by Joseph Flynn
John said, “What’s your best guess where Price and the others might be right now?”
The man’s eyes went blank for a moment as he tried to think.
Then he smiled as if he should have known the answer all along.
“You want to find a ballplayer, I’d say the best place to look is a ballpark. Could be he went back to where he hit his final home run tonight.”
The FBI agents took the manager from the motel to spend the rest of the night in better lodgings downtown. John didn’t want him talking about his interview to anyone else. Especially not Corey Price and his seven teammates.
He headed off to Puget Sound Stadium.
He hadn’t wanted to get his hopes too high.
He expected to find the ballpark dark.
But the field lights were on.
And John heard the distinctive sound of a wooden bat hitting a baseball.
John called the Tacoma PD, made his way up the ranks to Captain George Abe, the man in charge of the Patrol Division that night. He identified himself to the captain and gave him some background on the robberies in New Orleans and Las Vegas. The local cop already knew the publicly reported details.
“Are you saying these guys intend to hit Tacoma next?” Abe asked.
John thought it was more likely the target would be in Seattle but he didn’t want to hurt local pride. “Here or that town up the road,” John said.
“Yeah, it could be there, I suppose. But what’s the connection between Tacoma and those other towns? New Orleans and Las Vegas have a lot more flash.”
“Your town like the others has a Triple-A baseball team.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah. The robbers are ballplayers.”
“Our guys?” The captain’s voice was filled with disbelief.
“No, the San Bernadino Serranos.”
“Oh, them.” Feelings about Californians weren’t always warm in Washington state.
“Yeah, anyway I’m at the ballpark right now. The lights are on and it sounds like someone is taking batting practice. I’d like to go inside and make an arrest.”
“You want to bring in eight guys by yourself?”
“Well, as long as you’ll be talking to stadium security about letting me in, I thought you could send a few cars over to transport the prisoners.”
Captain Abe paused before saying, “I sure to hell hope this isn’t one big practical joke.”
“How about this?” John asked. “I’ll give you the personal phone number of FBI Deputy Director Byron DeWitt. He can vouch for me. But please get someone to open the stadium for me, because there’s one more thing to think about.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s a real chance there might be people out to kill these guys to keep the robberies from being connected to higher-ups. If there is a shoot-out in your town tonight, it would look better for everyone to have the good guys win.”
“Holy shit. If that’s true … I’ll call the deputy director right away.”
“Open the gate for me first,” John told him.
A security guard whose nameplate read Johansen came to the third base gate and said to John, “May I see your ID, please?”
John showed him his BIA credentials. The guard nodded.
The sounds of batting practice continued in the distance.
Johansen unlocked the gate and let John in.
“Hard to believe ballplayers are crooks,” he said, relocking the gate.
“People get desperate when they lose their jobs.”
“Ain’t that the truth? You want some help?”
“Thanks, but no. I don’t want to put anyone else at risk. Let the Tacoma police in when they come, but keep everyone else out.”
“Everyone else?”
“There might be some bad guys around. They’ll probably have guns. Don’t give them a chance to fire at you.”
The security guard’s eyes went wide. He bobbed his head in agreement. He wasn’t going to play the hero. That pleased John. He didn’t want any regrets about how he was handling things.
He walked quietly up into the grandstand and through the cheap seats down to those near the home team dugout on the third base line. He took a seat and looked at the man standing to the left of home plate in the batting cage, swinging at balls from a pitching machine. The batter looked up at John, letting a ball go past unchallenged. It hit a sheet of heavy canvas with a thunk.
Then the batter turned his attention to the next ball the machine hurled his way. He swung hard and made solid contact. John followed the flight of the ball as it cleared the stadium wall in center field, above the number 425. The seven men sitting across the field in the visitors’ dugout also tracked the ball, until they turned to look at John.
None of them, by their expressions, seemed to think he was just a guy who happened to wander into the ballpark. Not even after John applauded the batter’s long drive. Men with guilty consciences, they figured him for just what he was, a cop.
But they stayed put, maybe trying to decide their next move.
More likely, they’d chosen to let the man in the batting cage take the lead. He let another pitch from the machine go by and then walked over to stand on the field not ten feet from where John sat. John held up a finger and used speed dial to call Byron DeWitt.
He said into the phone, loud enough for the guy with the bat to hear, “I found them at the ballpark in Tacoma. Yeah, eight of them. No, just me. Did you get a call from Captain Abe? Good. Help’s on the way? Good. No, I don’t think so. Let me ask.”
John lowered the phone and looked at Corey Price. He said, “I’m on the phone with the deputy director of the FBI. He wants to know if he should send a SWAT team to help me out. You think he should?”
Price said, “You’ve got your own gun, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“None of us is armed.”
“You’re holding a bat.”
“None of us is that stupid.”
“You sure?” John pointed his chin toward the opposite dugout.
The seven other men were stepping out of it, each of them holding a bat.
All of them were staring at John as they approached.
John took out his Beretta and said to Price, “I might have to shoot a few of you. Also, being a real Indian as well as a federal officer, I’m licensed to take scalps.”
Price said, “What?”
Johansen was watching the third base gate from the cover of a deep shadow under the grandstand. Keeping the ballpark safe at night was no harder than keeping the dearly departed in a cemetery from going for a moonlight stroll. You didn’t believe in ghosts, you had no worries. Just like his job. No worries at all.
Tonight, though, he’d been told by a federal officer to watch out for guys with guns coming to shoot ballplayers who were bank robbers. Jeez. The bank robber part was awful enough. Guys wanting to kill them, maybe kill him, too, if he made the wrong move, he wasn’t being paid near enough to get in the way of any of that.
If any of it was true, of course.
But then the guy from the BIA — he’d never heard of that outfit before tonight — had known it was the Serranos not the home team taking batting practice. That was what Captain Abe had said. He’d also said some cars from the Tacoma PD would be by soon, too.
Crazy as everything was sounding, having some cops on hand would be reassuring.
Johansen saw headlights turn into the stadium parking lot, but it wasn’t a patrol unit. His guts started to churn until he saw who got out. Not any guys with guns. Just one woman. Kind of skinny. Short spiky hair. But she had a cute foxy face.
What the hell did she want?
Johansen decided to emerge from the shadows and investigate.
Ellie Booker approached the security officer standing behind a barred gate she presumed was locked. Guy looked pretty nervous for seeing one small woman walking his way. Ellie carried both a knife and an expandable twelve-inch steel baton.
She knew how to use both weapons, but most guys, including the likes of the one looking at her now, took her at face value.
So why did the security guard look so nervous?
As she stopped on the other side of the gate, he told her, “The stadium is closed.”
She saw his nameplate: Johansen.
Ellie said, “The lights are on, Officer Johansen.”
“Closed to the public,” he explained.
“That’s okay, because I’m not a fan. I’m the media.”
She showed the guy her WorldWide News ID.
“No press after hours.”
Ellie said, “I’m not talking newspapers. I do TV. Don’t you want to be on TV?”
In her experience, nine out of ten people did. If only to alert their family and friends to the appearance. Especially if they got to say something. Meant their lives wouldn’t end without any public notice.
That was cynical, she knew, but true, too.
Johansen, however, just shook his head.
He was beginning to annoy her. She wanted to rap his knuckles with her baton. But she kept her cool.
“Listen,” she said, “I didn’t want to have to say this, but I’m working with the federal government.”
She saw the reaction in the guy’s eyes. Knew she had the right fix on things.
“You just let a federal agent inside your stadium. I saw him.”
The guy’s jaw dropped. She had him now.
“I was parked over there,” she hooked a thumb at the access road to the stadium. “I was waiting for some information before I joined him. You gonna make me call him? He has to come back to the gate, you’re gonna look pretty silly.”
Johansen didn’t like that. Made a stab at seeing how smart she was.
“You’re with the FBI guy?”
Ellie grinned. “Nice try. Special Agent Tall Wolf is with the BIA.”
Johansen said, “Shit.”
He let her in. Ellie moved ten feet into the stadium. If the guy changed his mind and tried to shove her back out, she’d sooner duck and run than pulp him. Johansen followed her but kept his hands to himself.
“Which way did he go?” Ellie asked.
He pointed the way. “You gonna put him on TV? Him and the bank robbers?”
They were here, too? Ellie almost swooned at the idea of shooting some video.
As usual, she had her Canon PowerShot Elph on her, as well as her weapons. The little beauty shot both stills and video. Worked great in low light. Had built in Wi-Fi so she could upload her footage in a snap.
She said, “You bet. Maybe even include—”
You, she was about to say when she saw a black sedan roar into the parking lot.
Ellie knew trouble when she saw it.
She told the security guard, “Lock the gate, take cover and call the cops.”
“They’re supposed to be on the way,” Johansen said.
“Tell ‘em to hurry.”
Ellie looked over her shoulder as she ran.
The security guy stood paralyzed when he saw who poured out of the car.
Four guys with assault rifles — dressed like Indians.
Johansen might have reached the gate in time to slam it shut.
Just in time to have the muzzles of the automatic weapons poke between the bars and shred his precious heinie. He had neither the courage nor the daring of the bank guards in New Orleans and Las Vegas. He bugged out.
Deciding if he survived the night he’d have no trouble living with his choice.
Price told John, “You’re bullshitting, about taking scalps.”
“Yeah, but not about shooting you guys, if I have to.”
The other robbers now stood in a cluster behind their leader.
“You with the FBI?” Tut Warren asked.
John shook his head. “Bureau of Indian Affairs.”
Jack O’Grady asked, “They sent you because —”
Price cut him off with an upraised hand.
John told him, “That was one of the things that put me on to you. The way you use hand signals. Took me a while, but I finally figured out you’re a catcher. Right?”
Price nodded.
John saw a couple of the men behind Price, bats in hand, were edging out of the group. He wasn’t sure whether they meant to run or intended to come at him from different directions. He was fairly certain he could shoot both of them. If the others charged while he was engaged with the first two, though, things were going to get bloody fast.
He’d have to shoot to kill.
But if one of them got through and hit him with a swing like the one Price had used to hit the ball over the fence, he was going to have some headache.
John said, “Don’t even think about taking a run at me. I might not get all of you, but the Tacoma cops are on the way, and if they see you’ve killed a federal officer …”
He shrugged. Let them decide if they’d be taken in alive.
Seven of the robbers turned to Price for a decision.
Before their leader could act, John gave them something else to think about.
“We know about Lamar,” he said. “What I’m wondering is whether you guys know he’s working with the Chinese government. Those tricks he played with the green lights in New Orleans and the casinos in Las Vegas? That wasn’t just to help you rob banks. People in Washington think it was a trial run to see how cyberwarfare might be used against our country.”
Price looked as if he’d just had a question answered.
The others were affronted.
“You think we’re traitors?” O’Grady asked.
John said, “I’m waiting for you to tell me. My guess is you guys were just trying to grab some decent money to take with you into your retirement from the game. Maybe you’re not working for Beijing, but Lamar is.”
Price said, “I wondered how Lamar had learned all that stuff.”
“He had good teachers, for any part he had to do himself,” John said. “But the heavy lifting was done from back in China. That’s the way things work with computer warfare. There’s one more thing you should know. Washington thinks the Chinese have decided to tidy up after themselves by killing all of you. We think that will happen soon.”
Tut said, “A bunch of commies are gonna kill us? Shee-it.”
“Maybe even commies dressed like Indians,” John replied.
O’Grady wasn’t buying that. “Is that right? Bull —”
Ellie Booker burst into view.
“Guys with rifles coming!” she yelled. “Dressed like Indians!”
Now, everyone believed.
John told them, “Keep your bats. Grab as many balls as you can and follow me.”
The four killers masquerading as a combination of Halloween Indians and outlaw bikers pushed through the third base gate. They were the ones who locked it behind them. There was no hand release on the lock that they could see. They’d have to find a key. Ought to be one on the chickenshit security guard they’d seen run off.
They’d been told to kill eight unarmed baseball players. Now, they’d have to ice some broad and an unarmed rent-a-cop, too. Shouldn’t be too hard. They were the ones with the assault rifles, and the lights were on out on the field.
Only thing was, the place was pretty big. Might have more than a few places to hide. That and everybody and his dog had a cell phone these days. Somebody might’ve called the cops already. So they couldn’t afford to dawdle.
They split up into two teams of two men each for broader coverage.
Before they went their separate ways, the chief said, “Remember, this is a Jim Morrison.”
Meaning no one there got out alive.
Except for them, of course.
John made what he hoped was the correct assumption: the hit squad had entered the stadium the same way he had, through the third base gate. He paired that notion with the battle proven wisdom that it was always best to fight from the high ground; worst to have to fight your way uphill. Following t
hat thinking he led Ellie and Price and the others up the first base side of the grandstand.
Along the way and on the fly, he pointed out hiding places for the player-robbers.
Leaving it to them to best work out their ambushes with bats and balls.
Thinking it ironic how quickly even the most unlikely alliances could form.
He, Ellie and Price took up positions in the stadium’s broadcast booth.
Down on the field, the pitching machine still spat out baseballs from the huge bin that supplied it. The horsehide balls hit the canvas backstop with loud thunks. The sequence repeated itself like some misplaced metronome.
In the best sniper fashion, John and Ellie exposed as little of themselves as possible, peeking above the booth’s broadcast console. They could see the entire field and every seat in the single-deck ball park. John glanced at Ellie and saw she had a knife in one hand and a baton in the other. He liked her attitude but not her odds against rifles, especially if they were military style weapons.
He leaned over and whispered into her ear, “Do you know how to shoot?”
She nodded.
He gave her his backup weapon, a Smith & Wesson J-Frame revolver, small and light with an internal hammer. Only five shots, but .357 Magnum loads. She smiled her thanks.
John looked over at Price. He had his entire head exposed about the console. He was using hand signals to position his teammates. Like he was saying, “This batter pulls the ball with power. Play deep. Put yourselves here, here and here.”
That or he was conducting their movements like the maestro of a symphony orchestra.
Either way, the guys down below would have to be skilled enough to pull off their parts.
John gestured to Price, told him in a quiet voice, “The first thing is, we all want to get out of here alive. But if we can take the guys with the guns alive, too, things might go somewhat better for you and your friends.”
Price responded with a soft laugh.
“Just a suggestion,” John said, “if you can communicate that to your friends.”