Americans want to be reassured their law enforcement agencies are effective in carrying out primary missions that ensure protection wherever possible. This book epitomizes how agencies, with varying missions, can overcome adversity to achieve a common purpose. Several years after special agent Ray St. Giles vanished in West Virginia, Manfred Kurtz is assigned as ATF Detroit's Special Agent in Charge (SAC), and Angelo Tana is his assistant. Both had been Ray's DPD partners before joining ATF. Kurtz is contacted by DPD Deputy Chief Wendell Locke. He wants ATF assistance in finding those responsible for a string of bombings and murders. DPD sergeant Hugh St Giles, Ray's son, and Brian Culbert - his counterpart at ATF, assemble a compelling team of agents and detectives. Together, they promptly develop leads on the bombings and a W. VA connection. As their case expands in several directions, agents bring in DEA. Now a Task Force, investigators will tie in political corruption, a major gun trafficking ring, stolen military materials, Colombian dope traffickers, and the man responsible for Ray St. Giles' disappearance. However, smack in the middle of the investigation further complications arise. A U.S. Senator and a White House mole strive to manipulate a Congressional subcommittee. Its Chairman struggles with his mandate - find a process to abolish ATF as a law enforcement agency. If successful, seeds for a National Police Force will have been sewn. Strings are being pulled by people with no love of country. Corrupt appointees in Departments of Treasury and Justice, a rogue ATF executive, and remnants of a home-grown terrorist organization - all conspire to bring Federal law enforcement, under a single, powerful agency. As the task force gathers evidence, agents and detectives explore connections to all these divergent angles, leaving Kurtz and his people to sort them out.

Shadow Partners

A Law Enforcement StoryBy B.H. La Forest

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 B.H. La Forest
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-4394-0

Chapter One

One of Motown's classics, a canary-yellow, 1968 'Deuce and a Quarter,' cruised silently in the darkness on Detroit's near westside. Two young black men fumbled with their weapons behind the driver and his front seat passenger. Hunched over in the vintage Buick's cream-colored leather seats, one held a sawed-off 12-gauge, while the other stroked his M1 carbine. While the shotgun-man jammed shells into his weapon, his partner grabbed another thirty-round magazine from the front-seat passenger and began taping two together. The driver paid little attention to what was happening inside the car, choosing to scan his mirrors for any hint of a police presence.

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 approached.

When Kurtz signaled him to pull to the curb, he punched the accelerator. "Screw you!"

Their Plymouth was fast-a good car. They had only traveled a few blocks, when suddenly another car, traveling in the opposite direction, swerved across the center line of the street.

The partners watched as it began to accelerate toward the Mercury. "Now what?" St. Giles muttered from behind the wheel of the speeding police car. He and Kurtz watched as the other two cars approached each other at more than a hundred miles an hour.

The suspect driver suddenly spotted a flashing blue light mounted on the dash of the plain clothes Chevrolet. Unnerved that two police cars were on him now, he panicked. When he slammed on the brakes while attempting a quick right-turn onto a darkened side street, he lost control. In the middle of the maneuver, his heavy car drifted sideways into a high curb. Both wheels on the driver's side buckled on impact.

Momentum caused the once beautiful black car to roll almost two complete revolutions. When the Mercury came to rest on its side, the driver struggled to extricate himself from the pile of smashed metal. As he did, the butt of a 9mm pistol tucked inside his pants, caught on the doorjamb. The blue-steel weapon bounced on the pavement, then skidded toward the officer who'd been driving the plain-clothes unit.

Picking the pistol up, the cop looked toward the prisoner. "Well, well! If it isn't Malcolm 32X-aka, Malcolm Whitherspoon."

Whitherspoon gave the burly Italian with flashing black eyes a venomous look. "Tana!" he roared. "White honky muthafucka. Look wha'chu done to my wheels!"

Ray St. Giles smiled at the officer dressed in Levis and a University of Detroit sweatshirt. "Angelo, what's with the Kamikaze move?"

Until his temporary detail, Angelo Tana had been the third man on 10-9. That meant that he was working on the unit on the days one of the other two officers was off duty. However, for the past three months, the big Italian had been assigned to either a Booster unit, or Clean Up. Tana smiled as St. Giles handcuffed Whitherspoon. "Hey, haven't, you people missed me?"

Kurtz had finished searching the wrecked Mercury. Walking over to where everyone was standing, he handed Tana several small gelatin capsules filled with white powder. "Probably heroin," he said.

St. Giles and Kurtz looked at the capsules, then at Malcolm 32x. He was standing quietly, with his head leaned back as though studying the heavens.

Tana continued, "I'm supposed to be working on a blind pig over on Pingree and Dexter-but, the joint's after-hours action doesn't start until two. Until then, I'll just be trolling, looking out for a couple of Big Four fugitives."

The Big Four was the 10th Precinct's Cruiser Crew. In every precinct without exception, each heavy car was manned by four very large men. Hence the name, Big Four. The sight of their Chrysler and Buick sedans struck terror in the criminal community.

His two partners had warned Tana that it was a "no-no" to independently hunt any Big Four targets. Tana just laughed, then said he'd catch them later. Whitherspoon glared at him from the backseat of the scout-car when Tana winked in his direction.

After separating from Tana, St. Giles and Kurtz continued to patrol in the sweltering heat. It was forty-five minutes before they would head for the station. Still behind the wheel, St. Giles had pulled into a darkened alley. He had turned the motor off, but left the radio on. The cooling engine hissed and crackled. The spot afforded Kurtz time to complete the night's entries on their run-sheet, and St. Giles a smoke.

Shattering the stillness in the car, the gravelly voice of Kenny Taylor came over the radio. "10-2, Otsego and Webb. Man with a gun." He repeated the transmission, but received no reply.

Kurtz grabbed the radio's mike, "10-9 will handle it."

Taylor answered, "It's all yours, 10-9."

Kurtz tossed the run sheet and clipboard into the back seat as St. Giles accelerated out of the alley at a breakneck clip. Their Plymouth came out in a wide left turn, spinning tires battling to grip the soft, hot asphalt. Then they were off, streaking toward the area of Otsego and Webb.

Within a few minutes, 10-9 slid to the curb, three houses from the corner. Kurtz motioned to St. Giles, who looked in the direction of the intersection. A young black male in his early twenties, with a do-rag, was standing next to a fancy yellow Buick. He was staring nonchalantly in the direction of the two officers.

They were within thirty yards of his location when Kurtz barked. "Ray, on your left! It's a trap!"

St. Giles had already drawn his weapon, and was holding it against his leg. He shifted his gaze toward a cement walkway alongside the first and second asbestos-sided homes. Just two of them, he guessed. Both were dressed in camouflage and black-berets. Each man held a long barreled weapon. St. Giles was shocked to see the menacing guns were swinging toward him and his partner.

From the moment Kurtz hollered to St. Giles, until the final shot echoed in the stillness of the humid evening-just twenty seconds passed. He had drawn his weapon, and rolled forward of the scout-car, to where a new Cadillac convertible was parked. St. Giles was not as lucky. Captured in the glow of the intersection's street light, he never heard the first shot. Something hot smacked his left leg-like being hit with a rising puck from center ice. Before he took another breath, he felt like his leg was on fire.

Words spoken by the cranky academy sergeant popped into his head. "Always be prepared. Don't have your head up your ass-or you're liable to feel something' hot goin' through ya'."

Limping toward the police unit, he was halted when another carbine round slammed into his right thigh. That slug put him on the pavement, both legs grotesquely twisted beneath his crooked frame.

Crouched alongside the Cadillac with its top down, Kurtz had seen the gun flashes as both snipers fired at St. Giles. His initial thoughts that one was armed with a rifle, while the other carried a shotgun, were confirmed by the piercing sound of rifle shots and the thundering roar of a 12-gauge. Raising up, he snapped off two shots from his Model 27 S&W .357. His first two shells were full-jacketed, armor piercing, homemade rounds he had bought from one of the precinct's gun-nuts. Superior stopping power was what he sought.

Kurtz's homemade bullets had quite an effect. The shooter with the sawed-off Remington hardly had time to notice the punctured side-plate of his shotgun. A second shot poked a neat hole through the young bushwhacker's forehead, his lifeless body pitched against the second shooter.

Splattered with bloody tissue from his dead accomplice, the man cursed and then bent down. He was reaching for the carbine that had slipped from his hands in the collision with the shotgun man.

St. Giles rolled to a prone position in the middle of the street at the momentary diversion. Painfully, he placed the rifleman's figure in the slot of his .41 Magnums' sights. The heavy gun bucked as a two-foot long streak of flame left the barrel. Momentarily blinded by the flash the wounded officer did not panic. He just fired in the same direction as his first shot.

Perhaps it was the eerie flare of fire that exploded toward him, or maybe it was the high-pitched whine and the horrific stab of pain when a fat slug sliced off his left earlobe. For whatever reason, the sniper came out of his crouch and sprinted toward the intersection-to where he had seen the parked Buick. It would have been a better choice to have crawled backward, chancing escape through the alley.

Before he'd gone three steps, the bungalow's porch light came on. St. Giles saw him clearly outlined in the light spilling across the front porch and onto the lawn. He fired three times, in rapid succession.

The gunman vaulted in the air, almost completing a backward somersault. He was hit by all three of St. Giles' shots, and once by Kurtz who had fired at the same instant.

Kurtz examined both of the men before administering to his downed partner. It was a quick check-neither man was alive. Then he calmly notified the dispatcher of their situation.

Listening, he heard Kenny Taylor's deep baritone voice, "All units! Officer shot!" began the dispatcher. "10-Cruiser, 10-4 10-5, and 10-6, respond to Otsego and Webb. 10-9's involved ... one officer's down." This transmission was at once followed by a separate call to 10-60 and 10-70. These were the 10th Precinct's designations for the lieutenants and sergeants.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Shadow Partnersby B.H. La Forest Copyright © 2010 by B.H. La Forest. Excerpted by permission.
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