Circle of Six Read Online Free PDF Page A

objective was to pull the wounded from location. He ran to Phil Cardillo, grabbed him underneath his arms and started to pick him up. Kenney slipped in the puddles of blood and screamed, “Someone help me get him to an RMP!” Three uniforms ran to his aid. They lifted Phil, who was fading from blood loss.
    Jimmy Kenney remembered hearing a weak moan from the cop. He'd seen downed victims before, the gray pall that crept across their face's just before they expired—Phil's babyface was slipping into that dark oblivion. “I felt myself falling into a state of shock. You have to remember, this was a cop, and it was the first time I'd witnessed another cop shot and mortally wounded.”
    He didn't care about the perps in the basement or the growing mob outside the mosque or the burning garbage flying off the rooftops at the cops below; all he cared about was getting Phil Cardillo out of harm's way. He needed to get Phil to an RMP where he could stem the bleeding and get to a hospital.
11:47 A.M .
    I was nearing Lenox Avenue. I looked above and saw as many people on the rooftops as there were down on the streets. Noise was coming from the windows to the rooftops, echoing down the streets and back onto the sidewalks and into the vast alleyways that Harlem was famous for. The entire area was wired and ready to blow—the perfect mix for absolute mayhem—something that I had witnessed before. I knew it could only get worse.
    I finally reached Lenox Avenue and 116th Street—the scene of the crime; only then was I able to place the address—Mosque Number 7. The reality of it hit me in the face. I realized the magnitude of the situation and the backlash we'd be facing. This was Minister Louis Farrakhan's militant house of worship.
    Harlem always had its share of crime—assaults, street robberies, drug dealing, shootings, murder—but the mosque had never been caught in the fray. People just knew to steer clear. If you took pushpins and marked all the criminal activity on a map of Harlem, the one empty patch would be the real estate surrounding Farrakhan's mosque.
    For example, during one Harlem protest, 800 windows had been shattered. Every business, apartment, and car had a rock fly through the glass, all except Mosque Number 7. No one dared deface it. The presence of the FOI soldiers made it clear what the repercussions would be. And as an expert on Harlem during that time, trust me when I say, the neighborhood took heed.
    This was as close to a riot as anything I'd ever seen. An army of civilians and cops absorbed all four corners of the lot in varying displays of anger. The NYPD helicopter hovered low; the womp-womp-womp of its blades swirled up dust and debris. I was momentarily transported back to a hill in Korea. I stared at the four bloodied cops being dragged and carried into an RMP or ambulance. When the crowd of onlookers saw the battered cops, they burst into a great cheer. I felt an incredible surge of anger pack into my neck. Someone would have to pay for this.
    Jimmy Kenney pulled Phil Cardillo into the RMP, slammed the doors and screamed, “Go! Go! Go! He's going out of the picture; FUCKING GO!”
    The driver of the RMP, a rookie who appeared no more than twenty-one turned and saw both cops covered in sticky blood. Before he turned back to the street, his foot instinctively slammed onto the gas pedal. The patrol car skidded off the curb, directly into the middle of the street. The car cut a wide path through the waves and waves of people. The guy didn't brake for anyone, uniformed or not. In the backseat Jimmy Kenney whispered to a cop he'd never met before. But they both wore blue, so that didn't really matter. “It's okay, Guy. You're okay. Gonna get you fixed up at St. Luke's. You're doing okay, brother.”
    Jimmy Kenney felt the young cop fall limp in his arms. He searched for the bullet hole. There were two of them running across his midsection, one from the top right of his ribcage, another from the lower