Page 20 of Under His Protection
Me – You’ll never believe this. Meachum is here, too. WTF?
Jake – You’re shitting me! I’m on my way. Don’t engage. Film it all.
Oh, I’m getting everything on my dash cam. I even caught Meachum on tape.
I’m not one bit surprised when Kramer exits his vehicle and walks into the same room Meachum entered.
A moment later, all hell breaks loose. I count five shots in less than ten seconds, and then everything goes quiet.
Me – Shots fired!
Jake – Fuck! Almost there. Call 911, but DO NOT engage! You hear me? Keep out of range.
Me – Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Calm down, boss
I call 911 and report what I’ve heard, giving them the name of the motel and the room number involved. They want to keep me on the line, but I hang up. Instead, I get out of my truck, armed with a handgun tucked into the back waistband of my jeans, and approach the motel from a safe angle. Jake told me not to engage, but he didn’t say I had to sit on my thumbs and do nothing. If somebody bolts from that room, I’ll tackle their ass to the ground and sit on them until the cops arrive.
I keep an eye on the motel room door in case anyone tries to make a run for it.
Jake pulls up beside my hiding spot in the motel parking lot. He rolls down his window. “Get in here!”
I climb into the front passenger seat of his SUV.
“What part ofdo not engagedid you not understand?” he says. But he’s not mad at me. Not really. “Are they still in there?”
“Yep. No one has exited the room. I was ready for them if they did.”
A moment later, a police car—lights and sirens on—pulls in and parks right behind Kramer’s and Meachum’s vehicles, which are parked in front of Room 106.
The cop gets out of the car and hides behind his open door for protection. I can hear him talking on his radio, undoubtedly asking when his backup will arrive.
A few moments later, two more cruisers pull in and get into position.
One of the cops gets on a bullhorn. “Chicago PD! Come out with your hands up!” When there’s no response from the room, he repeats his instructions.
A minute later, the motel room door opens, and Meachum walks out, her hands up in the air.
“I’m guessing this means Kramer’s dead,” I say.
“Probably,” Jake says.
Three cops rush Meachum and push her face forward against the building. Two of them hold her in place while the third cuffs her.
Two other officers, with their weapons drawn, enter the motel room.
I can hear one of them yell, “Clear!”
Another calls out, “We’ve got a 10-55!”
“Yep, he’s dead,” Jake says.
One of the officers steps outside the room. “Call the coroner.”
“That went sideways fast,” Jake says as he clasps his hand on my shoulder. “Good work, Underwood.”
* * *
After I give a statement to the police, Jake and I are excused. Meachum has already been taken away to the county jail to bebooked on a laundry list of charges. In the room, they find a suitcase full of cash, as well as Kramer’s bullet-riddled body.
