NED SAT FORWARD in his seat, his eyes a little wider than normal. He was feeling the same thing I was over what was about to happen: a huge adrenaline dump, along with a little dopamine, caused a racing heart and a touch of euphoria. Didn’t matter how many times I kicked in a door, it always felt the same.
The hot wind blew in and around us, drying out our eyes and lips. “Bruno, you go in first.”
“No, this time I think I’ll take the hot seat, in the second position.”
Contrary to the popular myth portrayed in novels and movies, the first through the door wasn’t the most dangerous position. The suspect inside sees and hears the first person coming through, and instantly reacts, but only fast enough to line up on the second one coming through the door: “the window of death.” That is, if you hit the house fast enough like you’re supposed to. The lead guy has to be quick to neutralize any threat to protect the second guy in. It’s almost as if the second guy becomes a decoy.
“Let’s not argue about it,” Ned said. “You take first in this time. I do it next time.”
“All right.”
I made the last turn. In the rearview, the backup black-and-white made the turn into the alley. The second car, with Sinclair and his trainee, stayed with us. I gunned the truck. Opened it up.
“Here we go,” I said.
I hit the brake hard and skidded up in front of the house. We got out and ran. As I entered the dirt front yard, I caught the faintest hint of teargas. I drew my gun. “This is it. He’s here.”
Sinclair from behind us yelled, “How do you know?”
No time to explain.
The front door stood ajar. I leaped the two steps to the porch, stutter-stepped, and kicked the door open.
I entered on the run. “Sheriff’s Department! Sheriff’s Department!”
The place, a shotgun shack, smelled of mildew mixed with shit. I stepped high over the floor, covered in every kind of trash ten inches deep. I continued through the living room, Ned right on my ass. We waded down a long hall toward the back of the house. I didn’t stop at the first door, a bathroom. I didn’t stop at the second door, a bedroom, and went right for the room at the back. Sinclair said they always fled out the back.
I entered the last room just as a white male struggled to his feet from a filthy mattress on the floor. I kicked him in the chest. He bounced off the wall and came back at me. I pistol-whipped him with my gun barrel. He went down, out cold.
I stood there, breathing hard, wanting to hit him again, but only if he moved.
Ned grabbed me. “Take it easy, partner. Take it easy.”
I shrugged him off. “I’m good.” I went down on one knee and handcuffed him.
Ned said, “Is it him?”
Slick lay facedown on the filthy mattress.
“Yeah. It’s him. Can’t you smell the teargas?”
Sinclair holstered his gun. “Yeah. I do. What’s it from?”
“Dye pack from the bank,” I said. “It goes off when you exit with the bait money, red dye smoke mixed with teargas.” I rolled Slick over. Blood covered one side of his face from the laceration my gun barrel gave him on the top of his head. His right front pants pocket bulged with money. The faded blue denim over the pocket was burned bright reddish orange. That whole clump of bait money was no longer good. The intense heat fused all of it together.
Sinclair said, “Son of a bitch, that is him. You got him. We’ve been huntin’ this bastard for the better part of a year.”
I still tried to catch my breath. The excitement, the summer’s heat, the reek from inside the house, and the short run all worked against me. “You want him?”
Sinclair looked shocked. “Hell, yes, I’ll take him.”
Ned grabbed my arm. “He’s ours, we found him.”
“It’s their city and it’s their banks he took down. He belongs to them. Take him, he’s yours.”
“I guess I owe you guys a beer.” He pulled his radio and called in his trainee.
Discouraged, Ned holstered his gun, turned, and walked back toward the hall. “More like a case of beer.”
“You got it, no problem,” Sinclair said. “And thanks.”
The trainee escorted the bloody Dominic Johnson outside and had him sit on the curb to wait for paramedics to patch him up. I followed along, the pure heat of the outdoors better to breathe than the still, fetid air inside. In the front yard, the sun bared down on my head until I felt like an ant under a kid’s giant magnifying glass.
I held my hand up to block out at least some of the brightness and looked around for some shade. Two houses down on the sidewalk, Rodney stood watching, his ball cap still down low just above his brow, as he tried unsuccessfully at inconspicuous. I walked down to him. “Thanks, man, you did good.”
“Where’s my money?”
I folded the hundred and forty into a tight little square and shook his hand transferring the money as subtly as I could. He shoved it in his pocket without counting it, turned, and fled at a quick pace. I watched him go. I didn’t know if I’d done him any favor. Three hundred dollars cash, all at once, could kill someone addicted to heroin.
Three Crown Victoria vehicles, white, black, and maroon, made the corner and roared up the street, headed our way. I turned and took the few steps back to the house where Dominic sat at the curb, hands cuffed behind his back, his head bleeding. He swiveled toward me. “Of all things, caught by a nigger. Thought I was having a nightmare when I saw your black ass comin’ for me.”
I’d learned, early in my career, not to engage the ignorant, and those besieged with bias. It benefited no one. I kept going, bracing for impact as the FBI came on the scene.