The bags were strapped together in four separate piles. Terry and I grabbed two piles apiece, shut the door, and returned to the command center, where a second team took them to the underground bank to be filled with cash.
While the money was being counted, the car population of the Ramona Rabbit Parking Lot was diminishing rapidly. Twelve tow trucks, seven large tractors, five teams of horses, and four elephants were rounded up to drag a total of 288 vehicles to the Dexter Duck Parking Lot a mile to the east. By 3:30, the black Ford van in row fourteen, space nine, stood alone.
By 4:15, the duffels were filled, packed onto a flatbed, and ready to roll.
“Should we strip down again?” Terry said to Agent Church.
“No, they said 5:00. I’m not giving it to them any earlier,” he said.
Ike Rose was standing next to the truck, his hand resting on a bag that contained $10 million. “How the hell do they think they can drive off with a Ford van full of money?” he said.
“My best guess,” Church said, “is helicopter. The e-mail said put the money in the van, then we’ll be picking it up. I think they’re going to swoop down with a cargo chopper and lift up the entire van.”
“Then maybe we made it easier for them by clearing the cars,” Ike said.
“We also made it easy for us to see what they do,” Church said. “And if they airlift it, those money wrappers will give off a signal we can track for miles. I’ve got our choppers standing by. We can tail them and still stay out of sight.”
“And what if someone just gets into the van and drives off?” Rose said.
“We’ll still follow them from the air. Sooner or later the driver’s got to deliver the money to whoever planned this whole thing. They’re smart, but they’re not that smart,” Church said. “We’ll get them.”
“From your lips,” Ike said.
At 4:40, Church turned to me and Terry and said, “Show time, boys.”
We took off our shirts. Terry got behind the wheel of the flatbed and I sat on top of one of the duffel bags. He drove at five miles an hour and pulled up behind the black Ford. I opened the rear doors.
Each bag weighed eighty pounds, so it was easier for us to both grab a handle and haul it up onto the edge of the cargo bed. “When I leave the job and go into stand-up,” Terry said, as he climbed inside and dragged the first bag to the front of the van, “this little drama is going to make great material. I don’t know what’s funny about it yet, but I’m definitely going to work it into my act.”
On the fourteenth bag, Church called out on the bullhorn. “Pick up the pace, boys. It’s ten to five.”
My shoulders, arms, and back were feeling the burn, but nobody else had to know that. We loaded faster. Also, as the van filled up, we didn’t have to drag each bag so far. We finished at 4:56, jumped into the flatbed, drove back to the command post, and put our shirts back on.
“Now we wait,” Church said.
CHAPTER 77
We didn’t wait long. At 5:02 Church got the first radio call. “Incoming chopper, two miles due west of the drop zone. He’s at nine hundred feet.”
“Positions,” Church yelled, and most of the agents took cover in the tree line at the west end of the lot, just in case the idiots in the helicopter decided to pick off cops while they were picking up the money. Ike, Brian, Terry, and I followed Church and two agents into the Winnebago.
Inside, a technician sat in front of three monitors. One camera was locked on the black van; the other two were scanning the sky. “Got him on Two,” the techie said, but none of us turned to watch the monitors. We could see the chopper through the window. He was half a mile away and closing fast.
The sky was clear and visibility was excellent. “He doesn’t care if we know who he his,” Church said. “His BuNo is plain as day.”
Sure enough, the BuNo, the FAA’s identifying serial number for all aircraft, was clearly visible on the underbelly of the blue-and-white helicopter. “November, five, eight, two, niner, Charlie,” Church said, reading it through binoculars.
The chopper was small, like one of those bubble-front traffic copters that zip up and down the freeways. “He’s not big enough,” I said. “That bird could never lift that van.”
“You’re right, he looks like a Bell Jet Ranger,” Church said. “They’re fast, but they can’t lift more than half a ton.” He grabbed a radio. “Command One to Air Support. Air One, stand by to follow the chopper. Air Two, don’t move till the van is rolling. It looks like they’re going to drop a driver.”
But the helicopter didn’t drop anybody. It buzzed right past the van and kept heading east toward Familyland.
“What the fuck?” Church said, and stepped out of the Winnebago to get a better view. We all followed him and watched as the helicopter flew directly over the theme park.
Seconds later, the sky was filled with a ribbon of yellow.
“He’s dropping leaflets,” Church said, as tens of thousands of sheets of paper fluttered in the wind. “Command One to Air One. Go, now.”
As a cop, my mind focused on the fact that if they were only dropping paper, nobody could get hurt. But as the CEO of Lamaar, Ike had a grasp on the real significance of the drop. “Those fucking motherfuckers,” he said, pounding his fist on the side of the Winnebago. “They’re going public on us.”
Brian was on the radio. “Security One to all stations. They’re dropping flyers over Sector Seven. I want to know what they say.”
The sky was now littered with flapping yellow pages. Some seemed to be defying gravity as they got caught in an updraft and rose even higher, but the bulk of them were floating slowly to the ground. The helicopter was now a speck on the horizon and fading out of sight. Air One was about a mile behind.
Curry’s radio snapped to life. “Security Twelve to Security One. Brian, it’s me, Mel Gelade. This is really sick.”
“Read it,” Brian said.
“There’s a Lamaar logo with a slash through it. Then it says Death to Lamaar and all those who associate with them. We’ve killed twelve so far, and we will continue to kill employees, customers, and all those who support Lamaar in any way. This is your only warning.”
“What’s the crowd reaction?” Brian said.
“Not many people have read it yet, but a bunch of them who have are hauling ass to the gates. A few think it’s a prank and they’re happy that the lines are getting shorter. It’s not a prank, is it?”
“No. Just a minute.” Brian turned to Ike. “White Star,” he said. Ike just nodded. Brian went back to his radio. “Security One to all stations. Operation White Star is now in effect. This is not a drill. This is the real deal. Repeat, Operation White Star is now in effect.”
Brian turned to us. “We’re closing the park,” he said. “We should have about ninety-eight percent of the visitors and half the employees off premises in an hour. White Star is designed to get people out of the park in the least amount of time with the least amount of panic.”
“When did you do your last dry run?” Church asked.
“Monday,” Brian said. “The day after the ransom note came. I was thinking that maybe I was being a little paranoid, but now I’m glad I did it.”
“I don’t get it,” Rose said. “We had a deal. They asked for the money. There it is.” He pointed to the van, which didn’t seem nearly as important as it was just minutes ago.
“It’s a vendetta,” I said. “I guess it was never about the money.”
And then a voice boomed out. It was human, but it was electronically distorted. “Good afternoon, Mr. Rose.” Somewhere, someone was talking into a voice changer and the sound was coming from a loudspeaker in the Ford van. It went on. “We didn’t keep our end of the bargain, did we?”
Ike Rose started walking toward the van. “You bastards. What the hell did I do to you?”
“You have no soul, Mr. Rose,” the voice said, echoing slightly. “No values. Your days of peddling smut are over.”
Ik
e raised a fist in the air. “You sanctimonious hypocrite. You kill my people; you break into my home and desecrate my little girl’s bedroom; and you talk to me about values?”
The only response was maniacal laughter. Then the laughter doubled and tripled into a chorus. The person operating the voice changer wanted to piss Ike off. It was working. He was livid, flushed with anger. “I paid your fucking price. What more did you want?” he yelled, still moving toward the van.
The van answered back, equally angry. “Do you really think we want money? Do you think money will stop us?”
And in that moment I knew what was about to go down. I’m sure the other cops would have figured it out. I just happened to be the first. “Take cover!” I yelled. “Get in the Winnebago! Now, now, now!”
Church and his men didn’t need to be told twice. They started running. But Ike kept advancing toward his invisible accuser, his voice and his fist raised. I grabbed him by the arm. “They don’t want the money!” I said. “Run, run!”
“Run?” Rose shrieked. “Fuck them! They’re destroying my company.”
Terry was right behind me. He grabbed Rose’s other arm. Together, the two of us dragged and shoved the hysterical CEO toward the Winnebago.
The voice on the loudspeaker continued. “Lamaar is doomed, Mr. Rose, and you’re the person responsible for sending it to its grave.”
The Feds piled into the Winnebago. Terry and I tried to push Rose in, but he smashed his shin into the metal step and started to yelp in pain.
Church’s partner, Henry Collins, who has arms that look like they were fabricated in a steel mill, reached down from inside the motor home and yanked Rose up in the air and pulled him in. I made it up the step and Terry was right behind me, shoving me through the door.
“Take cover!” I yelled. “Stay away from the windows! They’re going to…”
I didn’t get to finish my sentence. The explosion finished it for me. The van had been wired with a bomb. I caught a quick glimpse of the fireball as the van and the twenty-seven duffel bags stuffed with money blew sky high.
As my partner tumbled through the door, the blast knocked the Winnebago on its side and we slid across the macadam.
CHAPTER 78
I’ve never been shot. But in my mind I’ve always been prepared for what it would feel like to take a bullet.
This I was not prepared for.
I threw myself down and managed to get most of my upper body under the video equipment table, and immediately decided it was the wrong choice. I tried to protect my head with my hands. My ears were covered but I could still hear metal shredding, glass breaking, and Garet Church bellowing out in agony. We skidded to a stop and the horrendous sounds gave way to frightening smells. Burning electrical cables, scorched rubber, spilled gasoline.
I kicked what glass was left in the front windshield and crawled out onto Ramona Rabbit. One by one the others crawled out after me. All except Terry. I screamed his name. No answer. I crawled back in.
The motor home was on its side and Terry was lying inside a shattered window frame. His face was covered with blood that sparkled with tiny shards of glass. His arms were clutching his chest and he was gasping for air.
Like most cops I’ve had some medical training. In a post-9/11 world, we’ve become first responders. I’m a few steps up from Eagle Scout and a few notches below an EMT. The good news is I know enough to diagnose the problem. The bad news is I know just enough to make me fear the worst.
And the worst in this case was pneumothorax. Collapsed lung.
“You get hit in the chest?” I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
He grunted something that felt like yes.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I know what this is and I’m not equipped. I could hear my own heavy breathing. In my worst-case scenario, his lung was punctured; air was filling up his chest cavity with no place to escape. His lung would collapse and he would die in minutes. Come on God, don’t fuck with me. He’s got three kids. We need this man.
I put my ear to his chest. I couldn’t hear a thing. I ripped his shirt open and pressed my ear hard and flat against his skin.
“No mouth… to mouth… you homo,” he said, between shallow breaths.
“If ever in your life you stopped trying to be funny, this would be a good time, asshole!” I yelled. “Breathe, motherfucker!”
It was hard to hear what was coming from his chest, but it felt like breathing. Labored, but it sounded like his lungs were expanding and contracting. “Sit up,” I said. “This is a better position.”
He sat and I looked out through the windshield at the Ramona Rabbit Parking Lot. A few agents were on their feet. Garet Church was clutching his right shoulder and his face was contorted in pain.
A column of fire and black smoke rose up from row fourteen, space nine. Ike Rose, bleeding from a gash over his left eye, stared upwards as hundred-dollar bills swirled around the flames and dissolved into orange embers. I could hear sirens as the fire trucks and emergency vehicles headed our way.
And then my cell phone rang.
There was nobody on the planet I wanted to talk to. But I had a brother who was living under a death threat. Or it could be Diana with news about Hugo. Or maybe the Governor was just wondering how things were going on the Lamaar case. Fuck it. I let it ring a second time. And a third.
“You’re giving me… a headache,” Terry said. “Answer… the fucking… phone.”
I flipped it open. “Hello.”
“Detective Lomax?” It was a man’s voice, but I didn’t recognize it.
“Yeah, this is Lomax,” I said, as the wailing fire engines pulled up to the burning van.
“Sounds like you’re busy out there,” he said. “This is Danny Eeg calling from Woodstock. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
III.
RUN, RABBIT, RUN
CHAPTER 79
The three remaining disciples of Dean Lamaar sat quietly, absorbing the silence. As soon as Klaus Lebrecht had detonated the bomb, every microphone, camera, and electronic connection to the van was obliterated. The conversation with Ike Rose was over.
“Gentlemen,” Lebrecht said giddily. “We seem to have been disconnected.”
“Do you think he’s dead?” Kevin Kennedy said.
“I don’t know,” Lebrecht answered. “I was trying to lure him closer to the van. Then, somehow, that cop figured it out and they started running. I pushed the button as fast as I could, but the relay must be slow. Even if he’s not dead, I’ll bet he’s cut up pretty bad. There was a lot of shrapnel flying through the air.”
“And a lot of money,” Kennedy said. “A lot of fucking money.”
Lebrecht poured himself some wine from a Baccarat decanter and held his glass up in a toast. “Alea iacta est,” he said.
The others needed no translation. They’d heard it from him before. It was the phrase Julius Caesar had uttered when he led his troops across the Rubicon River and began his successful campaign to conquer Rome.
Alea iacta est. The die is cast.
“I thought the fucking die was cast when we whacked Elkins,” Kennedy said, waving off Lebrecht’s offer of wine and pouring himself more vodka. “On the other hand, if you mean we just let a quarter of a billion dollars go up in smoke and we’ll never get it back, then yeah, that die is cast. I realize it made for great theatre, but don’t tell my wife that I gave up a shitload of dough just to make a point, or this Mick will be cast. Castrated.”
“That piece-of-ass wife of yours will outlive you by fifty years and still have a small fortune left over when she dies,” Lebrecht said. “And, for the record, I have no regrets about blowing up the money. My only regret is that this is the last bottle of 1959 Gruaud Larose in my cellar.”
He poured some wine into Mitch Barber’s glass. “Alright, let’s focus on Act Three. We’ve got Sophocles in New York, Yeats in Dallas, and Cervantes is still in L.A. They’re waiting for their marching orders.”
<
br /> Barber took a sip, then swirled the Gruaud around his tongue. How did it get this far, he wondered. He was the writer who made movies with the great Dean Lamaar. And now, he was writing death threats and ransom notes.
Kennedy was an alcoholic. But Barber’s addiction took on a much more acceptable form. Workaholic. No matter how hard or how late Dean Lamaar worked, Barber worked harder and later. In part, he was driven to succeed, but mostly it was his need to constantly impress and be near the Boss.
Deanie was God. And if I can’t be God, Barber used to tell his analyst, I want to at least be recognized as the second in command. The Son of God.
“Did you hear me, Mitch?” Lebrecht said. “They’re waiting for their marching orders.”
Marching orders? We won’t be giving them orders to march. They’re waiting for their killing orders. Barber drank some more wine and spoke. “Maybe we should hold off. We’ve made the threat. Shouldn’t we wait and see what happens?“
Lebrecht’s lips pursed. “You losing your nerve, Mitch?”
“Hell, no,” Barber said quickly. “I just don’t want us to lose sight of what we’re trying to do. The objective is to put Lamaar out of business. Not to kill off their customers and employees one by one. Don’t you think a dozen fucking dead people makes a big enough statement? Let’s wait for the public reaction. Maybe killing more people is unnecessary.”
“If we quit now, it’ll be business as usual at Lamaar a month from now,” Lebrecht said. “This is war. There are going to be casualties. I made my peace with that when we started. I want to see the company die before I die. Besides, we’re only going to kill those who support Lamaar in any way. Your words Mitch, not mine. If nobody supports them, nobody gets killed.”
Kevin Kennedy refilled his glass with vodka. “Sorry Mitch,” he said. “I know where you’re coming from, but it’s too late for regrets or conscience or whatever it is that’s got you. In for a penny, in for a pound.”
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