirt, a ton of gold chains and a gangster cap. He’d been cuffed, too.

Crane saw the unit chief speak to one of the agents before walking over the grass towards him. He was a tall man, perhaps six-three, with an elongated neck, pallid skin, and wiry gray hair, a pair of thick black-rimmed eyeglasses perched halfway down his hooked nose.

“That’s the Somali,” he said, thumbing over his back in the opposite direction to the stiff.

Crane felt like whooping, but just walked past the man to where the FBI were now frogmarching the Somali down the path, each limb tucked under a hefty arm. Crane held up his splayed hand at he got to them. “Stand him up,” he said, taking a cigar from his breast pocket.

One of the FBI men looked over to the unit chief. As Crane lit up, he glanced over, too, seeing the man nodding. The Somali was manoeuvred upright, as if he was a plastic drinking bird.

Crane took a deep pull on his cigar, blowing out the smoke through his nostrils like an old dragon. “You’re screwed, son. There’s only one way out for you.”

“What do you want from me?”

“You speak, English. That’s good. We’ll talk when you’re in a cage. But you clam up on me, well, nobody will be able to save you. I’ll see to it that you get thrown in with the crazies. Simple. There’s only one option. Only one.”

“What option?”

“Well, that’ll be me, son.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Yeah, and I want me a beach house down in Santa Monica. Besides, you think a lawyer will save you from what’s coming? Not even God can save you from what’s coming. Only me. Now you remember my face, son.”

Crane gave the Somali a closed-mouthed smile before looking at the FBI man who’d sought the okay from the unit chief. “You can flip him over now.”

A metallic grey minivan pulled up parallel with the bungalow and a broad-shoulder guy wearing jeans jumped out of the passenger side. He walked around to the back and opened the twin doors.

The unit chief walked over to Crane and asked him what the hell was happening. “He’s a US citizen, least he has been for the last few years,” he went on.

Crane put his hand into his breast pocket and handed over a piece of paper. The unit chief peered down at it, his face turning pale.

“That don’t matter no more,” Crane said, feeling ambivalent. He jabbed at the document with his thick forefinger. “And that’s the president’s signature.”

The document authorized the Somali, now a US citizen, being taken into military custody. A trial was deemed superfluous, and was legal, under the broad anti-terrorism provisions in the National Defense Authorization Act.

The CIA paramilitary who’d opened the doors came over to the FBI agents holding the Somali. “Just toss him in there, okay guys,” he said, gesturing towards the minivan.

As they looked nonplussed, Crane patted the CIA guy on the arm. “You keep that mother safe for now, you hear?”

“Yes, sir.”