“Slow down, Tony,” Payne had said. “Until ten minutes ago, we pretty much did not have a damned thing on where this guy was.”
“Yeah. And?”
“And I think it could blow up on us if suddenly there were a dozen Aviation Unit helos buzzing the rooftop of the place just so they can send video back to the Executive Command Center.”
“You don’t know they’ll do that, Matt.”
Payne nodded.
“True, Tony. But I also don’t know that they won’t do it. Which is what I’d prefer-that they don’t fucking do it.” He paused for a moment. “This guy is bad, and it’s an important bust. I don’t want someone doing it for the glory. I just want the sonofabitch off the streets. Period.” He gestured at the Deepfreeze. “No more little girls losing their heads, for starters.”
Paco Esteban grunted and nodded.
Tony Harris nodded. “Matt, you know I agree. But there are other ways to do this.”
“Yeah, but they involve a whole helluva lot more people, which we don’t need. And more time, which we don’t have.” He paused. “Look, you’re welcome to call it in, if that’s what you feel you have to do. But God knows what this animal is capable of doing next.”
“Tony,” Byrth said, “I’m afraid that I have to agree with Matt.”
Payne looked at Byrth. He wasn’t at all surprised that a Texas Ranger would have no trouble going it alone.
He’d read all about “One Ranger, One Riot.”
Tony Harris looked between them, then held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Let the record show that I have dutifully played devil’s advocate and hereby subscribe to whatever operation Marshal Wyatt Earp has in mind.”
Payne smiled. He knew Harris wasn’t mocking him.
“Tell you what, Tony. Call the Roundhouse, give whomever you feel can be trusted the address of this row house and the strict order (a) to say and do nothing with it and”-he glanced at Byrth-“(b) to have the cavalry ready to ride in should you call for it. Give it a code name if you want. Prairie Fire was one that the guys in Special Forces in ’Nam used for when the shit hit the fan. I’m partial to Get Me the Fuck Outta Here! Leaves no room for confusion or misinterpretation.”
Harris grinned. Then he nodded agreeably.
“I can live with that,” he said. “Okay, so what do you propose?”
Sergeant Matthew M. Payne, Philadelphia Police Department, Badge Number 271, turned to Paco Esteban.
“Se?or Paco Esteban, I hereby officially offer to you a position as confidential informant for the Philadelphia Police Department. In this capacity, you agree to assist in any way that (a) you can and (b) you feel is within your capabilities. In return, the department will make monetary payments and certain other tokens of compensation as mutually agreed.”
It was common practice for Philadelphia Police Department ongoing investigations to use confidential informants. And it was entirely within the rules and regulations of the department. For example, the police not only paid confidential informants for tips that led to arrests for illegal guns and drugs, they also provided the funds to make those purchases. It wasn’t unusual for the money to run into the tens of thousands of dollars.
Of course, there were rules governing the use of confidential sources. Among them was that there had to be a professional relationship. Strict procedures and policies were in place to ensure an arm’s length of professionalism between a police officer and an informant.
Paco Esteban shook his head.
“You don’t or you won’t?” Payne said somewhat incredulously.
“I don’t.”
“You don’t?” Payne repeated.
Paco Esteban shook his head again.
“I don’t want one dollar. I want that bastard caught. What do I do?”
“Everybody ready?” Matt Payne said, sliding open the side door of Paco Esteban’s Plymouth van, using his left hand. Payne and Harris were seated in back on the bench seat; Byrth was in the front passenger seat. On the console between the seats was a white paper bag. Printed on it in somewhat Asian-looking lettering was: TAKE OUT TASTY CHINESE. The van reeked of greasy fast-food wontons.
Byrth said, “Yup.”
Harris said, “Uh-huh.”
Esteban said, “S?.”
Everyone but Esteban was armed with a semiautomatic pistol. Payne had his Colt.45 ACP Officer’s Model in his right hand. It was cocked but unlocked, ready to fire. Harris held his Glock Model 17 nine-millimeter between his legs, the muzzle pointed at the floorboard. Byrth’s black Colt Combat Commander.45 ACP, with its inlaid star of the Texas Rangers, was on top of his right thigh, pointed at the dash.
Payne watched as Byrth put his left boot on the dash and pulled up on his cuffed pants leg, then reached to the right of his calf and pulled out a pistol from the boot top.
I’ll be goddamned, Payne thought.
That’s that Officer’s Model he told me he carried as his backup.
Byrth racked the slide back, then reached to the floorboard, where he had an open plastic box of.45-caliber cartridges. He pulled a single round from the box and slipped it into the chamber. Then he let the slide slam forward. With the hammer now back, he set its lock, then fed it a full magazine. Finally, he slipped the pistol back inside his boot top and pulled down his pants cuff.
Byrth caught Payne’s stare and, over his shoulder, said, “I’d rather have my twelve-gauge pump with buckshot for this, but it wouldn’t fit in the boot.”
Payne chuckled.
“Okay, Paco,” Payne said. “Let’s roll.”
The minivan began driving slowly toward 2505 Hancock.
As Esteban approached the row house, he steered to the left side of the street, then up and over the curb. Payne had told him to stop the van there so it could provide them at least a little cover and concealment.
Esteban then got out and reached back in for the bag of fast food.
Esteban was dressed in somewhat ragged khakis and a T-shirt, and on his head wore a big orange ballcap with the logotype TAKE OUT TASTY CHINESE. Payne had actually taken the cap off the head of one of the employees when they’d bought the food. He’d tossed the kid a twenty and smiled. The kid had thought him a fool, but kept the cash nevertheless.
Jim Byrth covered the right side of the front door, Payne the left. Tony Harris had gone around back to cover that possible exit.
Paco Esteban rapped on the wooden door.
No one answered.
He knocked again, harder.
After a few minutes, they heard the sound of shuffling footsteps. Then the door cracked opened.
A short, sleepy Hispanic male with a bad mustache stood there. He wore only boxer shorts and had a bandage around his left thigh.
“Your order,” Esteban said, holding out the bag of Chinese takeout. “It is prepaid.”
“We didn’t-” Jes?s Jim?nez started to say. Then through his sleepy haze he heard the “prepaid” part. The groggy teenager decided he was hungry.
Esteban had been told not to stand too close to the door.
Jim?nez had to reach out of the house in order to grab the bag.
And when he did, Jim Byrth grabbed his arm and spun him. He threw him to the floor and had the surprised kid handcuffed in no time. He stuck the muzzle of his.45 into the kid’s mouth. The kid’s suddenly widened eyes suggested that he’d instantly understood the message.
As Payne moved closer to enter the door, he looked down at the Hispanic male.
That’s the shooter from the hospital!
