Chapter Twenty-Five: Danny
When the vehicle pulled in the alleyway behind the club, I managed to school my features, but the impact of this hit me like a sledgehammer.
“Jesus, boss, how’d you pull this off?” Butch asked.
Richie walked around the armored car, checking out the reinforced cab and shell and the bulletproof windows. The logo of Armor Security blazed in red across the back panel of the white truck.
“Friends in high places, Butch,” Richie said.
The four professionals stood silently, but I could see they were impressed. Hell, I was impressed, but this was not going to go down the way I’d anticipated. I hoped the commander would think fast on his feet.
“I thought we were hitting an armored car, not riding in one,” I said.
Richie tapped his forehead like he’d figured out the secrets to the universe. “What better way to get the upper hand?”
The driver of the vehicle, dressed in a pair of dark pants and a jacket, got out. He stripped off the jacket, threw his cap into the truck cab, and tossed the keys to Richie. He pulled out a hoodie and shrugged into it. “Uniforms in back. I’m out of here.” He strode down the alley.
Richie turned to the group.
“The pickup is happening right now. I’ve been in contact with my partner, and they’re scheduled to leave the Field Museum within the hour. The armored car is making a drop-off on the Gold Coast then heading to Burling Street and Orchard Street, both in Lincoln Park.”
“Where’s the hit?” I asked.
“Sure as shit not the Gold Coast,” Butch muttered.
“No,” Richie said, “not the Gold Coast. We’re willing to forego that small parcel for a bit more…privacy. This works best without a lot of witnesses, and this time of day a lot of houses in Lincoln Park will be empty while all those yuppies are downtown in their offices. But since the dipshits are so eco-friendly”—said with the biggest sneer I’d seen on his face— “the street could still be packed with cars.”
“Could be a problem,” one of the other men said.
“You just make sure it isn’t,” Richie said with a glare. “You’ll hit them on Burling Street.”
“Which fuckin’ part?” another man asked. “That street is more chopped up than ground beef.”
“Jesus Christ,” Richie muttered and rattled off the address. “It’s in the section between Armitage and Willow.”
“Got it,” the guy said and then tilted his big head. “That’s one-way.”
Richie sighed. “Yes, it’s one-way, but you’ll only be going one way.”
“Only one way out,” Butch said.
“Do it right, and it won’t be a problem,” Richie snarled. “The house is on the right—if you’re going the right way.” He gave the man with the questions a pointed look. “They have a gated drive. You’ll wait in the parking lot on Armitage until you see the armored car turn onto Burling. Then you’ll go down Burling and do the job. Butch knows the plan, and you’ll follow his lead. Just make sure you get off that fucking street fast. Turn on Willow and get the fuck out.”
“There’s a school on that street,” I said.
Richie sneered and gave me a look. “Then I guess you better be sure the job’s done before school lets out.”
He gave Butch a radio and then tossed me the keys. “You’re driving, O’Shea. Watch out for the kids.” The smile that flashed over his face made me want to plough my fist into his face, but that could wait.
Driving was the first good news I’d heard. Then came the bad.
Richie passed out weapons, and everyone got one but me.
* * * *
We sat on Armitage, dressed in our uniforms for Armor Security. The guy driving the delivery transport must have been legally blind because he drove right by us. Red flags went up. The vehicle turned down Burling, and I followed slowly past some nice homes. It was a great neighborhood, but I’d known it would be with millions of dollars in jewels on the line here.
About half a block down, the truck signaled and pulled into the driveway in front of the gate to an imposing white brick mansion with large mullioned windows and a tree-lined courtyard. Turn of the century. Pretty as shit.
“Stop here,” Butch said. “If things go the way they’re supposed to, you take this truck back to Armor Security.” He rattled off the address, but of course I already knew it. “If things go south, I don’t give a fuck what you do. Just get the hell out and disappear for a while. Do not come back to the club.”
Butch dropped from the cab and walked toward the other armored car. The men in the back of my rig pushed open the rear doors and exited. They all followed Butch.
Then the unheard of happened. The driver of the other armored car got out of the transport and met Butch. So many red flags went up I couldn’t even count them. An armored car driver never got out of his vehicle.
The two men exchanged a few words, and the driver moved toward the side door. He lifted a radio and spoke to the man behind the armor—the one who would have a gun trained on anyone who approached.
I leaned across the seat. “Fuck.”
“Change of plans,” the driver said. I strained to hear the conversation as the man spoke into the radio, but with the dense bulletproof glass, it was hard to hear. I tried to rely on a bit of lip-reading, but couldn’t catch all of it. “High-security transport—the other side of the city—unscheduled delivery—switch trucks.”
I read between the lines. The driver had been ordered to switch trucks with us. I wondered how much the man behind Armor Security would pay one of this employees for that. The other men in the truck would never have taken a job with a new driver without a serious damn reason, so this man was one of the regular crew.
A garbled word squawked over the radio, but I figured it out.
“I don’t ask why, Jackson.” The driver’s voice got louder. “Lower the weapon. I’m opening the door.”
“Like fuck you are,” Jackson said, plain as day.
While the two argued through the tiny glass slot, the driveway gate began to swing open. Men poured out of the house, taking up stations around the courtyard. Several moved down the driveway toward the gate.
“Jesus jumping Christ,” Butch mouthed. He lifted his radio as he ducked behind the first armored car.
The driver of the delivery transport dropped his radio and took off running.
“Chicago P.D.,” someone shouted.
When the driver failed to stop, the cop shot his leg out from under him, and he fell to the sidewalk. He rolled over and wrapped his hand around his calf to staunch the bleeding, but blood poured through his fingers and that shattered bone protruding from the wound didn’t look too good. He’d better hope this ended quickly and he got to a hospital.
“Weapons down,” a cop shouted.
“Like fuck,” screamed one of Richie’s men, and he opened fire, spraying the courtyard with a hail of bullets.
Bark chips flew from trees, and leaves shredded and flurried around like green snowflakes. Chunks of concrete exploded from the gate columns, whizzing through the air to pepper everything in sight.
Instinctively I reached for my weapon, but then I remembered I had none. I was in the safest possible spot, so I watched as Butch yelled into his radio, trying to hear anything he said, and then a body falling caught my attention. Two down, four to go. The remaining professionals were all bent double, backing away, guns swinging left and right, toward my truck. A swarm of cops, dressed in SWAT gear, followed. One of Richie’s men jerked backward as a bullet caught him in the chest, and he collapsed in a heap.
One of the goons pounded on the passenger window. I gave him the finger, and he growled through his teeth and ducked behind a parked car.
An officer trained his gun on my vehicle.
A voice rose over the noise of ricocheting shots, shouting, and bullets clipping cars and shattering windows.
“Driver is Daniel Dutton, one of ours.” I recognized the voice, even in the chaos.
My commander had taken stock of the scene and realized I was, logically, the person in the driver’s seat. He moved fast as lightning through the gate as several other cops covered his ass. A shot rang out, but my commander was a tough bastard. He crouched, sprang back up, and rounded the truck, his gun trained on Butch.
“Weapon down.”
Butch lowered his weapon and placed it on the ground, not willing to die for Richie. My commander waved his free hand, and I took that as a sign. He knew where I wanted to be.
The sound of sirens wailed through the neighborhood, and I knew, in a few moments, the street would be blocked. Butch managed to yell a few more words into his radio before a cop ripped it from his hand and pushed him to the ground. The two men still on their feet must have realized they’d reached an impasse. Without access to either vehicle, and the wail of sirens coming from down the block—cops didn’t care about one-way signs—they ran back toward Armitage Street, where, I hoped, another team of cops waited. If not, I’d remember their ugly mugs.
I didn’t wait around. I drove as fast as I dared down the residential drive toward Willow Street. I needed to get back to the South Side, where Richie was—where Hannah was.
Richie was not going to be happy to see me, but the amount I cared about that would fit in his pencil cock with plenty of room left over. I just hoped I wasn’t bringing a knife to a gunfight.