I am Chuck Norris. And this is a movie.
Chuck gave it everything he had.
The door cracked open.
“You did it!” Stan said.
Chuck took him by the arm and led him through the door to a broad expanse of open hillside.
Where a dark figure was waiting for them.
In the moonlight, Chuck saw the glint of a knife.
From the silhouette and the hair he was sure it was Mad Russian.
Who lunged forward, knife out.
Chuck readied his hands.
Just as Stan jumped in front of him.
And took the blade in his gut.
.
Sandy Epperson couldn’t help thinking back to the time they had that shooter up on Beachwood, right below the Hollywood sign. He’d parked his trailer up on the fire road, about a hundred yards from the nearest house.
But he was sending rounds into the back of the homes all along the ridge with a high-powered rifle. Killed a dog and almost a toddler.
By the time they’d gotten a command post together it was hell on the hillside as this guy had unlimited ammo and a perfect spot to let it go. Stark hill behind him, narrow road in front that couldn’t be accessed. Three SWAT snipers couldn’t draw a bead on him because of oleander overgrowth.
It was like this guy had planned it all out. He wasn’t some crazed vet with too much beer and Doxepin in him. He was sending a message or making a statement or just taking it out on the world.
The standoff took four hours to resolve. It was night when it finally ended under helicopter lights and a SWAT drop from the hill.
It was amazing what one guy in the right position could do. Sandy thought about that now as police and sheriffs and FBI came together on another, much tonier hillside.
The guy in the trailer turned out to be a petty criminal turned actor who’d been turned down for a one-line part in a Bruce Willis movie.
But this one, if they were right, would be a fish much bigger. Moby-Dick size.
All because of a message that had been auto-forwarded to her phone and traced by Agent DeSoto’s partner using a tracking system DeSoto referred to as “Bowser.” Sandy didn’t know if that was an acronym or a dog name, but it didn’t matter. They were converging on a location now, and doing so with extreme care and reinforcements.
Driving up the street behind DeSoto’s unmarked car, it seemed to Sandy just like Beachwood again. There was no Hollywood sign this time. A big moon was out instead, like a sign that said “Welcome to Malibu.”
Chapter 65
Chuck’s fist caught Mad Russian directly in the nose. He could feel the cartilage crunch. His only thought was to create as much immediate pain as he possibly could, put an end to his life if need be, but at whatever cost incapacitate him.
Because he still held the knife.
Stan was on the ground behind him.
Chuck felt every move as if it were orchestrated, all of the techniques he’d learned as a Navy chaplain training with Marines, and all of the old dirty fighting tricks he’d picked up along the way.
Curling his fingers into a fist and sticking out his thumb, Chuck jabbed at Mad Russian’s left eye. In the dimness it could not be precise but as it landed Chuck knew it was a pretty good guess.
Solid contact.
Mad Russian cried out, brought a hand up to his face as he stumbled backward.
He couldn’t be allowed to recover. When an assailant had a knife it did the most damage when it slashed. Every advantage had to be taken when he became distracted.
Like now.
Chuck put everything he could into a kick between Mad Russian’s legs.
And missed the bulls-eye.
But Mad Russian took another step back.
Had this been a one-on-one street fight, Chuck would have run away. That was, after all, the first rule. You get away from someone with a blade. Only a fool stays and tries to disarm a knife attacker.
But he could not leave Stan, and Stan could not run.
Somebody was going to die on this hill.
.
Sandy knew from bitter experience that there was nothing more difficult in a SWAT situation than expedited neighborhood securing at night. You had two simultaneous problems to handle, and either one of them could explode out of control at any moment.
First, there was the danger itself, the “hot spot,” be it shooter, hostage taker, or armed resister. Or, worse, a number of resisters with weapons and ammo.
Second, you had to protect those in homes, the potential gawkers and looky loos, but also the folks just sitting inside having a relaxing time by their windows. Anyone in the line of potential fire had to be notified and usually evacuated.
It was worse when you weren’t sure of the terrain. Even with the command post vehicle provided by the Sheriff’s department, and its monitors of neighborhood layout, getting to the homes in real time and as quickly as possible was the challenge.
There was another problem—the low ground. Snipers always worked best with “elevated advantage.” That wasn’t going to happen here.
As Sandy was thinking about all this she got a call from Agent DeSoto.
“We’ve been made,” DeSoto said.
Chapter 66
Three things happened simultaneously in Chuck’s brain.
The first was his next move, seen as if projected on a screen. Mad Russian was back against a retaining wall or small hedge––Chuck couldn’t tell in the light––and it was going to be just like the old schoolyard prank. Guy gets behind another guy, on all fours, and a third pushes the hapless victim backward.
This would be one push, and it would have to be now, and it would have to work.
The second flash in Chuck’s mind was Julia’s face. It held a grim, mocking look. It was a nightmare face.
Third, he heard Dylan Bly’s voice. He was talking about a truck . . .
Chuck put his hands out like battering rams and charged. Flush contact with his chest. And as the knife hit Chuck’s chest, Mad Russian fell over a hedge. The momentum of the hit thrust Chuck forward, and he fell, too, following Mad Russian over and on top of him, and they began to roll.
.
Sandy Epperson, Los Angeles Police Department detective, was trained like all police officers to handle a weapon. Her choice was the Beretta 92F, which had been standard issue before Chief Bratton took over in 2002. Bratton favored the Glock, but Sandy stuck with her Beretta––and a backup Smith & Wesson .38.
She’d only had to fire the Beretta once in the line of duty, and that had been two warning shots at the corner of Western and Santa Monica when two utes (she did like My Cousin Vinny) did not attend to her order to stop. She fired in the air––not SOP she would later learn before a board of inquiry––but it did get them hitting the ground so she could effect the arrest.
The brass was not happy with her, but the Korean liquor store owner brought his entire family down to the Bradbury Building and practically laid siege to it on Sandy’s behalf. Nothing further was done, not even a reprimand.
Now, out of her car on the road in the Malibu hills, Sandy had her weapon drawn again and was prepared for what might be coming down the hill toward her.
This was her position now, for better or worse. She and the entire ad hoc team would have to do what they hated most––make the best of a bad situation.
That’s when she heard the roar above her head.
.
Chuck Samson had never head butted anyone, even in his dreams. He knew it was a risky move and done clumsily could cause as much injury to the butter as to the buttee.
He knew it had to be the rim of the forehead. A Marine once told him that if your head was a cigar, the strike point should be where you cut the cigar, just below the rounded edge. Not the part of the forehead you slap when you forgot your car keys. Just above that.
But then there was the target. It couldn’t be the teeth or you’d get cut.
And it couldn’t
be the forehead, or you’d get your own bell rung.
That meant the nose again, and that’s where Chuck, now atop Mad Russian on the ground, aimed.
Keeping his teeth clenched, he hit pay dirt with a satisfying thud. Clean, like hitting a pitch with the fat part of the bat.
He didn’t have to guess about the damage. Mad Russian was hurt. It was just a matter of how bad.
Now he had to get the knife.
If there had been something around he could have picked up and used as a club, Chuck would have done it. But there was no time to look.
There was only time to bite.
Chuck pushed upward then reached out with his left hand and covered Mad Russian’s right. He brought his right hand over and gripped Mad Russian’s forearm just above the wrist.
Then Chuck dove into that fleshy middle like a starving man taking his first bite of corn on the cob.
The Mad one screamed as Chuck tasted blood.
And felt the Mad hand loosen.
Chuck swiped with his left hand and made contact with the knife handle. He scraped the weapon out of Mad’s grip like one would get rid of a tarantula.
He heard something roar over his head.
Chuck brought his elbow up and brought it down toward Mad’s windpipe. But Mad heaved upward and Chuck made contact with the chest only, and not at full force.
His attacker issued a guttural cry like a wounded animal. It turned into a raging scream and all his muscles seemed to tense at once under Chuck.
From the feel of him, he was massively strong. Stronger than Chuck for sure. A cold-blooded killer he’d be if he was at full strength.
He could not be allowed to get to full strength.
Then Chuck’s world turned upside down.
Chapter 67
A helicopter?
Sandy instinctively squatted because it was buzzing so low.
Not a police chopper. Too small.
It was a private rig, big enough for two people.
And she knew it held the two people they needed most.
Of course, that kind of knowing was called a hunch, and that did not cut it in a court of law.
Powerlessly, she watched as the copter headed out to sea.
*
Somehow the Mad Russian had enough strength to turn Chuck completely over.
And put his right hand, his iron hand, the one that had grabbed Chuck that day of the rear ender, around Chuck’s throat.
Chuck felt the air leaving his body as he sensed the downward angle to his right.
They were on an incline.
Roll baby, roll.
He tried. But Mad Russian was on top of him, astride, using his body weight to press down on Chuck’s windpipe.
And he laughed. The Mad one actually laughed and Chuck saw his teeth in the moonlight as if he were some werewolf or crazy kid pretending to be a werewolf to scare his girlfriend.
Chuck tried to roll with the incline. Couldn’t.
His body was cut off from the oxygen he needed with his heart beating fast and his lungs screaming for air.
Not going to make it.
Stan. Run. If you can.
Flying in from the left, hitting Mad Russian full on. It was a human battering ram. The grunt and scream of the ram could belong to none other than Stanley Charles Samson.
And all three started rolling, rolling like snowballs in cartoons, gaining speed.
Then the feeling of lightness, of air.
The spinning mass of humanity, downward in the night and light and the sea air filling Chuck’s nostrils, and Chuck thinking this is the last thing I’m ever going to smell.
Stop.
Hard.
Jarring his head.
Something sharp, deadly, impaling.
Ripping through flesh. Fixing him in place.
The world going darker.
The moon fading to black.
Chapter 68
It was almost light when Sandy Epperson got back to her house and she wanted nothing more than to throw herself into bed after merely kicking off her shoes. No time for niceties. She needed to sleep. After the adrenaline rush of the raid, the alerting of the Coast Guard to be on the lookout for a chopper, the gathering of bodies and victims off the hill, she was ready to get at least ten hours of sleep.
And then she got a call from her partner. She almost ignored it. Let it go to voicemail. A fat lot of good he was doing last night.
But at the last second she decided to give it an answer just to get it over with.
“Who’s your hero?” Mark Mooney said.
“What is it, Mark?”
“You need to get some work done,” he said.
Sandy fought back a curse trying to explode from her throat. “I’ve been a little busy.”
“Oh really? Playing SWAT? I hope you had fun.”
“Tell me what this is about and fast. I want to go to bed.”
“I had to shoot a kid tonight.”
His voice had suddenly changed, from joking to deadly serious.
“But he was about to shoot somebody else,” Mark said. “One Raymond Hunt.”
Sandy’s head went even lighter, like it was floating off her neck. “Tell me what this is about, tell me now.”
“That’s what I’m doing. Raymond Hunt accepted drug money to fund his Academy. Our Jimmy Stone was the go-between. His little brother went to have it out with Ray Hunt at his house tonight. He was about to shoot him, and I got him in the wing. I’m very good.”
Sandy said nothing. Her eyelids felt like overfed St. Bernards.
“And I got a complete confession out of Hunt,” Mark said. “The whole set-up. It’s going to make me look like the smartest kid in school.”
“Wait a second,” she said. “Wasn’t I the one who told you that? And you told me basically to shove it.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“I’m dog tired, Mark.”
“Then you rest up. Until our meeting with Brady.”
“Meet with Brady? Why?”
“You can congratulate me.”
“Why?”
“You’ll find out. Night, sweetie.”
The call dropped.
And so did Sandy Epperson, onto the sofa. She was thinking what a snot Mark Mooney was when she lay down. She was thinking he was going to get the nod to Robbery-Homicide, the elite unit, when her head hit the pillow.
She thought of nothing more, but in the thickness of sleep she dreamed. She was in an ice cold lake. Underwater. She couldn’t breathe. Her father was trying to get to her. His hand was in the water but he couldn’t quite reach. . .
.
The park was beautiful.
It wasn’t like any park Chuck had seen before. Not a real life park, so he knew it was a dream. But he also knew this was more than a dream because he wasn’t dreaming, he was dead. He was seeing a vision in death.
Right?
He asked himself that question. He could hear himself asking if he was dead, right in the vision. His voice coming out of him.
He was seeing the park as if he was standing right there on the ground. Not himself. That would have been more like a dream, Chuck reasoned.
I can reason. I’m thinking.
This is a good sign.
In the park there were two figures, on the other side of the park, on the other side of the green grass.
Oh yes, old friends.
Nolan Ryan and Mario Lemieux. Only this time looking at Chuck, smiling, waving to him to come over and join them.
But if I go, where will I be?
Come on! they shout.
I have to find my brother, Chuck says in the vision.
“Your brother is all right.”
That voice didn’t come from the vision!
Open your eyes, Chuck.
“Your brother is going to be fine.” The voice is a woman’s voice. Chuck knew that voice.
“Stan . . .”
“Yes,” the voice said. “He’s d
ownstairs.”
“Where?”
“Hospital. Santa Monica.”
Open your eyes!
Light.
He was not dead.
Alive.
And she was Detective Sandy Epperson.
He was hooked up in a bed and alive.
“You’re going to be all right, too,” Sandy Epperson said. “You’ll need a lot of time to heal, though.”
Voice thick like it was coming out of tar pits. “Want to see Stan.”
“As soon as you both are able. You’ve been in here two days.”
“What . . happened?”
“Later. When you’re feeling better.”
“No. Now.” He was coming back and he wanted to know everything. He wanted his mind working again.
“You and your brother only helped bring down the most vicious heroin trafficking network we’ve ever had. Nothing major.”
Okay, good. Funny was good.
“And you,” Detective Epperson said, “managed to kill the son of Svetozar Zivkcovic.”
“Who?”
“Also known as Steven Kovak, the man whose house you were in.”
“How? We fell.”
Epperson nodded. “It was nasty. Dragoslav Zivkcovic, also known as Dag the Dog, fell right on top of a Manzanita. Branch went right through him, through his heart, and through your side. You two must have looked like shish kabob.”
Chuck felt the tightness of the bandages around his body.
“We got Kovak,” Epperson said. “He tried to get to a boat by way of a two-man chopper, but went down near the Channel Islands. Coast Guard picked him and his chief guy out of the drink.”
“My wife––”
“That’s enough for now. You need to rest.”
“No. Where is my wife?”
“You’re going to see her,” Sandy Epperson said. “But not yet.”
Chapter 69
Two days later Chuck told the nurse on duty that if he didn’t get to see Stan right now he was going to rip the tubes out of himself and sing opera.
Don't Leave Me Page 21