CHAPTER 3
Seven-fifteen AM. The black Mercedes creeps along I-94, the Edsel Ford Freeway, and cruises off the exit ramp that hugs the forty-acre site that was once home to a Detroit legend, the Packard Plant. The name still resonates and stubbornly remains, even though the last Packard automobile rolled off the assembly line in the 1950s. Once a bustling empire that employed thousands in the east side neighborhood, it has long since become a gaping eyesore, mirroring the crumbling and decay of Detroit, a city with problems so big, many of its residents feel it was left to rot. The buildings that make up the abandoned Packard Plant are empty shells, except for trash, squatters, scavengers, and a matrix of graffiti strewn across the crumbling concrete remains, as crews of taggers tattoo what’s left into a hopeless urban masterpiece.
The Mercedes pulls behind the south side of the blighted manufacturing plant. The car’s driver is not worried anyone will notice their entrance, including the police. Bankrupt Detroit can’t afford to pay to replace streetlights, let alone bankroll extra patrols for the high-crime areas of the city.
Inside the car, rules are being reset, in case they weren’t understood the first time.
“It has to be small and compact but powerful. I’ll pay up to one hundred thousand, but lowball at fifty thousand first. If you run into any trouble, you pull the trigger first. Got it?”
The two men—boys really, both barely older than nineteen—nod in agreement. This isn’t their first job.
The two exit the car—Carlo, tall and thin, and Pete, muscular and short, both dressed in dark leather jackets and jeans, their hair black and shiny, the only thing beautiful against the backdrop of debris, unforgiving grey sky and cinderblock rubble.
They make their way up the side stairwell, carefully stepping over broken concrete as if dodging land mines, until they reach the sixth floor, the location where the salesman is supposed to await them.
“What are you going to do with the money when we get paid?” Carlo asks. “Man, when I get my five thousand, I’m going to Miami. Michigan can kiss my white ass good-bye, piece of shit. I hear they got sexy girls all over Miami who are just begging you to give them some.”
Pete pauses at the sixth-floor stairwell and stares through a hole in the concrete at the cold sky. He closes his eyes and mumbles something.
“You praying, man? You’re scaring me. What the hell you praying for? You think something bad is going to happen?”
Pete turns slowly toward him, centered and calm. “No. God is in control. If we die, it’s His will.”
“What are you talking about? If you aren’t in this anymore, tell me now, and I’m out of here.”
Something seems to pass across his friend’s eyes as Pete turns back with fascination to the hole in the wall. Carlo pulls his Glock out of his pocket and points it at the back of his childhood friend’s head. His finger hesitates on the trigger as he recalls them as two little boys, shy and holding their mothers’ hands on the way to Communion.
“Take care of us, Blessed Mother,” Pete says, and then crosses himself. “Put the gun away for now. We have a job to finish.”
A small shiver runs through Carlo, who wonders if Pete has eyes in back of his head like the devil. He keeps a strong hold on the gun until he decides whether his friend can be trusted. He finally tucks the gun against the small of his back, praying that he is making the right decision.
Pete turns around finally and embraces his friend, giving him a kiss on each cheek.
“You’re creeping me out, man,” Carlo says. “You all right?”
“Of course. Let’s go.”
As they reach the landing of the sixth floor, Pete recovers the role as leader, pushes ahead, and scans the expansive, yawning cavity of the sixth floor before them.
In the far corner is a pile of metal, looking like a tall scrapyard of twisted steel and the picked-over carcasses of long-abandoned, rusted cars. Pete moves stealthily, almost catlike, toward the agreed-upon meeting spot until a voice rings out from inside a far room.
“The Madonna waits for no one,” a voice calls from behind a door.
“Until pure innocence is found again,” Pete answers.
A man surfaces from the hidden confines of the room. He’s wiry and haggard, like a homeless man whose skin is now weathered and shriveled under the daily effects of the sun and frigid temperatures.
“How can I help you, boys?”
“We need a device that’s compact and can do the most damage,” Carlo says.
The bomb dealer lifts the handle to a sliding metal door that creeps up until his wares are in full view.
“I got the regular pressure cookers that would cost you fifty thousand or so, but for something that high-tech, I’d need one twenty-five, and that’s a steal,” he says, and wheels out an expensive-looking leather suitcase with something that looks like a miniature fat beer keg inside. “These are top-of-the-line designs just coming out of Russia. Maximum damage guaranteed. It’s compact, and as you can see it fits easily into a midsize rolling suitcase. Dress someone up in a suit and have the guy leave it where you want the initial point of impact. After the Boston Marathon bombings, you have to be smarter. Anyone sees a nice leather suitcase sitting around, they’re going to think some distracted businessman left it behind by accident. Then he walks away about three blocks and calls a number that belongs to the cell phone that’s attached to the bomb. The cell phone is the activator, the call comes in, and bam, there you go. It’s Fourth of July. This thing is guaranteed to cause major destruction. I’m talking a city block, half a building, or a jetliner, if you can get it past airline security these days. Like I said, a hundred twenty-five thousand. I’ll even throw in the suitcase.”
Pete reaches his hand inside his jacket pocket for his gun when Carlo speaks up.
“Seventy-five thousand. That’s our top offer. You make this sale, there’ll be plenty more opportunities coming your way.”
The salesman digs at his greasy hair with long, yellowed fingernails and makes a decision.
“Eighty-five thousand and you’ve got a deal.”
“Done,” Carlo decides.
Pete stands beside him as still as a stone.
The bomb salesman rolls the newly purchased weapon of mass destruction in their direction and smiles at the young men like a car salesman who is about to give them the keys to a brand-new Bentley.
Carlo takes a long moment to study the case in front of him, trying like hell to pretend he knows what he’s doing.
“Fine,” Carlo says with authority. “This thing isn’t going to blow up on us, right?”
“No, it has to be activated. It won’t spontaneously combust, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Okay. Give him the money, Pete.”
Pete stares back at the bomb seller with pure, unbridled hatred.
“Careful, boy,” the bomb salesman says.
Money is exchanged, and Pete carefully holds the suitcase in his arms, cuddling it close to his chest like a newborn.
“Guy was a prick,” Carlo says as they make their way back to the parking lot. “What do you think? All sales are final?”
The passenger-side window of the Mercedes lowers, and the driver motions the two men forward.
“Do you have it?” the driver asks.
“Yes,” Carlo answers, badly wanting credit. “We had a little trouble inside, but I handled it.”
“Then why is your partner carrying the goods?” the driver asks. “Come here, Pete.”
“No,” Pete says, staring back at the Mercedes without moving. “You come out.”
“Hold on. Don’t screw this up, man,” Carlo says, and begins to walk toward his friend.
A single shot fires from the Mercedes and makes a perfect hole through Carlo’s chest, just to the left of the breastbone. Before he takes his last breath, he thinks about banging the wild, sexy girls of Miami. The driver turns to Pete, considering more carefully how to deal with him without damaging or setting off the bomb. But the problem is already solved. Pete tries to disappear behind the Packard Plant, leaving the small rolling suitcase on the ground in his escape. The driver fires, and the bullet penetrates the back of Pete’s skull. Pete falls before he can turn the corner. The driver exits the vehicle, carefully scoops up the bomb, and returns to the Mercedes.
Directly across from the action, a junkie huddles behind a large cardboard box, praying to God the driver of the Mercedes didn’t see him. He pulls the syringe of heroin, still halfway full, out of his arm and reaches inside a dirty plastic bag filled with all his earthly belongings. He finds what he’s looking for, a card that he holds between two mud-stained fingers, and reads the name: Detective Raymond Navarro.