“Ready? Go!”
These were the last words my tactical leader pronounced before a terrible explosion abruptly severed his carotid artery. I knelt alongside his twitching body, forgetting the mission. My hand on the side of his neck felt the flow of warm blood between my trembling fingers, impossible to stop. And so, my colleague died almost instantly. I lost a close person for the first time.
A week ago, in the FBI situation room, a planning session was underway. The planners selected four targets tied to a gang of criminals making and distributing controlled substances in the district. These addictive drugs were sometimes deadly for young users in city ghettos. We teamed up with the Chicago police, my former employer. The plan was to arrest the crooks and seize the production site. It was a major project, expectations were high.
The targets of our search were four individuals including the mastermind, Bruce Steiner. This fifty-four-year-old Caucasian had a long history in the drug business but avoided capture for a serious offense. He evaded the authorities by moving away. After sightings in Los Angeles, Denver, and New Jersey, he now operated an important drug ring in Chicago, my hometown. Based on our data, we should find him with ease. He wore a tattoo on his face, a tiny cat surrounded by nine small dots around his right temple, echoing the nine lives he pretended to enjoy.
We also sought a couple and a young man involved in the drug distribution activity in the city. They worked in the downtown area and the North side of Chicago. They had a long rap sheet of drug-related offenses. But Steiner was the prime target, the kingpin. The raid included his home and a shop who fronted his illicit activities in an Eastside industrial area. It looked like a regular garage but with a sizeable backroom used only by the bad guys where we believed the manufacturing operations took place
.
As part of our preparation, we monitored all the target locations. We wanted to identify who lived in those houses, wife, girlfriends or children. They delivered signed warrants a day in advance, a textbook operation.
On that crucial day, at 4:00 AM, our attack team composed of ATF, FBI plus Chicago PD officers met for one last update and final review. Half an hour later, all armored and other police vehicles left toward the targeted sites still dark outside. They scheduled the final assault for 5:30 AM. We expected individuals to be home naked in bed having no intention of resisting arrest. They forecaster a cold morning rain for later.
Close by the garage, the words “Ready” and “Go” echoed in the morning as the sun rose on the horizon. The lead man sprinted to the side door carrying a battering ram. The tactical leader followed him, the rest of the team trailed a few feet behind. On the initial hit, the door resisted but then gave way and flew open on the second try. We were getting ready to run inside when a large explosion destroyed the entryway in a sound I had never heard. The booby trap, we discovered later, would hurt whoever entered. Shrapnel flew in all directions. Several agents fell to the ground, including myself, engulfed inside the black cloud of the explosion. When the smoke lifted, a half-dozen officials were on the ground, groaning, some motionless. I then lost consciousness.
Faceguard and body armor absorbed large chunks of the blast. Arms and legs, where limited protection existed, got the rest of the brunt. Ambulances arrived within minutes to transport the wounded to the University of Chicago trauma center. The center carries a rich reputation for excellent care. The tactical officer died on site. Standing opposite the man holding the ram, he had no chances. Four others suffered wounds of various degrees, myself included.
Other raid locations generated three more arrests. But our main target, Steiner, fled before our team arrived. The cat had lived through another episode, silently informed before the raid. The FBI will stay forever ignorant on the source of the leak.
In the hospital's emergency room, the doctor informed me I lost a lot of blood. A broken arm hung on my left side, all my bones hurt, multiple shrapnel wounds were obvious, I was a lucky man. The doctor performed much-needed repairs and then nurses transported my injured body to a private room. My wife Laura waited in the wings, walking back and forth, looking down at something invisible. She ran in my direction upon seeing the stretcher rolling down the corridor.
“Jason Tanner, don’t you dare do this again, you understand me?” she said, her voice trembling. The love of my life discovered in high school was by my side. Laura's teaching profession is safer than an FBI agent, still, with little warning, she left our world before me.
