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When not wandering the streets in a bathrobe
muttering conspiracy theories, Kevin R. Einarson finds time to work as a
computer programmer, a volunteer firefighter and the eccentric publisher of
Spinetingler Magazine. Since hearing about the Da Vinci Code, he has spent hours
in Da Vinci's Pizza trying to find hidden truths within the lists of toppings.
Play To Win
by Kevin R.
Einarson
"Damn it, stay
down."
Sergeant John Phillips yelled to his partner as two bullets impacted the
concrete wall above Detective Tim Brose's head, showering tiny pieces of
concrete down to the floor. Phillips glanced around the pillar where he'd taken
cover and returned fire. He knew there were at a least two bodyguards hiding
about twenty feet in front of them behind some stacks of cheap import
televisions. But he couldn't be sure they didn't have more friends on their way
from the back of the dimly lit warehouse.
He looked at his partner and wondered how they were going to get out of this.
They were pinned down and time was not on their side. Their backup was still
thirty minutes away and their plan to catch Jonathan MacDonald, one of the
biggest drug dealers in the city, in the middle of a buy was gone.
If that stupid fuck Brose wasn't
so noisy when we came in, we wouldn't be getting shot at,
Phillips thought as he looked at his partner. Brose seemed nervous during the
drive to the warehouse and now he was just useless. I
don't even think he's fired a shot yet.
Phillips slammed his last clip
into his gun, quickly looked around the pillar again and then yelled, "Brose,
give me some cover fire!"
After a few seconds of silence, Phillips looked back toward Brose, who was
stared at him blankly.
“That's not a request! Start
shooting, you stupid sonofabitch!”
Brose tentatively stood up and
began firing at MacDonald's bodyguards as Phillips circled around toward them.
But before he was in position, Brose stopped firing.
Brose, you useless....
Phillips' thoughts
were interrupted as the shorter bodyguard fired a shot that whizzed past his
earlobe. Phillips dropped down and returned fire. The bodyguard made a sickly
sound as he fell back against the stack of boxes. He then slid down to the
concrete floor, leaving a bloody smear on the cardboard.
Phillips fired again but this shot went wide of the second bodyguard, who dove
for cover. Phillips recognized this guy; he had some forgettable nickname that
was a reference to his gangly appearance.
Phillips looked toward where
Brose had last been, hoping he had done more than just hide. But he was nowhere
to be seen.
Brose, you weak-ass piece of
crap, Phillips thought as he tightened his grip on his Glock.
Thanks for the help.
Phillips then stood up, hoping
to surprise the gunman. But the lanky bodyguard was waiting and fired his weapon
twice, hitting Phillips with his second shot.
Suddenly another shot rang out
and the bodyguard collapsed dead on the floor, blood oozing from a wound above
his left ear. Phillips looked back and saw Brose lowering his gun, his hand
trembling.
"Brose, I'm glad you decided to join the fight." Phillips winced as he got up.
The bullet had grazed his vest and left a small hole in his coat.
“That sonofabitch put a hole in
my favorite jacket!”
Then they heard the sound of someone attempting to start a truck at the back of
the warehouse.
“Shit!” Phillips looked at Brose. “You go that way,” he said as he motioned for
Brose to take the right side of the warehouse.
The warehouse was huge and the truck could be at any of a dozen loading bays and
to make matters worse, the warehouse was overly cluttered with high stacks of
merchandise.
He tried to navigate the maze
quickly but carefully. Around any of these corners could be someone who would
probably enjoy killing a cop.
He glanced around a stack.
Clear.
Where the hell are the rest
of them?
Phillips bit his lip. The farther back he got without seeing anyone worried him.
It probably meant they were waiting for him.
He then heard someone on the far
side of the warehouse moving quickly to the back, not even bothering to conceal
their approach.
The only consolation I have
is that Brose will probably draw their fire,
he thought, a small smirk appearing on his face.
As he reached the first loading bay, he saw the bodies
of three men, their hands bound and shot in the back of the head execution
style. He then noticed a dozen crates near a table that had several large
bags of what was likely heroin scattered across it.
He got closer and examined the
contents of one of open crates. It contained at least twenty Ingram MAC-10
machine pistols.
Damn! It looks like MacDonald's diversifying his business interests.
Phillips set down his weapon on an unopened crate, took out his cell phone and
quietly dialed the familiar number.
"Yuri," Phillips whispered.
"Yes." Yuri's thick accent was still evident despite the many years since he
had left Russia.
"Send some guys down here ASAP. MacDonald looks like he's outfitting a small
army here."
"They are on their way,” Yuri replied flatly as he hung up. Yuri always seemed
to prefer conversations of few words.
As Phillips shut the phone, he
heard the sound of yelling off in the distance and a truck door slammed. He
picked up his gun and moved quickly, but quietly to where he had heard the
voices.
The truck was parked at the last loading bay. Phillips could see MacDonald had
just got out of the truck. Brose was standing in front of him with his gun
trained.
"What the hell is going on here?" MacDonald yelled as he walked toward Brose.
MacDonald was a heavy-set man,
but his large face seemed unnaturally flushed. "I think you fail to understand
our arrangement here. You provide me with information; you don't tell me what to
do or point a gun at me. Remember, I own you!”
Phillips was now in a good position to see what was going on, but decided to
wait until he could figure out what his partner was up to. He pulled out his
micro-cassette recorder and turned it on. Being on the job as long as he had,
he'd made friends. One of these friends had let him know that Brose was under
investigation by Internal Affairs and that he should cover his ass before the
shit came down.
Phillips watched as MacDonald
slowly walked toward Brose, his face becoming more red and twisted with each
step. MacDonald then pulled a gun from his jacket pocket as he stopped a few
feet in front of Brose.
"Change of plans," Brose responded in a quavering voice. “I'm bringing you in.”
"What.…” MacDonald's surprised voice began to turn to rage. “Are you fucking
insane?"
Brose's face hardened. "This morning when I realized that my partner and I were
going to this warehouse to check out a tip about you, I knew I'd be forced to
kill you or our arrangement would come out."
His voice began to quaver again.
"I've done a lot of things for you that turned me into something that makes me
sick to my stomach. ” He paused as his eyes began to water, "So I‘m going to put
a stop to this while I still can."
MacDonald sneered. "What exactly you planning to
charge me with? You forgotten those videotapes? You want to see them on the
evening news?"
Brose stood there, the hand with the gun shaking, appearing paralyzed by
indecision. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and then spoke with
determination. "It's still not too late to do the right thing. I may be going
to jail, but I'll make damn sure you come with me. Put the gun down, turn around
and put your hands behind your back.” He reached for his handcuffs with his free
hand and started to walk toward MacDonald. “You're under arrest."
MacDonald stepped back and quickly raised his gun.
"You're dead, you piece of
shit," he sneered as he pulled the trigger and hit Brose in the shoulder. Brose
staggered and dropped his gun as he fell to the ground.
Brose appeared panicked as he
looked at his shirt, now stained with blood.
MacDonald slowly walked toward him and carefully aimed. "I think you have
outlived your usefulness. But be glad I'm in a hurry or I would make your death
as long and painful as possible."
Then another shot rang out and MacDonald dropped the gun. Blood coated his right
hand as he clutched his throat; his breathing became frothy and labored as he
dropped to his knees and then collapsed on the ground.
Phillips stepped out of the shadows, his weapon still in his hand. He slowly
walked over and examined MacDonald's body, which was now surrounded by a large
pool of blood. MacDonald's bloated face appeared frozen with a look of surprise
etched on it.
Bet you didn't see that coming,
he thought, slightly amused.
He then turned around and looked at Brose.
"So I guess you heard everything?" Brose had a look of resignation as he spoke.
"Yep." Phillips shrugged.
"So what happens now? You going to take me in?"
Phillips reached in his pocket and put on his latex gloves. He then leaned over
and picked up MacDonald's gun.
"No, that won't be
necessary." A slight smile crossed his face, as he
slowly raised MacDonald's gun
and pointed it at Brose. "Timmy, my boy, I knew all about your arrangement with
MacDonald. But you weren't the only one who was moonlighting. I've been
working for Yuri Tarasov for the last few
years."
"The Russian gangster?" Brose's voice trembled.
"Yuri was tired of MacDonald cutting into his profits." Phillips glanced back
at the fat man's body. "And now that is no longer a problem.”
Phillips then turned and looked
at his partner.
"When I found out about your extracurricular activities, I realized you'd given
me an great opportunity. I lined up this little warehouse trip to set you up, so
you would be forced to do something stupid.”
He reached into his pocket and retrieved his micro-cassette player. "Your
confession on tape. This will quickly end any questions regarding your
relationship with MacDonald." He reached down and pressed it into MacDonald's
hand.
Just then, the car with Yuri's
men appeared. It drove up to the loading bay and the driver rolled down his
window as he stopped beside Phillips.
Phillips kept staring at Brose as he spoke to the driver. "Go to loading bay one
and get the guns out of here. Leave the open crates and a few of the closed
ones. I will need some 'evidence' to keep the scene convincing. You have five
minutes before the cops get here."
After they drove off, Phillips continued his monologue.
"In a way, I want to thank you. Your activities had attracted IAD to both of us,
which put me under the microscope. But now it'll play that you were working with
MacDonald alone, so the heat will be off me.”
Phillips began to smile as he
continued.
”But your little change of heart
will play well, the dirty cop coming clean. It's too bad I didn't get here in
time."
His face then went cold as he aimed the weapon
"Good-bye, Timmy. I hope there are no hard feelings. But you must realize that
if you want to play the game, you have to play to win.”
Phillips pulled the trigger and put a bullet in Brose's forehead. Brose
collapsed into a heap on the asphalt.
He then turned and carefully returned the gun to MacDonald's hand, then removed
the gloves, putting them in a bag that he shoved in his pocket.
He then reached for his radio
and pressed the transmit button––
"One David Twelve, I have an
officer down at 602 San Maria Drive. I repeat, officer down at 602 San Maria
Drive. Tell EMS to rush, my partner has been shot!"
THE END
Kevin R.
Einarson © 2007
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