by Sean Black
To draw fire away from the rookie, Lock squeezed off a shot over the top of the patrol car toward the driver of the Mustang. His features were obscured by a full-face mask, but he was tall and white, with lank brown hair that feathered out from the sides of the mask. From the way he was behaving, calm and full of easy purpose, he was either high on something or this wasn’t his first rodeo. From the way he held the gun in his hand, Lock would have said the latter.
Lock’s shot was on line, but high. He’d had to build in a safety margin to avoid hitting the rookie. Aim much lower and he risked catching her if she decided to stand up. Trying to explain why he’d shot a cop, even by accident, didn’t figure on his must-do list for this year or any other.
There was no question in his mind what the driver planned on doing. He needed to move the patrol car. But he wasn’t going to leave a bleeding cop on the ground holding a gun while he stepped over him and into the front. He’d kill them both, then back up the patrol car.
The rookie seemed to figure that too. She was inching away as she returned fire. The drive for self-preservation was powerful. The problem was that once she cleared the rear of the patrol car she’d be wide open to both shooters.
There was a series of heavy concrete pylons set about forty feet apart behind her. If she could make it to one of those, she’d be in good shape. What she needed, if she was going to stand a chance, was someone to distract the two shooters.
Doing his best to stay low, Lock half duck-walked, and half ran, in a wide sweeping loop behind his Audi. As he moved he squeezed off two more shots. One for each shooter.
Taking her cue, the rookie turned and sprinted for one of the pylons: a blur of ass and elbows. Fresh rounds from the shooter in the trunk peppered the ground behind her heels. One round must have ricocheted up from the concrete and caught her because she let out a grunt and fell forward. Her arms windmilled as she tried to stay upright and keep moving.
She finally lost balance and went over a few yards short of the nearest pylon.
Meanwhile, the masked driver had reached the patrol car. He stood where he’d seen the older cop laid out. Lock knew what was coming. So did the cop. But neither of them could do anything to stop it.
Desperate to stop an execution, Lock squeezed off another distraction round. But the driver had ducked so that his head was below the sill of the patrol car and he had no angle.
There was a single shot. Then, for the first time in a minute, there was silence. Apart from the persistent ringing in his ears that he still couldn’t clear.
Lock watched as the barrel that had been poking from the trunk of the Mustang was pulled back inside. The driver was already scrambling through the open door of the patrol car. There was a rumble as he started the engine.
He hit the gas and the patrol car lurched backwards. He must have turned the wheel because Lock heard a soft crunch as the patrol car reversed over the dead officer, several thousand pounds of metal making sure that the job was truly done.
A short distance away, the rookie was still down. Somehow, she’d held onto her gun. Her other arm grasped her calf, blood oozing from her pant leg as she dragged herself toward the safety of the pylon.
The patrol car kept moving back. Picking up speed until it was flat out in reverse. The driver was headed toward where the injured rookie was crawling the last few feet toward the concrete pylon.
Lock broke cover. He ran into the open, fell back into a shooting stance, his feet a little wider this time, and pulled the trigger of the SIG twice in quick succession, sending two fast shots toward the front windshield of the patrol car.
As soon as he’d taken aim, the driver’s mask had disappeared from sight as he’d ducked down. Lucky for him. Lock’s first shot missed, but the second slammed through the windshield dead center to where the driver’s head had been a moment before.
The spray of glass into the cabin was enough to fractionally loosen the driver’s grip on the steering wheel. The patrol car spun off course, the tires squealing against the floor as it went into a slide and came to a stop, side on to where Lock was standing.
Lock threw himself to the ground again as the driver’s head popped back up. The driver leveled his weapon through the open passenger door and fired at him. The round ricocheted behind him.
The rookie had made it to the thick concrete support, a slick trail of blood tracing the final few yards of her journey. If she stayed put, and they didn’t go hunt her down, she’d be safe where she was.
Not that he could be certain, the ringing in his ears seemed to have switched up a notch in volume, but Lock thought he heard the whoop of sirens down below at street level. Bad news for the two men in the Mustang.
Parking structures like this one were, by definition, easy to seal off. Their purpose was to securely contain hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of vehicles. That meant being able to control and monitor access, with heavy-duty barriers and elevated concrete lips to make sure you didn’t drive round a barrier, and cameras to make sure everyone entering and leaving was recorded for posterity.
The gunman driving the patrol car must have heard them too and taken the vehicle out of reverse because it lurched violently forward. The Mustang roared and backed up, turned and headed forward.
Both vehicles came to a stop in the middle of the parking area. The drivers sat parallel to each other as they conferred. Lock could hear them shouting, but couldn’t make out the words for the buzzing in his head.
For a second he thought about firing toward them again, then decided against it. Help was on the way and the last thing he needed was some gung-ho SWAT team member taking him out because they had him down as one of the bad guys.
Instead he sprinted for the area immediately behind the pylon where the wounded rookie was. As he ran, he caught a flash of movement as the guy in the patrol car bailed out and clambered into the passenger seat of the Mustang. Before he’d even closed the door, the Mustang was on the move. It spun round in a narrow turn, and made its way toward the exit ramp.
This time Lock got a better look at both driver and passenger, although their faces were hidden by masks. What struck him again was how in control they were. Even hardened criminals would appear jittery and hyped-up, having just murdered a cop and shot a second. But these two seemed perfectly in control.
The driver sat back in his seat, his movements precise as he drove toward the down ramp. Next to him the passenger had some kind of long gun tucked between his legs, the barrel pointed toward the roof. His right hand reached over to the left collar of his jacket as he keyed a mic and spoke into it. Lock glimpsed something clipped to the front of both their shirts.
As the Mustang’s front windshield passed under a set of strip lights, two pieces of glass on the front of each man’s chest twinkled. Tiny camera lenses. Both men were wearing body cams.
Lock tracked the path of the Mustang through the iron sights of his SIG. At any moment they could turn and come back, finish off the rookie and take her out.
They didn’t. They kept moving for the exit, no doubt aware that their escape was now time-critical. The sirens grew louder.
Kneeling down, he turned his attention to the young rookie cop. She was breathing hard, fighting for air. From what he could see she hadn’t taken a shot to the chest, so her breathing was likely a result of panic more than a punctured lung or something equally deadly.
At the same time, reaction to being shot was critical. You needed some kind of fear response to damp down the pain and keep you conscious. But if your body overreacted—or, rather, you allowed it to—you could quickly find yourself in the exact deep trouble you needed to avoid.
“They’re leaving. It’s going to be okay,” he told her.
Her eyelids fluttered. Her pupils were wide, her skin flushed and clammy. None of those was a good sign.
“What’s your name?” He needed to gauge her level of response, and if he could shift her mind away from the panic she was feeling. If he could do that then her body j
ust might follow.
“Officer . . .” she began, before taking a big gulp of air. Tears had formed in the corners of her eyes.
“No, your first name. What’s your first name?”
She swallowed hard. Blood was still pooling around her, but as far as he could tell it had slowed. That was about as good a sign as he could hope for right now.
“Monique,” she said, struggling to get it out.
“Okay, Monique, you want some real good news?”
That almost drew a smile. “There’s good news?” Every syllable was a struggle to get out. The pain was kicking in as her body’s initial hormonal response subsided.
Lock nodded. “You’ve been shot, but the medics are going to be here any second, and in the meantime you have a military-grade trauma medic here who’s going to make sure you keep stable until then. So, you’re covered.”
That seemed to get through. As he spoke, careful to keep his voice low and calm, her breathing had returned to some semblance of normality.
“Mike. How’s Mike?”
He guessed that was her partner. The question wasn’t one he wanted to give her a truthful answer to. He dodged it. Not lying, but not being wholly truthful either. “We’re going to make sure he’s taken care of too.” He reached back to his belt loop and grabbed his Gerber. He flipped open the knife. “Okay, Monique, I’m going to cut away your pants leg where you were clipped. I need to see what we have, and put some pressure on to slow down the bleeding.”
A flash of red lights near the exit ramp took his attention. The Mustang was reversing back up the ramp at speed. It wobbled and the rear passenger side bounced off the edge of the ramp. It kept moving, going flat out in reverse until it had cleared the narrow confines of the exit.
As the driver of the Mustang spun the wheel hard, the car flipped direction 180 degrees. It was a perfectly executed evasion move. As Lock watched it, he dropped his Gerber and unholstered his SIG again, just in case. The more he saw of these guys, the more he was being drawn to one conclusion. They weren’t gangsters, they were professionals. Military professionals. Or at least military trained.
Down by his side, Monique was struggling to sit up, curiosity and fear getting the better of her. “Take it easy,” he told her. “That’s the medics getting here now,” he lied. If anything he needed her leg elevated, not her upper body.
At the top of the exit ramp, the reason for the Mustang’s reappearance became clear as the red roll bar of a newly arrived patrol car crested the rise.
The Mustang was still on the move, headed in Lock’s direction. He stayed crouched and raised the SIG. His index finger moved from the side of the gun to the trigger. It was his turn to breathe slow as he got ready to fire.
At the last second, just as he had the Mustang in his sights, it spun around again. Sparks flew from under the vehicle as the handbrake squealed. Another change of direction—this time it was headed for the pedestrian exit. The exit that led toward Carmen’s office building.
He placed his SIG on the floor, and dug out his cell phone as gunfire barked from the Mustang, two patrol cars roaring from both entrance and exit and coming to a stop, one next to Lock and the fallen rookie, the other following the Mustang.
Both of the Mustang’s front doors popped open. Driver and passenger bailed, each man with a black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. In their hands they cradled a machine pistol and what looked like an AR15 respectively.
Knowing what was likely to come next from the arriving LAPD units, he tapped on Carmen’s name to make the call, hit the speaker button so that he could talk hands-free, and placed the cell phone on the floor next to his gun.
The patrol car that had gone after the two gunmen had stopped face on toward the pedestrian walkway. The guy holding the machine pistol pivoted around and squeezed off a lightning-fast spray toward his pursuers. The two cops in the patrol car ducked down. The machine-pistol guy sprinted toward his buddy, who had already pushed through the doors leading to the walkway.
Meanwhile, the other patrol car had stopped side on to where Lock was still crouched next to Monique. Both cops drew down on him. He made sure to keep his hands up nice and high, fingers spread, palms turned toward them so they could see he wasn’t holding anything.
His eyes drifted to the cell-phone screen as the call connected and he prayed that Carmen would pick up.
One of the cops moved out from the patrol car, his partner’s gun pointed straight at him. Still no response from Carmen. He looked back in the direction of the walkway. The two pursuing patrol cops had slowed up, not wanting to push through the doors in case a fresh burst from the machine pistol lay on the other side. He didn’t blame them.
Behind him, more LAPD and emergency vehicles were pouring up both ramps and onto the level.
Keeping his arms high, he risked a response. “I called these guys in,” he told the cop, who was closing in on him.
Slowly, the cop lowered his weapon.
“She took a single shot to the leg,” continued Lock, “you need to get an EMS over here right now.”
12
Point, the taller of the two gunmen, sprinted down the walkway, staying ahead of his buddy, Rance. Everyone who met him thought Point was a nickname, given to him because he was always the man out in front—the man on point, the tip of the spear. But it was his actual name.
From the open walkway linking the parking garage to the offices, he could see that the LAPD had closed the block to traffic. The cops’ ability to control traffic flow from a central command point by accessing downtown’s stop lights had come up on the briefing. Not that Point had ever anticipated having to deal with it—after all, this had been slated as a standard surveillance operation, not the main event.
But what was that saying about a plan never surviving first contact with the enemy? Lock following them and calling the cops, then the cops blocking their escape hadn’t been part of the plan either. But, thought Point, as he jogged toward the office building’s glass-fronted reception area, it may just have proved to be a blessing in disguise. Their hand had been forced. They might as well take care of the real business now. Because, with Lock on the prowl, they weren’t ever likely to get another bite at the cherry.
Point stopped and half turned as Rance squeezed off a fresh burst from the machine pistol. A couple of cops had assembled on the parking-structure end of the walkway they’d just come through. The cops hunkered down, and quickly drew back from the incoming rounds.
They weren’t going to play hero, Point figured. Not after seeing one of their own laid out dead back there. They’d cordon off the area and wait for the SWAT team to deploy. Which was why he and Rance needed to move fast on this extraction. Get in, grab the package, and get the hell out of Dodge before things really went south.
Point came up on the reception area. Rance was three feet behind, laying down single shots of cover whenever he saw any blue. This part of the building’s reception was glass-fronted.
Point could see all the way inside to a long reception desk and, off to one side, a bank of four elevators. In front of the reception desk there was a seating area, with several black leather couches and a coffee table with magazines laid out on the surface.
Usually there would be a security guard behind the desk, even this late on a Sunday. He could control entry by pressing a button on the desk. He’d either already taken off or he was hiding. No matter, thought Point, as he raised his modified AR15 and fired a sharp series of rounds into the door.
The glass shattered on impact. Point raised his boot, kicked out some of the loose shards, and stepped through what was left of the door. He walked straight to the desk, skirted round, and came upon the security guard hunkered behind it. The man had his arms wrapped around his head, and his eyes firmly closed.
Point jabbed the guard’s shoulder with the barrel of his weapon. “Wakey, wakey. Playing possum with us is only gonna get you killed.”
The guard opened his eyes.
&
nbsp; “Up onto your feet,” said Point, hooking the barrel under the guard’s armpit and using it to lever him upright.
Rance was standing in front of the desk, facing the walkway, the machine pistol aimed outside.
The guard rose. Point pulled out his cell phone, tapped it three times. He held up the screen to the guard’s face. “This woman here. You’re going to find her for us. You don’t and I kill you. You do, and I let you live.”
The guard nodded. He was shaking so badly he was barely able to stand. “Seventh floor,” he said, his voice breaking.
“Okay,” Point told him. “You take us to her.”
The guard shook his head. “I can’t. She already left.”
“Bullshit,” said Point.
“Yes,” the guard said. “She heard the firing,” he added, with a nod toward the parking structure. “She got scared, and she left.”
Point took a step back and studied the man’s face. His eyes were cast down at the floor. He swallowed so hard that Point could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. Point had enough experience to know a liar, especially when he had them at the end of his gun.
“Well, ain’t that bad news for you,” said Point, pulling out his side arm, raising it, pressing the business end into the middle of the guard’s forehead and pulling the trigger once.
The bullet went in clean, and out messy, spattering blood, shards of skull and pink lumps of brain over the floor and reception desk. The man’s body slumped slowly at first. Then gravity took over and he fell with a thud, legs and arms twisted, like the edge of a jigsaw piece.
Point started toward the elevators. “You stay here. Catch her if she comes through. We get any visitors, just holler.”
Rance strode behind the desk, and sat himself down in the guard’s chair. Something must have caught his eye because he waved Point back to the desk. “Looky here.”
An elevator door opened. Point stepped in, pulled out the alarm stop so that it would stay where it was, then jogged back behind the desk to join Rance.