The SUV took an exit down on West Eleven Mile Road and, a minute later, turned onto a nameless, dead-end street that was flanked by rundown buildings. They halted near a swamp at the edge and opened the trunk.
All four got down. Two of them lifted the first sack and carried it to the marshland, while the other two kept watch.
Placing the sack down, they grabbed its bottom corners and upended it.
“Can we lower the drone?” Gabriel asked.
“If we do, it’s possible for them to hear the rotors.”
The two guys repeated the exercise for the other sack too, before getting into the car and driving back the way where they came from.
When the car left the vicinity, Morgan flew the drone down and zoomed in on the contents spilled at the swamp. They were like parts of a mannequin. Legs, arms, torso, and a head.
But mannequins weren’t supposed to be bloody red, were they?
Chapter 41
May 12, 2019. 12:13 P.M.
A cup of coffee warmed Gabriel’s cold fingers. He needed something to wash the bad taste clinging at the back of his throat. Morgan seemed equally flummoxed, resorting to milk instead.
Prying the attention from his nerves and conscience, Gabriel said, “Let’s move to the next part of the plan.”
“Which is?”
“Let Ryatt know that Thomas has been chopped into pieces by the Detroit Alliance, and that his location could be compromised.”
“How do you communicate with him?”
“The news.”
Morgan frowned as he took a sip of his milk. “Good idea. Let me handle it.”
“I don’t think the FBI should be involved. Might tip off Ryatt.”
“No worries.” Morgan emptied his cup. “We’ll pass it as an anonymous tip.”
“Excellent. Also, we must work on stopping that hitman whatshisname.”
“What? Anastasia is leading us to Ryatt. Why would we want to stop him?”
“He’s most probably been ordered to either capture or kill Ryatt, who himself is not a novice when it comes to guns. A massacre will ensue. And in this age of Facebook and Instagram Live, the gunfight will escalate into a national sensation. The FBI will be chastised if we did nothing when we knew it was going to happen. We may both lose our jobs.”
“But… but if we intercept them, a shootout will ensue nonetheless.”
“It’s not the same as inaction,” Gabriel said.
“Let me see what I can do.” Morgan took out his phone. “But getting the SWAT ready will take some time.”
“That’s alright. But keep it under wraps. The news doesn’t leak to the media,” Gabriel said. Bugsy should not know that his men were arrested. Gabriel needed the Detroit Alliance to be down on their guard, because their old friend was coming to them.
* * *
At 10:47 p.m., they received a live feed from the strike team on I-80. Gabriel was told that either a body or helmet camera was worn by each SWAT agent.
They were positioned on Fred Schwengel Memorial Bridge, a mile-long bridge crossing the Mississippi River, connecting Iowa and Illinois.
Civilians were denied access to the bridge. The road was barricaded on Iowa, and when the four GMCs entered the bridge from Illinois, the local PD would cut the traffic behind them, boxing those SUVs on the bridge.
Morgan’s laptop screen was divided into four neat squares, which displayed four agents waiting to ambush.
The first camera showed the interior of a truck the agent was sitting in. Well, it was not a truck truck. It was a ramming vehicle, waiting on the shoulder lane.
The first GMC appeared in the distance, cruising at a normal speed, and three other GMCs followed.
“Target on sight,” the agent said and revved the accelerator.
The GMC was around two hundred yards when the agent’s truck moved. He drove on the side road, gaining speed, until the target was close. Then he swerved and collided head on into the GMC.
One down.
Thirty seconds earlier, the second camera showed the inside of another truck, but not of the ramming variety. It was a Ford Interceptor, one of the fastest pursuit vehicles ever made. It was going after the fourth GMC, the last in the formation.
The agent pressed a button. From underneath the Interceptor, two metal claws unfolded. Between them were lines of yellow ribbons. The Grappler. Gabriel had never seen one in action, but he knew that no prey escaped its claws.
The agent accelerated, and when the claws were close to the GMC, the yellow ribbons tangled with its rear wheels, forcing them to stop their rotation. And the GMC skidded to a halt. It happened precisely at the same time as the first GMC was crushed.
Two of Bugsy’s hit squads were taken down simultaneously.
Only two left.
The second and third GMC raced away, apparently understanding what was happening.
The third camera was worn by a lone agent lying in wait in the dark night, behind a switched-off streetlamp. When the GMC was within his reach, he deployed a spike strip. All four tires burst with satisfying pops.
The agent moved away from the streetlamp and laughed. “Is he for real?” he said and turned the camera towards the second GMC which was swaying along the road. The dumb asshole kept on driving, until he broke through the bridge and the car fell into the river below. The water splashed and the car floated upside down, carried by the stream.
“Holy shit!” Morgan said.
The third and final GMC drove across the median, to avoid the spike strip.
“Time to bring in the big gun.” Morgan pressed a key and the feed from the fourth camera maximized, filling the screen.
It was a chopper.
The helmet-mounted camera moved at incredible speed and caught up with Anastasia’s GMC.
“We got visual.” The agent slid the door open
