3-Edward-50, the suspects are stranded, their vehicle is disabled at Hamner and Fourth. Roll help. I need an ambulance. I’m bleeding badly.
The transmission was enough to focus Hille on the urgency of reaching the wounded deputy and getting him out of there. He took off running toward Bolasky’s unit and immediately began taking fire, bullets thudding into the dirt around him. The gunfire intensified as Hille dashed the last fifty feet to Bolasky’s unit and crouched behind it. When Hille turned his attention to Bolasky, what he saw alarmed him. There were fragments of glass embedded in his fellow deputy’s face, and blood was dripping from his chin and cheeks onto his uniform shirt. Bolasky was pale white and appeared to be slipping into shock. There was considerably more blood around Bolasky, streams and droplets in all directions, as though someone had been shooting a squirt gun full of it in random directions. Hille searched for the source and saw Bolasky gripping his left elbow.
Let me see it, Hille said. Bolasky lifted his hand off the wound and a jet of blood spurted onto Hille’s uniform. Hille gripped his hand over Bolasky’s elbow to stop the bleeding. Another tire on the Impala took a round and blew out. Bullets hit the pavement, bounced under the vehicle, and came through the frame in lethal fragments. We’ve got to find another place, Hille told Bolasky, who seemed to be growing even more disoriented. It’s not safe here.
Hille crouched low behind the Impala and eyed a row of thick-trunked eucalyptus trees lining the south side of the street just behind them. Hille reached for Bolasky’s .357. He emptied the spent rounds from the cylinder, reloaded, and pushed the gun back into Bolasky’s hand. Bolasky held the gun in his left hand while gripping his hemorrhaging elbow with his right. Let’s get to those trees, Hille said, helping Bolasky to his feet. There was the sound of more shotgun blasts and then the cracking of rifle rounds, but none of it was hitting near them. The two men took off running.
Chuck Hille did not realize the reason he and Bolasky were no longer taking fire was that the gunmen had shifted their focus to the man standing behind the open door of a Riverside County Sheriff’s patrol car pumping shotgun blasts into their midst.
ANDY DELGADO CUT HIS SIREN AND CRESTED THE RISE BETWEEN FIFTH Street and Fourth Street going seventy-five miles per hour. Where the suspects at? Delgado radioed. Bolasky had not yet reported the van disabled at Fourth and Hamner. The only thing Andy knew was that he was looking for a green van. Seconds later he saw it pulled off the road on Fourth Street just short of Hamner. There was activity about the vehicle. Andy tried to take it all in. Figures darted out from behind the vehicle and disappeared again. Two came to the front. There appeared to be someone still behind the wheel and another standing directly outside the driver’s door. Yet another stood between the open side cargo doors and a chain-link fence unloading what looked like duffel bags. Andy began to hear gunfire, so much that he assumed it must be automatic weapons fire.
When he got close enough, Andy saw they were all wearing military jackets and black ski masks and holding military-type rifles. Delgado’s initial thought was that he might be facing a band of Middle Eastern terrorists. After all, more than sixty Americans were still being held hostage in Iran, and others had died just two weeks before trying to free them in a military raid. Video footage of mobs chanting “Death to America!” had become a staple of nightly news coverage.
Andy sized up the situation but it was impossible to get a definitive count because they were constantly moving. Four to six of them, he estimated. He swung his patrol unit into the empty northbound lanes and angled it toward the side of the road, bringing it to a stop at a forty-five-degree angle at the curb fifty yards short of the intersection. Now he could see more clearly what the men at the front of the van were doing. Three of them were taking turns stepping out from behind the van to fire down Fourth Street, where Bolasky must be. Delgado immediately recognized it as a variation on a military tactic called an Australian peel. Now these guys really did look the part of a terrorist gang: well armed and well trained.
Delgado exited his vehicle with his shotgun and stood behind the V of his open driver’s door. He knew right away that he was at the effective range limit for a shotgun. Andy was a pretty good shot with a long gun and figured even with a wide spray pattern from that distance he could land a pellet or two on at least one of them.
There was another factor Delgado needed to take into account: There were people everywhere now. Vehicles were backed up fifty yards deep on Hamner in both directions. Motorists were out of their cars trying to figure out just what the hell was going on. Gawkers streamed from the Carl’s Jr. or wandered across the Stater Bros. parking lot to see what all the commotion was about. Andy estimated close to fifty civilians in the immediate area. With buckshot spreading out wider and wider, he could easily cause collateral damage if he was not careful. But for the moment, Andy’s field of fire was free of civilians.
Andy lifted the Wingmaster shotgun over the top of the open door of his patrol car and unloaded three rounds of buckshot. The result was . . . nothing. Or at least nothing that he could see.
In reality, Andy had hit three of the four bank robbers in his initial volley. One pellet grazed the back of Chris Harven’s neck. One inch over and he might have suffered a fate similar to that of Billy Delgado. When Russell Harven turned toward the source of the shotgun blasts, he felt a burning sensation in his scalp, like a cat clawing at his head. A shot of buck had burrowed under his scalp at the hairline and tunneled its way beneath the tissue all the way to the back of his head without penetrating the skull or resurfacing. Still, the force of the tiny pellet felt like a blow from the small end of a ball-peen hammer, staggering and dizzying him.
It was the shot Andy fired in the direction of the man offloading duffel bags from the side cargo door of the van that did the most damage. With a spread pattern almost six feet in diameter from a distance of fifty yards, the blast from Andy’s modified-choke Wingmaster haloed George Smith in buckshot, rattling pellets off the thick exterior of the van. Two shots of the #4 buck found their target. Turned in profile while dropping a bag onto the horse trail, George felt something dig into the meat of the inside of his left leg, up high in the groin area. Simultaneously, a second struck the outside of his right thigh, coming to rest deep inside the tissue of his buttocks. In the midst of an adrenaline surge, George did not realize he had been shot until he felt the warm wetness spreading down his inner thigh. He saw the dark stain of blood and immediately recognized that his situation had just gone from dire to hopeless.
Andy was surprised to hear the scene grow momentarily silent. Maybe he had hit one or two of them, but why was there no gunfire coming from Bolasky and Hille? He took advantage of the break and fired the last round he had left in the Wingmaster.
The moment he was down again behind the door, the gunfire returned. This time it was aimed at him. The first two bullets ripped into Andy Delgado’s vehicle, one in the hood on the driver’s side and another in the molding at the roof line. A third hit the pavement, sending fragments through the open door he was using for cover as though it were nothing more than a shower curtain. That’s when the fear began to grip him. For all his military and police training and six years on the streets, he had never been shot at. He never dreamed it would be anything like this.
CHRIS AND RUSSELL HARVEN WERE THROUGH BEING SITTING DUCKS. RUSS moved to a position on the driver’s side of the van for protection, peeking around to fire shots in the direction of the cop who had just put a shotgun pellet under his scalp. Chris lay prone on the pavement, sighting over the barrel of the gun, reeling a dozen rounds at Andy Delgado’s radio car. He rolled to his right, ejected the banana clip, flipped it over, and locked a fresh one into the magazine port.
Andy had six more shotgun shells in a stock sling strapped to the butt end of the gun. He slipped out two loads of buckshot and a rifled slug—a one-ounce monster chunk of lead the size of a Civil War Minié ball. He pushed them into the magazine port on the belly
of the gun. Over the gunfire, he heard the radio transmissions from Bolasky that he had an artery hit and was bleeding badly. That explained why Bolasky was no longer laying down fire on the suspects. He had heard Hille report being fired on while driving into the scene but nothing from him over the radio since. Hopefully he was still in the fight, pinning these bastards down in a cross fire.
Andy racked the first shell into the chamber, stood, and fired off both rounds of buckshot. In the process, he caught sight of the two men who had been at the front of the van. One stepped out from behind the van and leveled a rifle at Andy. The other was lying prone in the road in a sharpshooter position. Andy saw the muzzle smoke and there was an explosion of gunfire. He threw himself to the ground. Rounds struck the pavement and the side mirror on the driver’s door shattered, the frame around it exploding. Fragments erupted from out of the dashboard inside the vehicle just to his right.
There were a few more seconds of silence and a terrible feeling came over Andy. He could sense he was alone, that Hille was no longer firing either. There was no way out for him now. He fought back the urge to turn and run, the emotions rising up in him. An image of his seven-year-old daughter flashed through his mind and then one of Darrell Creed telling him to keep fighting.
Andy stood and fired his seventh round, the rifled slug, missing the suspects and punching a hole in the side of the bank building. He ducked down again, no longer taking the time to assess the effects of his fire. He pushed his last three shells into the magazine port. He would have preferred them all to be buckshot, but all he had left was one buck and two slugs. He heard the desperate voice of Glyn Bolasky come over the radio for the last time.
Roll anyone, CPD, we got to get people out of here. We need to block the freeway at—
Another officer stepped on Bolasky’s transmission and Andy could not make out the rest of it. The radio crackled with transmission from sheriff’s units responding to the scene. A chorus of sirens swelled in the distance. Andy stood and fired two more rounds and went back down. All he had now was one slug and his .38 revolver. He set the shotgun to the side, drew the six-shooter, and waited.
GEORGE SMITH WAS DIZZY WITH PAIN AND WANTED TO VOMIT. HE KNELT down and gripped his leg to stop the bleeding, but the blood just oozed between his fingers. There were two more shotgun blasts from the north on Hamner and pellets struck the van again, this time high, near the roof. He let go of his leg and threw three of the duffel bags to the rear of the van, took his Heckler, and limped after them. He eyed the sheriff’s unit in the middle of the road on Fourth Street but there was no sign of anyone. That guy’s probably dead too, just like the one in the cabinet in back. The whole plan had fallen apart. They had stayed in the bank too long.
George looked toward Hamner and saw Manny Delgado standing by the driver’s door holding the riot gun. He had thrown off his mask and poncho. I’m hit, George yelled at him. Help me with these bags. Manny came back and lifted one by the strap and slung it over his shoulder. He took the other two and carried them to the other side of the van. George followed. Take a bag, he yelled to Chris and Russell Harven. The two fired a few more rounds in the direction of Andy Delgado and then each took up a duffel bag. Fan out, George ordered, pointing toward the two lines of cars backed up at the light south on Hamner. We need another vehicle.
The three men spread out and moved toward the lines of cars, the Harvens with assault rifles tucked under their arms, Manny with the riot gun at his hip. The scene at Fourth and Hamner became one of total madness as masked and heavily armed men descended on the trapped motorists, menacingly swinging high-powered rifles, approaching windows and looking in, sending drivers and passengers, including children, running for their lives. Terrified onlookers fled back into the Carl’s Jr., Murphy’s Hay & Grain, and Redlands Federal Savings Bank, where some crawled beneath desks or dove for shelter behind the teller line. A large woman ran screaming south down Hamner and into the parking lot of the Century 21 Real Estate office that shared the building with the bank. An agent named Jim Lyon ran out and grabbed her and dragged her into the office. Other bystanders followed as they ran from the men with the guns.
At that moment, George Smith and Andy Delgado shared the common belief that they were going to die. Smith was no longer afraid as he flipped the jungle clip at the bottom of the Heckler .308, locked in a fresh forty-round magazine, and limped out into the middle of the intersection. Once there, he calmly surveyed the area, people fleeing in all directions. He looked down Fourth Street, but there was still no movement there. He turned and looked up Hamner and saw the deputy who had shot him couched behind the door of his sheriff’s unit. Smith raised the .308 to his hip and began to fire.
ONE HUNDRED FEET DOWN FOURTH STREET, CHUCK HILLE COULD SEE THAT the short sprint to the eucalyptus trees had taken a toll on Glyn Bolasky, but they were still not out of danger. If the gunmen chose to leave the scene by way of Sierra Avenue, they would pass right by their position. We’re going to have to move again, he told Bolasky. Over there, behind that house.
When they stood up to make their move, a man was running at them from the direction of the intersection. Get down, get down! Bolasky screamed at the man. Hille reached for his gun but then saw that the man was just a bystander running for his life, shirt unbuttoned and flapping behind him. Hit the ground! Bolasky screamed. This time the guy did, diving facedown onto the dirt and making himself as flat as possible.
Shaken, the two deputies darted the ten yards behind a small stucco house. Hille could see he would need to retrieve his patrol car from the other side of Fourth Street and come back to pick up the wounded deputy. After checking with Bolasky, he ran back to the eucalyptus tree, checked the street, and spotted one of the gunmen for the first time. A lone figure stood directly in the center of the wide intersection of Fourth and Hamner. The man was wearing a ski mask and a long military-green duster, pants tucked into his boots. In his hand was a rifle, the stock resting on his hip, the barrel straight out at a ninety-degree angle aimed at something north on Hamner Avenue.
For a second time, Hille crossed the field of fire to his unit at the far end of the dirt lot. He could hear sporadic gunfire but had no idea if any of it was aimed at him. Reaching his patrol unit, Hille swung a big looping U-turn, crossed the dirt lot and Fourth Street, jumped the curb, threaded between two eucalyptus trees, and pulled up to Bolasky’s location behind the house. He jumped out and swung open the rear door. Get in, Hille yelled.
I’m not getting into the cage, Bolasky protested, referring to the fenced-in back seat area usually reserved for suspects.
Is he fucking kidding me? Hille thought. You’ve got to get in now!
There was the sound of another burst of gunfire. Bolasky dove into the back seat, and Hille took off east on Fourth, away from the intersection. He drove as far as he could over the front lawns until a drainage canal blocked his way and forced him back onto the asphalt road. Hille made the final stretch and turned right onto Sierra, out of the line of fire. Only then did Hille glance back and notice that the back door of the patrol unit was still wide open and Bolasky’s legs were hanging out. Hille brought the unit to a stop and helped Bolasky climb the rest of the way inside. Hille aimed his vehicle south on Sierra focused on a single task: get Glyn Bolasky to Corona Community Hospital before he bled out in the back seat of an RSO patrol unit.
HOLDING HIS REVOLVER, ANDY DELGADO PEEKED OVER THE DOOR TO HIS PATROL unit. The intersection had erupted into chaos with people running everywhere. The cars on his side of Hamner were now backed up evenly with his position on the opposite side of the road. He scanned the scene for suspects and saw two walking between the rows of cars. Where were the rest? There were just too many goddamn people, too many independent situations developing at once to figure it all out. He saw the driver of a tan Cadillac jerked out of the car and thrown to the pavement before running away. Or had the man simply fallen trying to get away and the other guy was helping him up? Out of the corner of hi
s eye someone ran toward the feed store to his left and disappeared inside. Who the hell was that? More were fleeing into the Carl’s Jr. and toward the bank parking lot. Were any of those suspects?
Andy could hardly believe what he saw next. A tall man in a ski mask and military-green duster, pants tucked into black boots, came out from behind the van and walked, no, strolled out to the very center of the busiest intersection in Norco. The man positioned himself right where a traffic cop might stand and coolly surveyed the area. Andy could tell by the way the man stood there in the wide open, flat-footed and unafraid, that he was the leader of the group. No question. The man did not look at all concerned that it had come down to a firefight.
The man turned toward Andy, lifted the assault rifle to his hip, and began firing. The first two rounds struck Andy’s patrol unit with such force that the entire vehicle seemed to shudder from the impact. One round entered through the grill, passed through the radiator, slammed into the engine block, and fragmented. Shards of lead and copper cut the hood cable in half and passed though the dashboard and into the interior of the vehicle.
Delgado lay on the ground as more rounds cracked the sky above him and struck the road in front of him, spraying the area with a lethal mix of asphalt, lead, and copper. This is it, Andy thought. This is where it all ends.
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