Free The Body Box by Lynn Abercrombie Page B

called twenty minutes before the bust was supposed to go down and said that Vernell wouldn’t be home that night, that he would be at a motel down on Stewart Avenue, the sleaze strip on the south side of the town. As a result we had to change plans inside the SWAT van itself, go in without a clear tactical plan.
    How hard could it be, though, right? A motel room has a front door and a back door. You clear the rooms next door, you drop the flash-bang, you bust the door, you go in. Simple.
    Only someone got their wires crossed.
    SWAT piled out of the van first, sending three guys around back beside the empty swimming pool, and three guys to go through the front door. Lt. Gooch and I joined the stack on the front door.
    As always, I felt the strange mix of prebust emotions—half pleasure, half terror. I could feel the sweat on my palm against the grip of the Glock, smell the cologne radiating off one of the SWAT guys in front of me.
    Then everything else closed down, and my whole mind focused on the door.
    The lead man had the door basher in his hand, hefting the steel handles, getting ready to pop the door, when I heard something behind me. It took me a moment to process the sound. A sort of click. Like a door lock.
    I guess the SWAT guys were so focused on the door that they didn’t notice it. But Gooch and I turned in unison, like our heads were attached to the same little motor. Behind us, I saw someone walking out of the room next door.
    â€œWho cleared the rooms next door?” Gooch snapped.
    But it was too late for an answer.
    The captain in charge of the SWAT team screamed, “Go!”
    As the door basher hit the wood, the man coming out the next door room swivelled around, spotted us. He was a young black guy, ghetto fabulous, a white Sean John suit, white shoes, yards of bling. “Five Oh!” he yelled. It wasn’t clear who he was yelling to, but it must have been somebody in the room next to Vernell’s.
    And then his gun came out.
    Before I could even get my gun up, Gooch had double-tapped him, two shots that came so fast they almost sounded like one.
    The kid with the gun staggered against the wall and went down, a shocked expression on his face.
    â€œGo, go, go!” the SWAT captain yelled.
    The three SWAT men disappeared into Vernell Moncreif’s room.
    â€œWith me,” Gooch said, gliding swiftly to the open door of the next room. He kicked the dying boy’s gun away, then peeped quickly into the room.
    I reached down to feel for the boys’ pulse.
    â€œForget him,” Gooch said. “He’s gone. There are two men in the room. You take the one on the left, I’ll take the right. Go.”
    Then he was in the room. I followed immediately.
    The two men inside the room were on their feet, unarmed, panic in their eyes. On the table between them was a small mountain of baggies full of something that looked like brown sugar. I recognized it as Mexican heroin cut down to street weight. Apparently we’d walked into a drug deal between Vernell and the men in this room.
    â€œYo! What the—”
    â€œGet down, get down!” Gooch yelled.
    The door to the adjoining room was open. Apparently Vernell and whoever these guys were had been renting both rooms. Which meant the SWAT guys couldn’t see what we were doing, and we couldn’t see what they were doing. This was a disaster.
    A man in a red track suit backed through the door to the adjoining room, slammed it shut, locked it, turned around.
    â€œAw, man!” he said, seeing us. “Y’all again ?” It was Vernell Moncrief. He had one hand under the tail of his track suit. Reaching for a gun? Probably. But I couldn’t tell for sure. A puzzled look ran across his face. Like he was wondering why Cold Case cops were doing a drug bust.
    â€œEverybody on the floor!” I shouted.
    The two drug dealers complied, but Vernell just kept standing there staring at us, his hand