‘Those bastards!’ Hughes grumbled, having failed to see through the artifice. ‘We’ve been set up!’
A gunshot diverted their attention. The startled police force turned around and found one of their fellow men cowering behind his gun. All colour had drained from his face.
‘Sorry, sir, that was an accident.’
‘Well never mind, no one was harmed,’ Tyrrell replied, shaking his head, before turning towards the fugitives.
Except they weren’t there.
‘What the hell? Where have they gone?’
The squelching of mud and the scurrying of boots directed them to the getaway car, a Ware Steam Wagon, which was green in body and carried by yellow wheels. Mullen and Hughes stepped inside and started up the engine and drove out of sight.
‘Well don’t just stand there! Go after them!’ Tyrell shouted at his gormless team.
The officers ran to their vehicle and began to follow the wagon.
‘I can’t believe we lost them. We were so close,’ Swegles said, offering his boss a smoke.
‘Well at least we’ve got one thing,’ Tyrrell replied, lighting up his cigarette. ‘We’ve got Lincoln’s body, safe and sound in his tomb.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said Billy, a satisfied smile forming across his face. ‘And we can ensure that this never ever happens again.’
Chapter 1
7th November 2012 – Prospect Avenue, Champaign, Illinois
The hairs on the back of Detective Darnell Jackson’s neck stood to attention. It didn’t matter how many times he’d led investigations into Illinois’s most dangerous gangs, when it came to a raid on a property, the adrenaline was as vigorous as it was on his first jaunt in the force.
The fact is that nobody knew what hid behind that door. Although they came prepared with enough ammunition for most eventualities, the people inhabiting these houses often played dirty. These were drug dealers after all; their sense of fair play was a little under-established.
Jackson had seen first-hand just how wrong this routine could go. He’d lost more than he’d ever bargained for when a drug lord ensured at all costs that he would not face the wrath of the American justice system. Darnell had only been back in work a few months since the last raid had nearly killed him and he still had the scars as a reminder.
2011 had been a relatively good year for Darnell. Decorated for Outstanding Contribution to the Illinois Police Department, he was invited to dinner with the State Senator, John Cullerton, and fellow servicemen who had also been recognised for their contributions to their country. Darnell himself made headlines not only in the local newspaper, but in national press as the hero who had prevented a planned assassination on the President of the United States, who was in town visiting his former constituents, where he was once State Senator before he took on the White House.
Darnell had been employed by the force for thirty years. He could’ve retired ten years before with a fifty percent pension plan but he was ambitious. As a man of African descent, he’d faced severe racial discrimination during his early years in the force and he wanted to rise through the ranks to change behaviours. And whilst the culture had changed, his progression had been watered down by his white colleagues who made the patronising assumption that his success was down to affirmative action, rather than the blood, sweat and tears which he’d offered to the service.
But after his heroic performance saving the president, he finally received the recognition he deserved. And added to that his beautiful wife, two fantastic kids, a big detached suburban home and two M-Class Mercedes Benz, life for the most-part was good.
His good fortune didn’t last long though. In July of the same year, he was preparing for a similar raid which he was now embarking upon. He stood back from the scene in his unmarked police car, a silver Ford hatchback. The officers stood outside the door of the dilapidated wooden blue bungalow, armed and ready for battle.
Within the SWAT team was Darnell’s own nephew, Bartholomew, ready to break down the door of Champaign’s largest supplier of heroin. Chuck Cunningham was famous for his ‘Try Before You Buy’ schemes, hooking young people into his product, before forcing those who could not pay for their habit into prostitution or face losing limbs.
Bartholomew had followed his uncle’s footsteps into the force, looking up to the man who was his hero as a youngster. It wasn’t easy to fill the shoes of the man who had saved the President’s life, but he’d since built up his own reputation. He was a young, muscly nineteen-year-old who made all the girls blush as he passed in his patrol car. Darnell looked at him with envy; he once had those dashing looks. But now his hair was growing thin and his waist was forever expanding. He’d grown out of the blue uniform, which his subordinates were expected to wear, and was now privileged to wear his own brown tweed jacket, beige waistcoat, stripy cream shirt and burgundy tie.
The go-ahead was given to enter and Bartholomew led the way, smashing down the door. An explosion threw Bartholomew and his colleagues back onto the lawn. Darnell rushed to his nephew’s side and pushed down on the wound to prevent his blood pouring out of his abdomen. Bartholomew looked pleadingly into his uncle’s eyes as he took his last breaths, before tilting his head away.
In a moment of madness, Darnell ignored all protocol. He barged through the door and searched the house, pulling out his pistol for cover. Inside the walls were bare, there was no furniture and the floors had been stripped to boards and covered
