[center] [img]http://i.imgur.com/drrqNvx.jpg?2[/img] [b]Part V: Cops & Robbers[/b] [i]"Me and my people do not employ violence, and I do not let them carry guns… carrying guns is what I pay the police for."[/i] -- Roy Olmstead [/center] Detective Sergeant Thomas Burke sat at his desk in the detective's squadroom of the GCPD Western District House. The rest of his four man Narcotics unit were still at lunch. They'd taken a break from the usual morning routine of popping low and mid-level drug dealers for food while Burke went back to the station to do paperwork. He was in the process of completing incident reports for the day when the phone on his desk rang. "Burke." "You motherfucker!" Burke immediately recognized the voice on the other end of the line. "Why are you calling me here, Skeevers," he hissed. "We have a deal!" "You goddamn right we do," Jefferson Skeevers yelled. "And that's why I wanna know how four police are riding up an elevator to come get me? How'd you let that fucking happen, Burke?! For what I'm paying you--" "Shut your mouth," Burke snapped. "And tell me the situation. Did something happen in the projects today for cops to be there?" "Naw, man. Ain't shit going on, so why the fuck are three rollies and a knocko coming down the hallway towards my apartment?" Burke heard movement on the other line. "Hey, Manman, they po-lice, don't fuck with them and do what they say!" "I gotta go," Burke said quickly. "I'll look into it, that's all I can do." He heard Skeevers protest as he put the phone back in the cradle. Burke leaned back in his chair and shook his head. What was going on? Three rollies and a knocko, to decode the slang of the street, meant three patrolmen and a plainclothes narcotics detective. There was no way someone from the Western would be over at the Finger without him knowing. That left... downtown. IA, or one of the other units like Major Crimes. If a downtown unit was coming for Skeevers without notifying the district that meant... they might know about Burke's deal with the drug dealer. They might know about the money and women in exchange for the muscle. Burke quickly pulled his cell phone out and dialed Arturo Garcia, his second in command in Narco. "Art," he said quickly. "Get everybody together and get over to the Finger right now." "What's going on?" "I don't know," Burke said, standing and walking towards the door. "But we're going to find out." --- Jefferson Skeevers put his hands up as the door came open and the cops rushed in. A black one with a shotgun leveled it right at his face as two white cops, one in a suit, and a hispanic one came through the door. Skeevers' two bodyguards, Manman and Rocky, were already against the wall with their guns out of their waistbands and on the ground. All three men knew the score when it came to the cops. As much as Burke was indebted to him, he couldn't do a damn thing if Skeevers tried to hurt a police. In Gotham, the cops could be bought but they could never be bullied. "On the ground," the one in the suit said. He had a pistol down by his side, but his face was hard enough that a gun wasn't necessary. "Spread 'em." Skeevers did as instructed and hit the ground. He was quickly restrained with plastic tie cords to his wrists. His two bodyguards were tied by both their wrists and ankles while Skeevers was stood up by the knocko in the suit. "Let's go." He and the black cop grabbed him by the arms and led him out the apartment. Instead of going left towards the elevators, they went right towards the next apartment. Skeevers felt his chest tighten as the black cop knocked on the door with the butt of the gun. "The fuck are ya'll--" "Shut up," the white one snapped. "Tell the guys inside to open the door. Tell them it's the cops." Skeevers did as instructed. A second later the steel bolted door came open and he was led inside by the two men, the other two police officers coming in behind them. The count room happened towards the end of its first shift and the entire small apartment was filled with bills that were counted and stacked and ready to be redistributed back. The two counters in the room had their hands up and were complying as they too were restrained by their wrists and ankles. "Alright," the knock said with a nod towards the others. All four men reached into their pants and pulled out folded up duffel bags that they quickly unfolded and opened. The three rollies started to shovel cash into the eight bags the four men had secreted into the room. Skeevers started to look around, making eye contact with the tall knocko with the mean face. "The fuck kinda cops are y'all?" The knocko put the gun in his face. "The kind that doesn't need to worry about justifying a shooting. Someone get the gag." Skeevers started to yell for help, but by then it was too late. The hispanic one slipped a ball gag into his mouth and tightened it until he made no noise except a quiet muffling. The white one with the mean face scowled at him. He pulled out a rough floor plan of the housing project that showed every floor and room number. "If you want to live, Skeevers," the man with the mean face hissed. "You're going to show us where you're keeping your dope stash." --- "Something's not right." Burke looked up at the project house with a scowl. Besides the four detectives, the entire plaza was deserted. The cop car was the reason why. It was just left out in the plaza, still running, its lights still flashing. No backup, no other cops watching the front door. Nothing. "What's that?" Burke asked without looking away. "Something's not right," Officer Chase said. "This car is fucked up." Burke finally turned away and approached the patrol car. A quick glance inside proved Chase right. There was no radio, no scanner, no crime computer or GPS, nothing that the came standard in every Gotham patrol car. Four cops in a car like this go into the projects, going up specifically for Jefferson Skeevers and... "Shit," Burke cursed. "We gotta get up there." "Why?" Garcia asked with a raised eyebrow. "They're not cops. They're stick up men!"