Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #2: Books 5-8 (A Dead Cold Box Set) by Blake Banner (types of ebook readers txt) 📕

the door and hammered loudly on it, then leaned on the bell. I could hear a woman screaming hysterically inside. She seemed to be saying something, but not in English. I hammered again.

“NYPD! Open up!”

The screaming grew closer. We backed up and stepped to the side, training our weapons on the door. It was wrenched open by a woman encased from head to foot in a black burka, like a Victorian ghost who’s just come down the chimney, covered in soot. She was screaming and waving her hands, and behind her she had four very frightened-looking kids.

We moved toward her, keeping her covered. I said, “Where is Ahmed? Ahmed Abadi? Where is he?”

She just kept shouting at me, waving her hands around. She sounded as though she was appealing to me for sympathy or understanding. Both were impossible right then. I turned toward the patrol car.

“Stuart! I need this woman and her kids taken into custody as material witnesses. Get a translator, too. She’s speaking Iraqi. It is very urgent.”

“Yes, sir!”

Chen made the call while Stuart took her and the kids and put them in the back of the vehicle, to await the translator and further back up. Dehan and I went inside. She covered the stairs while I kicked in the living room door.

“Clear!”

The kitchen was also clear and we moved up the stairs to the bedrooms. The bathroom was empty, but there was a blood-stained towel and shirt in the bath. A small room with four beds in it was also empty. The next room was obviously his and his wife’s. The wardrobe was open and there was a suitcase on the bed. In it, there was a pump-action shotgun, a Sig P226 tacops automatic pistol, and several boxes of ammunition. Dehan pointed to one of the boxes. I had already seen it. It was empty.

“Those are intermediate cartridges. They are not for a pistol. You’d use them in an assault rifle.”

We stared at each other, like we were reading each other’s minds.

“Where has he gone, Dehan?” I turned and ran down the stairs.

“Stuart! Where are you?”

“Detective?”

He was at the door.

“Get the captain. I don’t give a damn where he is or what he’s doing. Get him. Inform him we have a situation. Ahmed Abadi is at large and injured, armed with an assault rifle. Call Dispatch. I want an armed guard on the Martins’ house and on St. George’s Church. Also, we need a translator now!” I pointed at the patrol car. “I don’t give a damn what you do or what the Geneva Convention has to say about it. I assume full responsibility. Make that woman tell you where her husband has gone. Now!”

But I knew it was pointless. I knew we were out of time. I turned. Dehan was behind me.

“Where did he go, Dehan?”

“The mosque. It’s just up the road.”

I nodded. “Yes. The mosque. Let’s go.”

We climbed in the Jag and I swung back toward Rheinlander Avenue.

“This is going to get damned complicated. We cannot let this get political.”

Dehan looked grim. “Good luck with that. I think it’s too late. I think it already did.”

I glanced at her. I knew she was right. “Then we have to take this son of a bitch down before the politicos get here.”

She looked at me but she didn’t say anything. I pulled up outside the mosque and climbed out.

It didn’t look like you’d expect a mosque to look. There were no minarets and no domes. It was just two shabby, terraced houses, one painted a dull yellow, and the other a faded oxblood. The doors and windows were open, and there was a guy in a robe with a big beard leaning on the wall outside, watching us with his arms crossed. I approached him and showed him my badge.

“Detectives Stone and Dehan. I’m looking for Ahmed Abadi. You know where he is?”

He hunched his shoulders slightly, but that was all he responded with.

I did it as quickly and quietly as I could. I weigh two hundred and twenty pounds and there isn’t much fat on me. I put my whole weight behind the punch and drove my fist deep into his solar plexus. As he doubled up, we both grabbed him and dragged him inside. Dehan was speaking urgently.

“This man is ill! Make way! Get a doctor!”

There were not many people inside, just a couple of young guys and an old man with a beard down to his waist. Dehan closed the doors and I threw the guy with the hat across a coffee table with a bunch of magazines and leaflets on it. Dehan pulled her piece and I took a moment to look at the two young guys. One had scared eyes, the other looked terrified. I grabbed the terrified one and dragged him to where his pal had rolled onto the floor, vomiting. Tripped him up so he fell on his back on top of his friend. I knelt on his chest and shoved the barrel of my 9mm into his mouth. I knew I was screwed and I knew my career was probably over. But it was a small price to pay to stop a crazy with an assault rifle. I didn’t care what damned religion he was. He had to be stopped. I let him all see that in my eyes, then snarled.

“I am going to count to three. Then I am going to blow your kneecaps off. Then I am going to find your mother and your sisters, and I am going to blow their kneecaps off, too. You understand me? Now, where is Ahmed Abadi? One, two…”

He was already gagging and babbling.

“He is no here! No here!

“Where?”

“He is making jihad!”

I gave him a backhander that made his eyes water. “Where, goddamit? Where?”