by Mark Terry
Derek blinked back the memories and struggled to bring his heart rate down. Not now, he thought.
O’Reilly gripped his bicep. “What’s wrong?”
He struggled for air. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Nothing. Where the hell is he going?”
Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad in the white Cadillac was turning off Del Mar Boulevard onto Orange Grove Boulevard. Trying to ignore his body and mind’s rebellions, Derek glimpsed the black SUV in the rearview. “Damn, we’ve got a tail.” At least, he thought so. It was tough tailing somebody in the dark.
O’Reilly got on the phone. “Jon, where are you?”
After a moment’s silence, she said, “We’re coming up on the Pasadena Museum of History. We’re being followed. That’s fine, but can you get in behind him? Good. I’ll keep the line open.”
To Derek she said, “Concentrate on Sheik Muhammad.”
• • •
Sheik Muhammad, talking into his cell phone to his assistant Sayid Zaheer Abbas, said, “That’s them, in the Nissan Pathfinder, right?”
“Yes. They did a U-turn and followed you.”
Sheik Muhammad cursed. He thought for a moment. “I’ll just drive around for a while. Let me think of something to do.”
“I’ll be here.”
Jon Welch, in a Ford Taurus supplied by the local bureau, roared onto Fair Oaks and sped north. He hoped to intercept them on Walnut Street by the Old Pasadena Courtyard by Marriot if they turned onto Walnut; if they kept going on Orange Grove he could try to follow or intercept farther north.
Welch, sweating lightly in his summer-weight suit, felt like he had joined a play toward the end of the second act. He had thought O’Reilly was a totally by-the-book agent, so he was shocked to find that she and Shelly had been playing cowboy. But he’d be damned happy to defend their actions if they could be the ones to snatch Kalakar.
O’Reilly’s voice in his ear: “Jon, he’s turning east onto Walnut Street.”
“I’m on it.”
Derek’s fingers felt stripped of flesh, as if only his bones clung to the steering wheel. His heartbeat hammered in his ears.
O’Reilly’s voice seemed distant. “Derek? Are you all right?”
“Water?”
She scrounged through her Go Pack and handed him a bottle of water. Unscrewing the cap, he took a deep gulp, feeling a little better. As the white Cadillac turned the corner by the Pasadena Museum of History, Derek said, “We’re blown.”
“Just drive. We can always drag him in for questioning if we have to.”
The Pasadena Museum of History was in a beautiful white mansion, Edwardian in design, on about two acres of manicured grass, palms, and ornamental trees. The grounds were flooded with dramatic lighting: the building appeared to glow. Sheik Muhammad seemed to be heading toward Old Pasadena, or perhaps the Playhouse District. Traffic was dense and slow.
O’Reilly studied a map on the GPS. “Stay on him. We’re coming up on a big junction where one thirty-four crosses two ten. He’s got a lot of options there.”
Derek nodded. He sucked in deep breaths, trying to calm his nerves. His stomach churned.
Sayid Abbas, behind the Pathfinder, heard Sheik Muhammad say, “I’m getting on the two ten north. Follow me on. We’ve got to get rid of these people. I can’t miss this meeting with Kalakar. Here’s what I want you to do.”
Sayid Abbas listened, nodding. When the imam was finished, Abbas leaned over and snapped open his briefcase, which lay on the passenger seat. He slid out his pride and joy, a Brugger & Thomet MP-9. It was considered to be the most compact machine pistol in the world, only thirty centimeters long with its stock collapsed.
Derek watched the imam’s white Cadillac turn onto the ramp to the 210 and followed. Behind him, the Mercedes turned onto the ramp as well.
O’Reilly was on the phone, giving Jon Welch directions. The imam got in the right lane heading north, took it up to sixty-five miles per hour and stayed there. Clouds were starting to roll in from the west and night had completely fallen. Derek knew it would be hard to track the car in the dark.
He also had a bad feeling about things. To O’Reilly he said, “Tell Welch to get his ass in gear. I think—”
Sayid Abbas stomped on the gas. The Mercedes’s V-8 engine chuckled with throaty power and the SUV surged ahead. Within moments he was alongside the Nissan Pathfinder. The driver glanced over at him. The passenger, a blonde woman, was talking.
Sayid Abbas floored it. The Mercedes SUV roared forward. He pulled ahead of the Pathfinder, then cut in, slamming his brakes.
Derek didn’t finish his thoughts. The black SUV was alongside him. Glancing over, he saw the driver staring at him. Then the Mercedes leapt ahead.
O’Reilly said, “What the—”
Sweat rolled down Derek’s forehead. A high-pitched tone whined in his ears. He fought to focus on the now and push aside his panic attack. He felt slow and unresponsive. Something was going—
He slammed his foot to the floorboards, brakes shrieking like a wounded animal. O’Reilly cursed, clutching the armrest. Derek’s elbows locked, fighting the steering wheel, the black SUV skidding to a halt in front of them.
Jerking the wheel, he slid onto the shoulder. Behind him the sound of horns and brakes squealed.
They hit the guardrail. The Pathfinder shuddered and groaned. The sound of metal on metal split the air.
O’Reilly started to say something, but Derek reached out, caught her by the collar and slammed her sideways and down, leaning on top of her.
“Derek—”
The windshield exploded above their heads. Squares of safety glass filled the car, falling on their shoulders. The rattle of automatic weapons fire chattered around them. The SUV seemed filled with buzzing wasps.
Derek reached for his gun. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
O’Reilly, still sprawled on the seat, kicked out at her door. “We’re up against the guardrail. It’ll have to be on your side.”
Which was the side facing the shooter.
“Out the back! Hurry! I’ll cover! On three. One.” He gripped the door handle with his left hand, his Colt in his right. “Two.”
Now out of the Mercedes, Sayid Abbas tossed aside the empty clip and slammed in another. The MP-9 could fire two hundred rounds a minute. The Pathfinder’s windows were blown out, the front grill and hood and front left quarter-panel pocked with bullet holes. He doubted they were still alive. Yet—
Derek said, “Three!” and kicked the door open. He rolled out, slamming to the hard ground littered with safety glass. He vaguely heard O’Reilly scrambling over the seats into the back of the Pathfinder.
Continuing to roll, he aimed at the shooter, firing his Colt. The screech of tires rent the air.
• • •
Jon Welch blasted the Ford Taurus up and onto the 210. The cell phone pressed to his ear, he heard O’Reilly’s voice cut out, followed by what sounded like a small explosion, cursing, then bumping and thumping as the phone fell—then the ominous sound of gunfire, like firecrackers over the cell phone connection.
The 210 looked like a parking lot. People were even climbing out of their vehicles to see what was going on. “Fucking idiots!” he snarled and veered over to the shoulder and began to weave around traffic.
Derek was certain he had hit the shooter. The dark-skinned man had bucked backward as if struck by a bullet. But Derek hadn’t killed him. He was still coming.
Continuing his roll, Derek came up on his feet, firing as he ran. Behind him he heard more gunfire: O’Reilly, out of the Pathfinder.
The shooter seemed to take a deep breath. He was a good thirty-five feet away. It wasn’t that easy to hit a moving target in the dark at that distance with a handgun, but Derek was sure he had hit him at least once. But the shooter was still upright, bringing the machine pistol around.
O’Reilly screamed, “Get down! Derek—”
Derek felt something clip his skull, followed almost si
multaneously by the roar of gunfire. He was falling—
Sayid Abbas swept the barrel of the MP-9 toward the Pathfinder. The door exploded outward and he saw movement. But he also saw something toward the back of the vehicle. He couldn’t hear the rounds being fired at him over the sound of his machine pistol, but he felt something strike his left shoulder and he jolted backward.
In the glow of distant headlights, he saw moisture on his shirt. Touching his chest, he felt hot, sticky liquid. He had been shot.
Turning his attention back to the Pathfinder, he sprayed the car again. Another shot struck him. He dropped to his knees. He felt cold. Weak. Pain radiated from his shoulder, from his hip. He glimpsed the driver of the Pathfinder, rolling onto his feet.
Struggling to bring the MP-9 around, he let off a burst. He could barely control the gun. The recoil forced his arm upward. He tried to drag in air. Praise be Allah, he thought. “Allah is great,” he muttered.
The rumble of an engine caught his attention. Turning, he saw the headlights of a fast-moving car veer off the shoulder and race directly toward him.
O’Reilly saw Derek fall. She sprinted out from her cover behind the Pathfinder toward him. The shooter fired again, just one burst, and something bit at her arm. She staggered, returned fire, kept going. Off to her left headlights approached fast. It was going to run over both her and Derek.
“Derek!”
He didn’t budge. He was crumpled in the road.
Springing toward him, she caught him by the shoulder and heaving with all her strength, rolled backward, bringing Derek’s limp body with her.
The car, a Ford Taurus, clipped her and sent her and Derek tumbling to the pavement. The shooter, on his knees, raised his gun and fired a long burst directly into the Ford. It didn’t stop the Taurus. It plowed right into the shooter, driving him back into the side of the black Mercedes SUV, crushing him between the two vehicles with a low-pitched crunch.
O’Reilly clutched Derek to her. There was blood everywhere, but she wasn’t sure where it was coming from. He groaned. Alive!
She shook him gently. “Derek! Derek, speak to me!”
He opened his eyes and held a hand to his head. She saw the blood was coming from a groove in his scalp, just over his left brow. “You got lucky,” she said.
“Ah, yeah, I guess.” He struggled to sit up, then rested on one elbow. He closed his eyes. “Bad day.”
“Sit tight.” In the distance sirens rose into the air. Good. She gripped her Beretta and slowly approached the two cars. Five feet away, she saw that the shooter, a man of Pakistani or Arab descent in a blue suit, was crushed between the two vehicles, clearly dead.
Peering into the Ford Taurus, she tried to figure out who was behind the wheel. A figure was slumped forward, illuminated only by the dashboard lights, surrounded by the white billowing form of the car’s airbag. She tugged at the passenger door. It opened and the interior dome light clicked on. She let out a gasp that sounded like air leaving a tire. It was Jon Welch. But the shooter’s last fusillade had hit its mark. The FBI agent was dead.
CHAPTER 55
The EMTs treated Derek and O’Reilly in the back of the ambulance. They insisted that O’Reilly go to the hospital. Her wound wasn’t life threatening, but it was more than a gouge, which is what Derek’s head trauma was. They were more concerned about Derek’s burns, and wanted him to go to the hospital for treatment as well. They were also concerned that the lucky shot to his head may have caused a minor concussion.
A parade of cops and FBI agents had spoken to them, but Derek was waiting for the other shoe to drop. FBI SAC Black stalked toward the ambulance. “Come out here, Stillwater.”
With a sigh, Derek slid out onto the expressway. Above, news and traffic helicopters swarmed like bees. The press was everywhere, being held back by a legion of cops. Their camera lights blazed, turning the crime scene from night to artificial day.
Detective Stephen Connelly slipped out from behind the FBI SAC and before Derek could react, slipped handcuffs around Derek’s left wrist.
“Ah, shit. That’s not necessary.”
Connelly looked sour. “You jumped off a fucking cliff to avoid talking to me. I’ve had enough chasing your bullshit. Hold up your right hand.”
Special Agent-in-Charge Black’s expression was as hard as concrete. “Do it or I’ll shoot you myself. I’ve lost two agents today thanks to you.”
Derek pulled away. “Don’t try to pin their deaths on me, Black. I had nothing to do with it.”
Black reached out and caught Derek by the throat. He was a big man with big hands. He squeezed hard enough to get Derek’s attention. “I don’t like you, Still—”
Derek yanked the other end of the cuff from Connelly’s hand, spun it around and clicked it shut around the FBI SAC’s wrist. Before Black could react, Derek reached in the agent’s coat and gripped his gun, preventing him from reaching for it. He drove his knee into the FBI agent’s ribs, bending him over.
Then Derek’s world exploded into reds and yellows, then black.
Derek woke up in the back of a Grand Marquis. His hands were cuffed behind him. He was crumpled awkwardly on the seat. Struggling to a sitting position, he noted Detective Connelly in the driver’s seat. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought they were heading downtown.
Connelly held up three fingers. “How many fingers do you see?”
“Six.”
Connelly barked a laugh. “You’re a pain in the ass, Stillwater. You know that?”
“Yeah. What’d you hit me with?”
“Sap.”
“Standard issue, huh?”
“What do you care? You assault the SAC. You got off easy. He was ready to put a round in your stupid head.”
“I would argue that he assaulted me and I was just defending myself.”
“If I hadn’t stepped in you might be explaining your point of view to a judge.”
“I guess I should thank you, huh?”
“You can thank me if you want. But it’s just delaying matters. The bureau is going to have their turn with you. I convinced Black I would only need you for a couple hours, and then I would personally deliver you to him at his office.”
“You’re aware that this terrorist is still out there?”
“Yep.” He pulled into a parking lot behind the Police Administration Building or PAB, LAPD headquarters. Connelly came around to the back door and opened it. “I brought you here to talk about Greg Popovitch. I’m very tempted to spend some time discussing Ishaq Mukhtar and a big shooting that went down on his boat at the marina, but it’s not my case. You know anything about that, Stillwater? The reason I ask is, when we were going through Popovitch’s things, we found Mukhtar’s name and contact info in Popovitch’s computer.”
“Never heard of him.” Derek met Connelly’s gaze, but he felt something flutter in his chest. It would be bad to be connected to that mess.
“Uh-huh.”
Connelly reached in, caught Derek’s collar and dragged him from the car, intentionally slamming his head into the edge of the door. Derek grayed out for a moment and sagged against the Grand Marquis. “Nice. You’re an amateur, Connelly. Anybody told you that lately?”
Connelly buried his fist in Derek’s stomach. Derek folded and collapsed to the pavement, wretching.
Connelly leaned down. “It would be a shame if you never made it into interrogation.”
Derek gasped out: “I’d like to make a phone call.”
“I bet you would. For the record, I owe you that. We’re even. Sort of.”
Connelly reached down, caught the handcuff chain and yanked Derek to his feet by the cuffs. Derek’s shoulders protested, but he decided it might be better to avoid getting beat up again today. Connelly led him into the PAB, into an elevator and up to the fifth floor. He left him in an interrogation room. On the detective’s way out the door, Derek said, “You going to take the cuffs off?”
“No.”
“I could
use a drink. I prefer Diet Coke. Strong coffee would be good, too.”
“Fuck you.”
“I want to make a phone call.”
“I’ll be back.”
And the door shut.
Derek almost felt relieved.
Derek couldn’t tell what time it was or how much time had passed. He wished he’d noticed the car clock before Connelly had hauled him out of it. When about ten minutes had gone by and Connelly hadn’t returned, he sighed, slipped to the edge of the molded plastic chair and tried to relax. He kicked off his shoes and consciously tried to relax his body, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes.