Shadow Partners

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

Two of the three riders wore modified Afros, not at all like the white man in the passenger's front seat. Close to twenty-five, the well-muscled man sported an immense pile of unkempt frizz above bushy eyebrows. Here and there, small facial hair protruded from what was usually a smartly trimmed beard.

The Buick had just rolled through the intersection at 12th Street and Webb Street when the white man spoke. "Pull over there, Tyrone."

"No problem, Gerhard," answered the driver.

The man seated next to Tyrone turned. He handed another banana-clip to the figure holding a wicked-looking 30 cal. M1. Satisfied that the thugs understood the basics of their weapons, he gave them their final instructions.

"When we stop on up there-on Otsego," he said pointing up the street. "Head for your positions-just like we practiced. We'll make the call in exactly one hour, and ... don't miss!"

That was all he said, no need to waste words on the two gunmen. In the shadows of the backseat, Hess' tone, steely gaze, and his reputation-most everything about him-had stirred their uneasiness.

After they'd driven away, the driver glanced across at Hess. "Do you think they'll wimp out?" No response from the bearded white dude, and the driver chose not to press the inoffensive inquiry.

Gerhard Hess was a home-grown terrorist-a simple fact. He hated his country, despised traditional values espoused by politicians and businesspeople whose sole motivation was to cheat and steal their way to power. To him, they were slicing and stuffing America's pie into gaping mouths. Too many greedy people were in charge of most aspects of everyone's life.

The previous winter Hess caught the eye of IRA sympathizers who frequented an Irish pub near downtown Detroit. A meeting had been setups in the dingy backroom of the small watering hole. It had taken place shortly after he'd bombed the police parking lot in the rear of Detroit's 10th Precinct.

Glancing out of the Buick's side-window at flashing neon as they drove past store windows on 12th Street, Hess recalled that event. On that especially cold, snowy night, he had expected significant casualties and maximum damage during a busy shift-change. It was not to be. The well-timed attack had ended prematurely because of two cops.

He could still picture one uniformed officer blazing away in his direction from the rear entrance to the precinct building. A moment earlier, the other cop had seemingly wondered out of nowhere. Acting fast, Hess had neatly outlined the interloper in his gunsight. Too, late-the pig had heard a shouted warning from his partner, and he dropped from sight between parked cars.

Almost immediately, bullets from the new shooter were bouncing off vehicles near the would-be assassin's position. They had him pinned down, time passing quickly according to quick mental calculations. Time to move!

Crawling through fresh, fallen snow-ice cold as he now recalled-Gerhard Hess finally made it out of the lot without incident. It was snowing heavily now, whiteout conditions in essence. Clearing a broken fence in the back lot, it was a hasty jog between weather-beaten houses before he had made his way back to the main drag, Livernois Avenue.

Just as he turned the ignition switch on the stolen Volkswagen Van, he flinched at a startling flash in the murky winter sky. A thundering explosion shook his vehicle even before the fiery light had stopped reflecting off falling snowflakes. Driving North a few blocks, he took a quick-left-skidding through a two-foot mound of snow left by a DPW plow mounted on the front-end of a city garbage truck. Sour bile rose in his throat, and he angrily slammed a gloved hand against the bead-wrapped steering wheel. He hoped the two pigs had been cut to pieces in the blast.

He would find out the following day that both men had retreated inside and had warned other precinct officers of the danger. Anger, along with the sour taste would rise again. Enough! He thought.

Hess turned his attention to this evening's operation. It would be his last hostile act on U.S. soil. His particular talents had been evaluated and approved by local IRA sympathizers. Recommended by the locals, Hess was soon bound for intensive training in Ireland-and other places around the globe.

Snapping back to the matter at hand, Gerhard glanced sideways at the young driver whose head was swathed in a malodorous rag. "No!" he answered "I don't believe they'll fuck it up. Just in case though, we're going make it a point to see how they execute an attack."

He looked at his watch, "Head over to 12th Street, Tyrone. We'll pick us up some barbecue at Hughes' Place."

Earlier the same evening, sticky air swirled inside the 10th Precinct scout-car. 10-9, manned by Ray St. Giles and Manfred Kurtz, was cruising restless streets west of Henry Ford Hospital. Tall, blond, with piercing blue eyes, the powerfully built thirty-three-year-old Kurtz was the younger of the two officers. St. Giles, just a year and a half older, was in equally good shape. The third man assigned to the car, Angelo Tana, had been on several plain-clothes assignments during the past few months. He was a contrast to the stern, businesslike personalities of Kurtz and St. Giles. Gregarious, outgoing, the handsome Italian was a natural for undercover assignments requiring expertise and a set of balls.

Tonight, Kurtz and St. Giles were valiantly trying to ignore the small beads of moisture that occasionally trickled down their torsos, to be absorbed by blue poplin shirts. St. Giles and Kurtz had joined the Detroit Police Department after short stint in the Navy.

Since then, they had been rotated through several developmental assignments like, "Cleanup." Nicknamed for the precinct's vice unit, the assignment had honed investigative skills and given each crucial undercover experience. Their probationary period also involved detail to the Car Booster units. A plain-clothes unit, a Booster Crew focused its efforts on known burglars, violent felons, and a myriad of special problems uniformed officers had little time to handle. Free to design their own objectives and tactics, and to be made a member of a crew was considered a mark of excellence.

By eleven-thirty, St. Giles and Kurtz had responded to more than fifteen radio runs. Between the incidents they had made two arrests for CCW.

One happened by accident when a sleek coupe roared around the corner of Grand River and W. Chicago. Rumbling glass-pack mufflers shook the neighborhood, reverberating off the surrounding businesses and apartment buildings. Glimpsing the scout-car as he flew past the vacant lot, the driver waited until they...