by Nick Keller
That meant Bernie. Residual backup. At least he wouldn’t be in the line of fire, unless the shit hit the fan in a real bad way. He huffed crossing his arms.
The other FBI agent continued his partner’s speech. “Our SWAT teams approach the house here, make the apprehension, and get out before the neighbors realize what’s happening. We’ll be working in conjunction with L.A.P.D. copter support, and medical crews will be on standby.”
“This is a precautionary step only. Our primary objective is the apprehension of Raymond Komatsu. Secondary to that is scene containment. In the event, we do not want any eventualities going beyond the home, yard or street.”
“Any questions?”
Heller’s eyes went to Bernie, warning him to keep his damn mouth shut. Bernie’s eyes went down. He didn’t like this situation at all.
“Stay on airwave channel four. That’s our designated mission response channel. Critical communications only. We move in single column formation only, until we reach the site. Let’s go.”
“BERNIE!”
He spun around as the room emptied. Heller waved him over, angrily.
“What the hell was that?”
Bernie gave an innocent shrug. “Just trying to get as much information as I can. We’re about to…”
“Bullshit.” He started walking. Bernie paced him.
“Look, Captain, this guy—Komatsu, or whatever—he isn’t the Starlet Killer.”
Heller stopped abruptly, spinning around. “I brought you in on this because you deserve to be here. Don’t make me regret it.” He started walking again, fast. Bernie had to keep up.
“Cap, they’re pulling an end-around. This operation is just the FBI looking for a reason to bust one of their high-profile targets. Bet this Komatsu guy is a top ten, isn’t he?”
“Jesus, Bernie.”
“Our department connected him to peripheral crimes, so of course they’re gonna jump at the chance. They’re the FBI, that’s what they do. Come on, Cap. I’d bet there’s fifty guys out there you could connect to these two chicks with their hump juice, and you’re going to tell me this isn’t fishy?”
“Keep that shit home, Bernie. This is going down, like it or not.”
Bernie threw his hands open. “Fine—but what happens if I’m right?”
“Then we take down an FBI’s most wanted. What’re you bitching about?”
“There’s still a killer out there, Cap.”
Heller rubbed his face with both hands. “Look, one thing at a time. Just stay on task today before you get yourself killed, will ya Bernie, for Christ sake? We’ll talk after—Jesus.”
35
THE BUST
They moved out from the station led by an enormous quint truck modified to serve L.A. SWAT. Eight SWAT guys were inside loading AR-15s, urban assault weapons and hand guns, pounding each other on their Kevlar plated shoulder vests and amping themselves up for a fight. Blood was running hot. Heller sat at the back with Agents Fritch and Carlisle going over intelligence reports of the immediate neighborhoods, getting a layout of the battle zone.
A dozen squad cars followed the SWAT HQ vehicle, all moving without sirens and flashers. Their presence was warning enough. As they moved through the city, traffic parted.
Bringing up the rear was Neiman and Smyth in a Hollywood Station unmarked squad car and Bernie in his Crown Vic feeling dubious about the whole mission. This was going to be a good bust for the FBI, but it had nothing to do with the L.A.P.D. or the Starlet Killer case. He wrung his hands over the steering wheel. If anyone got killed, namely himself, it would be for nothing.
They crept like a centipede moving south along 710 and into Lakewood. The closer they got, the more Bernie felt a churning in his gut. Something inevitable was coming, something he couldn’t account for. He hadn’t felt this sick in his gut since his UCLA days. Pregame warm ups. His biggest fear back then was missing a tackle. Going left when he should have gone right. He had a game to lose. Entire seasons were on the chopping block. But it was a far cry from today. His biggest fear now was getting blown away. He hated SWAT vests. They weren’t like shoulder pads. They restricted motion. They were heavy. They were hot. He never wore one. But he never felt quite this nervous.
It was Iva. He was in love. Suddenly, things were different, including participating in raids. It was a dangerous proposition for any cop storming a home or a compound gung-ho-style, and now he had something to lose. If he wore a vest today, it would be for her. He snuffed his thoughts away feeling for the grip of his .45 revolver in his breast holster. Pure stopping power. It made him feel secure.
Over the radio, one of the agents made the call as they neared their destination, “All units, this is SWAT lead, take up perimeter positions, over.” Bernie watched the squad cars separate, choosing their paths of operation, and spreading out through the streets. They disappeared, headed toward the opposite end of the neighborhood.
The SRT vehicle came to a stop canted across the main thoroughfare. Traffic would have to reroute—an inconvenience for L.A. civvies, but it was for their own good. Bernie bumped over the medium navigating around the SRT and parked the Crown Vic on the opposite curb. No two homes on this street were the same, but they were all nice. Everything was manicured. Ficus trees were trimmed, big palms stood over two-story add-ons and long, sprawling estate-style houses. Yards were all green and flower gardens shone brilliant. From his vantage, he could see the four-man SWAT team #1 unload from the SRT and head down the street in single file, weapons up, scoping doors and houses, under cars, down side yards. Stealth on approach was sacrosanct. He raised his binoculars. They double-timed it through front yards and were now seven houses down the street, taking positions, moving in. Here it was—urban warfare in high-society U.S.A. It was like a dream turning to a nightmare.
The team took up their final positions, heads on a swivel, communicating through body mikes with team #2 who had moved to surround the home from the rear alley. It was time. The warrant was active, no need for knocking. One of the team members moved forward with a door ram. He waited for his cue. Bernie sank in his front seat gripping the binoculars tight, before his radio squawked at him. “Bernie, this is Heller. Look sharp, ten o’clock.”
Bernie took his gaze across the street from the SWAT boys, and his eyes went wide. It was a woman with a thousand-dollar stroller. She stood looking perplexed at the scene playing out across the street.
Jesus!
“You’re in position,” Heller said. “Get her the fuck off the street!”
Bernie opened the door and got to his feet before hearing the sound of the ram splinter the front door open half a block down. He was too late. SWAT guys piled into the house. There was indeterminate screaming—people barking commands. He looked over. Time slowed down. The woman snatched her baby up from the stroller and held it close to her, horrified.
If there was going to be a line of fire….
Bernie got back in the Crown Vic and threw it into drive.
… she was standing right in it.
He stomped the accelerator peeling forward. The engine roared, the car hauled down the street, then he stomped the brakes skidding to a stop. The woman screamed and turned around as the sound of automatic gunfire shattered the peaceful Americana of Lakewood. Windows in the house blew out just across the street, and Bernie could hear the patter splatter of rounds ding off his passenger’s fender. He got out wrapping the woman and her child inside his huge body and brought them down to the yard, flat.
“You okay, you okay!” he yelled, but all she did was screech and wail. More gunfire exploded across the street. The SWAT boys were in the thick of it. They’d all walked into a hornet’s nest.
Bernie reached up staying low and threw open the backdoor. “Get in, get in!” he screamed, but the lady was belly crawling in a panic toward the side yard, dragging her infant along with her.
“Oh, Christ!” Bernie poked his head up and looked at the action across the street. He couldn�
��t see much, but there was one hell of a gunfight going on inside the house.
Bernie turned back and ran toward the woman and her child scooping them both up like a football and getting them to the side yard of the nearest house where a brick gardener’s retaining wall jutted out. “Take it easy, lady!” he said bringing her to a calm. They looked at each other. Gunfire still bawled away in auto bursts across the street. “Stay here, you’ll be safe.”
She grabbed his shirt crying, “Don’t go, don’t go!”
Bernie peeled her hands off him, “Just stay right here, lady—Jesus!”
He scurried back to his car staying low. An errant bullet traveled across the street and turned his passenger window into glass droplets. Another one dinged off the mailbox. He hit the Crown Vic using it for cover, his .45 pointed across the way. He could hear Heller screaming over the radio, “All units, get to HQ. Get back…”
Across the street, the door of the house flew open and two guys came backing out, both fanning automatic rifles back inside the house. They wore the typical high-dollar dress pants and silk shirts of high-level drug lords. These were Jineo Cartel boys. Bernie took aim at seventy feet away, but a Black-and-White screamed to a stop cutting him off. He pulled the gun away. The cops got out blasting shotgun spray. One of the Jineo boys flew back eagle spread, a swath of red shimmering off his silk shirt. The other guy’s auto rifle fanned around spitting rounds like mad. Even Bernie had to duck as the line of fire took on a three sixty spray. He rolled over and got to the rear of his car. The engine was still running, exhaust fumes puffing away.
He looked across the street at the target house. A side window shattered out followed by a computer chair. This wasn’t gunfire. Someone was trying to flee. Next, came two members of the Asian Persuasion, Blood Dragons. They dolphin dove through the window with the seasoned grace of acrobats, both of them getting to their feet and heading away, toward the rear alley. One of them had a neck tattoo. A dragon.
Raymond Komatsu.
Bernie got in the driver’s seat and stomped it in reverse bringing the radio up. “Neiman, the suspect’s getting away, headed east toward the alley. I’m in pursuit.”
“East, copy that!”
Bernie screamed away from the fight going backward, hoping to get to the thoroughfare and cut off the assailants. The Crown Vic roared out onto Del Amo and swiveled into a white-smoking ninety-degree bank. He jammed it forward and stomped again passing up Neiman’s unmarked like a shot. The alley approached. As it did, a jacked-up Chevy truck came snarling out onto the road, its big tires jouncing along. Bernie’s eyes went wide. The driver was Komatsu’s partner. They were maneuvering to ram him. Bernie swerved over biting the far curb and letting the truck chalk around and blow forward. Dirt exploded over his hood. Refusing to stop he jammed the gas pedal and took off after him.
Back on the street Bernie nosed forward on the truck’s bumper trying to dislodge its balance. Metal screamed against metal forcing him to back off. The truck’s suspension was made for off-roading. Tapping it side-to-side wasn’t going to do shit. Bernie gritted his teeth jamming his Crown Vic forward. Maybe he could ram them from the….
Oh Shit!
He screamed stomping the brake pedal. Tires locked. White smoke went up.
Raymond came bursting through the truck’s passenger window with his auto-rifle spraying rounds like a madman. They tinked off Bernie’s hood. He swerved behind the truck to cut off Komatsu’s field of fire.
Close. Very close. Too close.
Mark’s squad car moved up next to the Crown Vic with a similar idea.
“Mark, no!” Bernie screamed, but no one heard.
Mark went up on the truck smashing its bumper from behind. Its tires reacted as it started to fish tail, but corrected. Raymond Komatsu fanned more rounds, blind as a bat, forcing Mark off his tail.
The street wound long and gradual to the right around the edges of Lakewood Golf Course. This was Bernie’s chance to get the jump. He veered the Crown Vic, now steaming from the front grille, up onto the beautifully manicured grass of the country club lawn leaving twin dark trails of crushed grass and mud. The truck wound around over on the street. As it did, Bernie closed the distance counting down the microseconds in his head to impact. He closed his eyes, gritted his jaw, watched the truck near, and….
BAM!
The Crown Vic tee-boned it into oblivion. The truck did a complete one-eighty fanning glass and car parts all across the thoroughfare, then smacking into a tree and coming to a stop. The Crown Vic folded from the front. Early generation airbags exploded in Bernie’s face blinding him, but he heard the blood-chilling scream of rubber on pavement. Mark’s car came at him, brakes screaming, and tee-boned him throwing him off the truck and back into the street. Bernie slammed sideways, then back, everything rattling. Then the Crown Vic bumped something and came to a stop.
Bernie blinked and shook his head as if coming up from a dream state. Mark was there looking in, a speck of blood falling from his own forehead. “Bernie, you okay?”
“Huh?”
“We hit you. You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”
Another voice, Derrick Smyth, yelled, “He’s running, he’s running!”
“Call for medical!” Mark yelled at Bernie, and took off.
Bernie tried opening his door, but it was jammed. He leaned over, took both feet and hammered it open. When he got out he had to steady himself on his feet, teetering momentarily. He could see how far he’d knocked the truck off its course. It was nosed into a tree with Komatsu’s partner sprawled over the hood. He was bleeding through his nose and ears. Jerko was dead.
He looked up to see Mark on foot trailing Derrick who was trailing Komatsu across the golf course, growing further and further away. They were hauling ass across the fourth green.
A golf cart pulled up under its electrical whisper and two guys looking shocked to witness the accident eyeballed him. They both wore golf shirts, golf shoes and golf gloves.
“You all right, mister?” the older one said.
Bernie looked down, then up and said, “Yeah, yeah—how fast does that thing go?”
DERRICK SMYTH WAS no slouch in the gym. He kept his body in immaculate shape. Call it being a bachelor. Call it a part of his job. Whatever. He was primed for foot chases. But this fucking guy—Komatsu—he ran with perfect economy. He navigated obstacles with an uncommon sense of understanding, almost using the physical world as tools for flight more than obstacles which stood in the way. But he was bleeding from the head and forearm where the crash had gashed him. That would start to tax him.
They were leaving Mark falling behind. Golf courses were large plots of land, after all. They had cleared several acres moving toward the neighborhoods to the south, barreling through a wooded area and back out onto the back nine. Up ahead was a twelve-foot privacy wall. Derrick snarled with delight, starting to run out of gas. He had him.
He jerked his gun slowing up a bit. There was nowhere for Komatsu to run, now. The Blood Dragon continued at a full pace, though, running toward the wall with complete abandon.
“Raymond Komatsu, stop!” Derrick yelled. It didn’t work. The guy leapt up onto a bench, sprang forward running vertically up the wall as if denying gravity altogether, and hefted himself up onto the top of the wall at full extension, all in a single, fluid motion.
“Jesus!” Derrick sneered taking aim.
Komatsu hesitated looking back at him with a grin, then dropped down on the other side, free and clear. “Oh, shit,” Derrick cried.
He heard footsteps behind. It was Mark catching up to him fully out of gas, huffing and puffing. “Damn—you let him get away?”
“He’s a fucking ninja monkey.”
“C’mon, we can get out this way.” They headed toward a gate area. It was the long way, but neither of them was capable of going over the wall. Not like Komatsu.
BERNIE HAD STOMPED the pedal to the floor all the way across the golf
course buzzing along in his little cart. He was pleased at the speed it was capable of going, but still, it wasn’t fast enough. At least it didn’t get tired. He’d made it to the south exit of the course, banked around along the side-thoroughfare of a condominium parking lot and gunned it along, hoping to catch sight of Komatsu. Bernie raced along the privacy wall when he watched Komatsu come dropping down into the lot a hundred feet in front of him. He’d scaled the wall like a cat.
Or a jackrabbit.
Bernie jerked his weapon and pointed, driving with the other hand. “Komatsu!”
Komatsu looked over surprised, then took off at a new top speed disappearing around the corner. Bernie went screaming around in the golf cart wheeling it to the right. Gunshots rang out from up ahead. Son of a bitch was shooting at him! Bernie held his breath slamming the brakes. The golf cart piled over dumping him out onto the concrete. He found himself ducking behind a parked car. Peeking up—there was no Komatsu. He had gone inside. Looking up, Bernie saw the buildings were attached, a condo lifestyle. He’d cut him off. He headed for the nearest door and barreled inside.
A hallway took him to an exit door. It was closed. It wasn’t swinging. It hadn’t been used in the last few seconds. Still, he’d have to cover the exits. But if Komatsu hadn’t left the building, the only other direction he could have gone was up.