The Betrayed (8 page)

“What? You look great,” Cassian deadpanned. “I’m sure it covers part of your heart, at least.” He caught Train’s glare, but looked down at his watch to avoid eye contact. His face became serious. He looked over at the two remaining officers, who were similarly clad in protective gear. “It’s time,” he said. “You boys ready?” He could feel the tension in all of them. As a cop, there were few things more dangerous than walking into a crack house. There was always the very real possibility that one of them might not walk back out alive. It was one of the things about the job that had taken Cassian a while to get used to, and as he snapped his spare gun into his ankle holster, his mind went to his brother. Then he looked up at Train. “You good to go?” he asked.

Train picked up the shotgun, which he’d rested on the hood of the car as he pulled on his vest. He pumped a round into the chamber. “Let’s get this over with,” he said.

T
RAIN COULD FEEL HIS HEART
beating as he and Cassian came up the street from the east. Minnelli and Jackson simultaneously hurried in from the west, the two cars converging directly in front of the derelict house. The approach allowed them to get a good look at the entire block to scope out any hidden dan
gers. The street was quiet, though, and they exited their cars quickly.

All four of them ran silently up the front steps and fanned out on either side of the door. Train held up his hand, counting to three with his fingers, and on signal Jackson stepped in front of the door and kicked in the decaying portal.

“Police!” Train shouted. “Everyone down on the ground!”

The interior of the house was dark, and it reeked of sweat and sex and despair. There were five people in the main room, lounging in various states of drug-induced stupor. Two of them—a young man and an older-looking woman—were fully unconscious, splayed out on the floor in a corner of the room on top of each other, bare from the waist down. The other three—two teenage girls and a man who looked to be in his early twenties—were reclining on a torn, stained sofa in the middle of the room. They looked up in confusion. One of the girls cracked a nervous smile and covered her face bashfully.

“Down!” Cassian shouted at the three on the couch, pointing his gun at them. “Get down on the floor!”

The three addicts continued to stare at the officers. The young man’s mouth worked back and forth involuntarily.

“Down!” Minnelli, the youngest of the officers, shouted again, getting frustrated. “On the ground!” He reached out and grabbed the man by the back of the neck, pulling him forward and forcing him down on the ground. The physical contact seemed to break the spell.

“Hey!” the young man protested. “Fuck! Get off!”

“What are you doing!” one of the girls shouted. “Lay off him!”

“You too, girls, down on the ground,” Train said loudly. His voice was more controlled, but he held the shotgun at attention. Both girls on the sofa looked at each other and moved slowly onto the floor.

“Fuckin’ cops,” one of them muttered.

Once they had the three addicts on the floor, Train looked up at the other officers, who had done a quick tour of the first floor of the townhouse. “No one else down here,” Minnelli said. Just then, they heard footsteps from upstairs, and they all swung their guns over toward the staircase. Then it turned silent again.

Train looked at Jackson. “You got these guys?” he asked, pointing to the five people lying on the ground.

“Yeah, I got ’em, Sarge,” Jackson replied.

Train nodded to Cassian and Minnelli. “Okay, let’s go,” he said, moving toward the staircase.

“I’ve got point,” Cassian said, stepping in front of Train and heading up the stairs. He moved with fluid grace as he panned his gun up, tensed for anything that might move or jump out at him. It took only a few seconds for him to climb the stairway and round the corner at the top, with Train and Minnelli right behind him.

The second floor was in better condition than the first. The entire area was open space except for a door at the far corner. A fraying rug covered the weathered floor, but a few of the boards that had covered the windows had been removed, letting some light in. A good-looking black man with close-cropped hair in jeans and a T-shirt sat on a large overstuffed chair near one of the windows. A thick gold chain hung around his neck with a large ruby-studded “J” weighing it down.

“Freeze!” Cassian shouted at the man.

He held his hands up. “I’m frozen, man,” he said calmly.

Train and Minnelli rounded the corner at the top of the stairs behind Cassian, guns drawn. The man on the chair seemed to recognize Train instantly. “D-Train,” he said, shaking his head. “I shoulda guessed.”

“How’s it goin’, Jerome?” Train responded, still swinging the shotgun in every direction, checking to make sure there was no one else on the second floor. “You alone up here?” he asked.

Jerome Washington shrugged. “Far as I know.”

“And how far would that be?” Train asked. He moved over toward the door at the end of the room as Cassian and Minnelli kept their weapons pointed toward Jerome.

“You know,” Jerome replied. “Far as I can know. I been sleeping.”

“What’s behind the door, Jerome?” Cassian asked as his partner tried the knob. It was locked.

“Bathroom,” Jerome answered. “You probably don’t want to go in there, though.” He waved his hand in front of his face. “I had some Mexican fo’ breakfast, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“I thought you said you were sleeping, Jerome,” Train said, stepping back from the door and considering his options.

“Yeah, well, you know. I been sleeping for a while, but I was in there earlier.”

Train looked at Jerome and then turned back toward the door. After another moment’s thought, he stepped back and reared up on one foot. He shifted his significant weight as he lunged forward and kicked open the door with a deafening crash.

The gunshots rang out instantly, two of them exploding the wood by the doorjamb, and the third hitting Train squarely in the chest. The huge man went down, rocking the entire house as he hit the floor.

“Sarge!” Cassian yelled, moving quickly to the side of the door. He grabbed his partner and tugged at him with all the strength he had, dragging him out of the doorway. Train winced as he rolled over, grabbing at his chest. He coughed and sputtered as he felt for a hole in the Kevlar. As helpful as the vests could be, the prevalence of armor-piercing “copkiller” bullets on the street made them far from a guarantee. After a moment, he was sure that he was all right. His ribs would ache for days, he knew, but he’d survive.

Cassian was also running his hands over Train’s vest, searching for any sign of penetration. “You okay?” he was yelling. “Are you hit anywhere?”

Train shook his head. “I’m fine,” he managed to say at last.

Cassian nodded at him, and then turned to Minnelli, who was still pointing his gun at Jerome Washington. “Stay with him!” Cassian ordered. Then he got to his feet and slid across the wall toward the edge of the bathroom door. Train watched as his partner set himself and then swung into the room, pointing his gun into each corner. It was empty.

Train got to his knees, still shaky from the impact of the round in his chest. It felt like someone had hit him with a baseball bat. He looked over at Minnelli, whose eyes were wide, but who seemed well in control of Washington. He nodded at him. “Stay here,” he said, confirming Cassian’s orders. Then he got to his feet and followed Cassian into the bathroom.

Cassian was already over by an open window in the corner of the room, but was plastered up against the wall. “You all right?” he asked again as he inched closer to the edge of the window.

“Yeah. You?” Train kept low, in part to avoid any shots coming through the window, and in part because the pain in his ribs made it difficult to stand straight.

“Oh, just fuckin’ great.” With that, Cassian gave a smile and thrust his gun through the window.

The shooter was moving quickly, crab-walking down the shallow-sloped roof at the back of the house a short jump down from the bathroom window. Train came up behind Cassian so he could see what was happening. The suspect looked young—Train was guessing only fifteen or sixteen—and he flew down the structure, disappearing over the edge of the roof just as Cassian seemed to get him within his sights.

“He’s going down, out the back!” Cassian yelled. Train wondered where Kiper and Halston were. They were supposed to be covering the back alley to prevent anyone from escaping in that direction. He felt his chest tighten at the notion that the little punk might get away, but then he saw the officers. They were partially concealed behind some overgrown bushes toward the end of the backyard. Just then, the shooter emerged on the ground from behind the roof. He was limping, now, and he looked up at the window, raising his gun and firing off two shots that went wild, missing Cassian and Train by several feet.

Cassian drew a bead on the young man, and appeared ready to shoot, but Train tapped his shoulder and nodded toward the other officers. “Let them get him,” he said.

The young man was moving below again, sprinting toward the gate at the back of the lot that led into the alley. As he ran, he looked back over his shoulder twice, to be sure that no one was shooting at him. That was his mistake.

The first blow caught him completely by surprise, landing on his wrist, just above the hand that held his gun. It made a sickening sound that Train could hear from all the way up in the window as the bones in the boy’s forearm snapped. Train watched as the young man looked up just in time to see Halston raising his police baton again. He tried to duck, but the second blow caught him behind the ear and he went down hard, unable to make a sound.

The two officers in the yard pounced on the boy, labeling him with kicks and punches to the head and torso.

“Stop!” Cassian yelled from the window. The two officers looked up with expressions of shock. Train couldn’t tell whether it was shock at their own brutality, or at the fact that Cassian was calling them off. There was a momentary standoff, as Halston and Kiper seemed inclined to pick up where they’d left off. As the senior detective, Train knew they would take their cue from him. He felt his ribs, and recognized that there was a part of him that wanted the beating to continue. Shooting at a police officer should come with drastic repercussions, and too often the judicial system allowed suspects— particularly young suspects—to walk too freely. There was a part of Train that wanted revenge.

At the same time, he knew that it would be an empty revenge, and it would leave him unsatisfied. “Call it in,” he said to Cassian quietly, pulling away from the window, signaling an end to the retribution.

M
INNELLI HAD CUFFED
Jerome Washington by the time Train and Cassian returned from the bathroom, but he still had his gun pointed at the restrained man, just in case. Train still felt awful, but better than he had a right to expect, given the circumstances.

“What happened?” Minnelli asked.

“Halston and Kiper got him going out the back,” Cassian said.

“Alive?” Minnelli looked hopeful that the answer would be no.

“More or less,” Cassian replied. He looked over at Train, who was still holding his ribs. “You sure you’re all right, Sarge? Even with the vest, a direct hit like that can do some damage.”

Train nodded. “I’ve had worse,” he said. “Couple of Advil and a scotch, and I’ll be fine.” He looked at his partner, and the two exchanged a nod of understanding. They were both fully aware that Train would be dead if Cassian hadn’t forced him to wear the vest.

Cassian turned to Washington. “Anyone else up here we should know about, Jerome?” he asked.

“I don’t have nothin’ to say, man. I just stopped in here for a rest, y’know? I don’t even know who that was in the bath
room. Damn, I thought the place was empty.”

“Yeah, I can see how that might happen.” Cassian looked at Minnelli. “You search him?”

Minnelli nodded. “He’s clean.” He pointed to the chair where Washington was sitting. “There’s a stash underneath him, though. I didn’t touch it yet. I didn’t want to mess up the evidence.”

Train looked over at Cassian. He was in too much pain to get down on his knees to take a look, so Cassian took the hint and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, walking over toward Washington. He went to the side of the chair and knelt down, lifting up the fabric of the chair. “Oh, my!” he exclaimed in mock surprise. He reached under the chair and pulled out a plastic bag filled with crack cocaine. “Got a good little business working here, huh, Jerome?”

“Shit’s not mine,” Jerome said sullenly.

Cassian looked around the room. “Really? Well, you’re the only one here, aren’t you? That’s a pretty unfortunate coincidence for you.”

“You got a warrant?” Washington challenged.

Cassian laughed, looking at Train. “Look who’s turned into a jailhouse lawyer.”

“We don’t need a warrant, Jerome,” Train said. “You see, you’re a trespasser here.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m assuming you don’t own this place, right?” Jerome said nothing. “I’ll take that as a no. So you don’t have what they call an ‘expectation of privacy’ here. You can look that up in the prison law library when you get back there. Plus, I’m also guessing that was one of your runners who went out the window after he took a shot at us, so we have the right to search any area you— the suspect—might be able to reach to grab a weapon. I’d say under the chair qualifies. Any way you look at it, you’re in a whole heap of shit.”

Washington glared at Train. “You got a hard-on for me, D-Train? You got nothin’ better to do? I thought you were workin’ homicide these days, anyway. You come back after me just for kicks?”

“Actually, I’m the one having fun, Jerome,” Cassian said. “Sarge over there looks at this kind of thing like a job. I see it as a cheap entertainment.”