Not to the Swift

Chapter 22

"You didn't know?" Jamal yelled, lying prone in the back of the freight car. Bullets struck the thick steel in a series of clangs and pings. Lamar's guards fired back, and shell casings danced across the freight car floor.

"Shut up, Jamal!" Lamar screamed back. "Who the—" clang-clang-clang "—think you are? Just shut the—" ping-clang.

"It didn't strike you as odd when your supposed gun buyers showed up already carrying guns?" Jamal shook his head.

One of the guards took a hit to the shoulder. He hid behind cover and loosed a primal roar. Or maybe that was a cuss word. Hard to tell.

"Business like ours, people gotta protect themselves," Lamar called back across the car. He moved into position and fired off some shots at the gunmen spreading out through the railyard. "Speaking of protection—take this bag and run for it. Get the hell outta here. I ain't havin' all my goods gettin' swiped if we have to bail."

Jamal opened his mouth to argue.

Blood splattered across the floor as a bullet tore through Lamar's calf. He dropped to the ground screaming, but scooted into cover and returned fire.

"You know what?" Jamal said, not caring if anyone heard. "Eff this noise, I'm out."

He grabbed the duffel, slung it over a shoulder and jumped out of the freight car.

Bullets zipped through the air and pounded metal behind him. Something struck the bag, probably damaging one of the weapons. Jamal threw himself into the next freight car and rolled across the metal floor to drop out the other side. Then he took off down the rails in short sprints, using the cars as cover.

He made it past three cars when a hand yanked him to the side. His shoulder smashed into steel and he spun into a sprawl on the ground.

Mister Washington stood above him, glaring down through his round glasses. "Evenin', Jamal," he said. "Where you think you're goin' son?"

* * * * *

With his double extra-large Bears hoodie covering his head over a bandana tied across his face, Chris figured he might not be identified as he weaved the van through the crowd.

Besides, there's been a few white folk from around the city showing up to march with the peaceful protests. Maybe I can pass as one of them.

He shifted and adjusted the angle of his personal Beretta, tucked into his waistband.

The police scanner crackled in the passenger seat, plugged in through a charger connected to the cigarette lighter. "HQ, Car One Seven, I lost those suspicious vehicles in the vicinity of the railways between Eighth and Tenth. Trying to relocate them, but the protests have me blocked in."

"Car One Seven—and all available officers—this is HQ."

Candida's voice now? Where's the dispatch officer? Where's the captain, for that matter?

"There's a full-on riot outside Precinct HQ," Candida said. "If you can get here, we're forming up a second line to control and disperse the crowd. We need all available assets."

I can't help you guys officially, but maybe I can do something behind the scenes.

Chris turned and headed toward the railway.

* * * * *

George clutched Jamal with both hands by the collar of his shirt. Veins twitched and pulsed in the sides of the man's bald head. "You wanna tell me," he growled, "why I see you mixed up again in the same stupid crap that got my son killed?"