As most takedowns seem to go, this one occurred in the evening, just past 7 pm. The sky was starting to turn dark, but there was still enough light that we were not tripping on things as we walked towards our target.
The Meatpacking District was as empty as it was ever going to be when we pulled up. We parked the black, unmarked SUVs a few warehouses down from the one we suspected The Butcher to be using and quietly got out of the SUV. We needed the distance to not give away our position or alert the suspect that we were coming for him.
I took a breath and cracked my neck, a nervous tick I had since I was a kid. After the first time I lost my head, I like to make sure that it is attached when I needed it to be.
Taking the bulletproof vest my colleague Kowalski handed me, I quickly smiled. Putting it on, I double-checked my department-issued Glock to ensure that it was loaded and then placed it back in its holster.
It was not my weapon of choice, but it was the one that raised the least number of eyebrows when used.
Nodding to Kowalski, I got into place behind the Sergeant and just off to the right. Kowalski followed suit on the left and the remaining members of the homicide unit fell into their places. The SWAT team had their own formations, and I was too focused on me and mine to care about what they did.
As long as they saved our asses when needed, I was fine with anything.
Sergeant Connolly raised his right hand and signaled for us to silently follow his lead before returning his hand to his own Glock in a double-handed grip.
As quietly as possible we hurried towards the warehouse where our information told us The Butcher would be.
We stopped outside the metal door and I raised my brow to the sergeant… "Should I knock?" I mouthed, only to earn another glare in reply.
I couldn't help myself… I was lippy at the best of times and downright bitchy at the worst, so sue me.
The other guys that could see our exchange grinned. Nothing like a little humor to take the edge off.
The Sergeant nodded and two guys, Sam and White, peeled off from behind the formation and ran to the door. They pulled the heavy metal door to the right and quickly got back into formation.
After pausing for a second to see if anything was waiting to greet us, we entered the warehouse.
Except for a few boxes stacked randomly on both sides of the door, the room itself was empty.
We quickly cleared the bottom floor before making our way towards the only set of stairs leading up. However, before we could take the next step, we heard a slow clapping sound coming from above us.
We slowly backed away, guns raised towards the new treat and stopped.
At the top of the stairs stood The Butcher in a black, three-piece suit from Giorgio Armani. He appeared quite relaxed as he walked down the stairs in front of us, his left hand in his pant pocket and his right hand at his side.
Or at least, he looked relaxed until he saw me.
"What the fuck are you?? A zombie? I killed you! I know I did!" he yelled at me as he stepped off the bottom step not five feet in front of me. For someone that was supposed to be analytical, cold, and detached, he seemed to be a bit high-strung to me. This just goes to show that you could never trust what you have heard.
He raised his right hand and pointed a gun straight at my chest, my chest that was covered by a very visible bulletproof vest. Seriously, the white 'Police' writing was practically glowing in the dim lighting.
I poked my plump white cheek in confusion. Me, a zombie? Were his brains eaten by something? Did he go blind? I clearly had blemish-proof skin that was soft and smooth. It definitely did not have a greenish/grayish tint to it, nor was my skin falling off in chunks. I might not be the most attractive girl on the street but calling me a zombie seemed a bit harsh.
"Actually, you managed to hit my comms," I smiled like I was trying to educate him on the best way to kill me. "Next time, might I suggest aiming for my head?" Not like that would do much good for him to shoot me there either.
Oh well, what was a girl to do? I could only be so accommodating before I had to draw the line.
His gun wavered a bit before steadying again and he looked at me like I'd gone crazy.
In fact, looking around, even my colleagues were looking at me like I'd lost a few marbles. I shrugged my shoulders and gestured with my empty hand in the universal sign for 'let's get this over with'.
All of a sudden, the commander of the SWAT team entered the warehouse; his M16 assault rifle was raised and zeroed in on The Butcher's head.
"See, like that," I pointed out. "He's not going to miss now. You should take a few pointers from him."
"Are you insane?" The Butcher demanded.
"No," I shook my head. "Like everyone else, I have done my yearly psych evaluation and passed with flying colors," I assured him and everyone else in the room. Having my head cut off as many times as I have, you do wonder sometimes whether or not you sewed it on the right way.
"Enough," said The Butcher, holding up his left hand that was previously hidden in his pocket. Nestled in the palm of his hand, with his finger on a bright red button, sat a detonator for an IED of some kind.
"Now, either I walk out of here this minute, or we all die together," he continued, waving his hand as if we could have possibly missed the trigger.