by Ty Patterson
He emerged fifteen minutes later and shook his head at the officers.
That means what, no change? He looks Asian. He could be Choudhary, the one the nurses were talking about.
The medical team passed him, speaking too softly for him to overhear, and entered the elevator.
Cutter got to his feet and paced to the end of the hallway. Nodded at Elevator Cops and at the patient, and on his return, the elevator’s doors opened and two doctors entered the corridor with their backs to him.
He went to the water dispenser and drank. Looked casually to his right, where the Room Cops were, where the medics were heading.
That’s strange. Lasko just had a doctor’s examination.
He tossed his cup blindly at the trashbin. Took two steps forward when one of the coated men looked at the other and laughed, giving Cutter a profile view.
That’s them! Bulletin board men.
They have to be Munoz and Rodrigo.
77
Cutter grew alert as his right hand crept to his chest, ready for an easy draw.
The Room Cops straightened and faced the approaching doctors.
Their hands … I can see only their left. They’re hiding something in their right, beneath their coats.
Something dark and metallic flashed in the right man’s hand.
That looks like a gun!
‘HEY!’ he yelled; his hand close to his Glock. He had to be sure the men were armed.
Left Banger fired at the cops without looking at him. Right Banger spun on his feet to face him.
Cutter took it in instantly. A Hispanic-looking man, cold, dark eyes, a folded-stock weapon in his hand that was rising.
He dived to the floor as his Glock came out in a smooth draw. Landed on the hard floor just as bullets burned the air over his head. Right Man didn’t react at the missed shots. He started to correct his aim as screams burst out in the hallway and people fled for cover.
Cutter heard shouts and groans behind him but couldn’t risk looking back. He took his time to aim. Eye to Trijicon Sights that framed Right Banger. He fired three times and knew they were good shots from the way the shooter jerked and rolled desperately to seek cover behind the water dispensing machine, as Left Banger turned.
He blanked out the panicked sounds and groans of the injured as the surviving hitter sent a flurry of rounds in his direction that struck his protective cover and the wall. A few ricocheted off the floor.
He’ll come shooting. My cover’s not big enough.
He timed it in his mind. Felt the floor shudder as the shooter started running. Ignored the chips of tile, plastic and concrete that flew from the impact of the rounds. Jammed his Glock between his teeth, straightened to grab the water canister, yanked it free with a savage pull and, crouching low, hurled it blindly in the direction of the approaching banger.
Left Banger in his vision, fury and startled alarm on his face as he ducked to escape the flying water container. The shooter kept firing wildly as Cutter crouched low in the hallway. Something slammed into his chest and sent him staggering back a step. A round blew past his cheek, but he held his ground, brought his Glock up and emptied his magazine at Right Banger.
Cutter fast-reloaded his Clock as he crabwalked cautiously forward and kicked the shooter’s gun, an HK416, out of the way. The hitter was alive. He fired into the man’s legs and shoulders to immobilize him and hurried to Right Banger.
He’s dead. What about the cops?
He bent over them, felt one of them move, just as shouting reached him. He looked up to see armed cops burst into the hallway.
‘STOP. THROW YOUR GUN DOWN.’
Cutter exploded in a run as guns blazed. He threw himself at the window at the end of the hallway as another round hit his armor. Glass shattered from the impact of his body. He tossed his Glock into the night, reached out desperately with his hands and grunted in relief as his fingers found the ledge and halted his fall.
He let go immediately and dropped to the lower window, caught the sill, took a fraction of a second to regain his breath and repeated his maneuver until he reached the ground.
He hunted for his Glock for a moment and then gave up. I have spares. He shrugged out of his jacket and hurried deeper into the parking lot. Cops haven’t cordoned it off yet. He couldn’t blame them. They don’t have enough intel … it happened so fast.
He ran to his Land Cruiser and climbed into it. Stuffed his jacket beneath the seat and threw his shoulder holster in the back, fired up the vehicle and joined the throng of escaping rides.
‘I heard shots,’ he shouted in panic at two patrol cops who were directing the vehicles. ‘I was planning to visit my sister but … what happened? Is there an active shooter? Is he firing?’
‘Keep moving, sir,’ the cop told him.
Cutter did as ordered and drove out of the hospital into the city. Several cruisers and command vehicles passed him as he headed to Reseda, and when he tuned to a news channel, the first reports of the incident were coming in.
‘Active shooters opened fire in a hospital, injuring several people. At least four officers were among them.’
Those cops survived?
He hadn’t checked the Elevator Cops to see if they had taken any rounds. There had been no time for that.
Did Cesar escape?
His phone buzzed at eleven pm.
‘Did you get away, ese?’
‘Yeah, you?’
‘We didn’t wait for Munoz and Rodrigo. We got away as soon as the shooting started.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘You didn’t follow the news, ese?’
‘Nope,’ Cutter replied, tiredly.
‘They died. How did you survive that? They were two of our best hitters. News says you jumped through the window.’
Sheer luck.
He recalled the glimpse he had of the intensive care room as he had raced down the hallway. The LAPD detective on his bed, pale, with tubes and machines hooked to him.
‘Did Lasko say anything about family? A girlfriend? Wife?’
‘We never spoke of personal matters, ese.’
He showered and broke out another Glock. Loaded it and put it on the night table. He didn’t know if the cop would survive long enough to clear him.
It doesn’t matter, he shrugged to himself. I have questions.
Panig Janikyan has the answers.
78
Difiore and Quindica listened quietly as Matteo briefed Dade at the hospital.
They had still been in the LAPD HQ when reports of the shooting arrived.
‘Eleven people injured,’ the task force lead said grimly, ‘of which four are our cops.’
‘How seriously?’ the chief rapped out.
‘One, Jeff Muller, is critical. Rounds in his belly and chest. The others will survive. They were shot in the shoulder or legs. We’re sweeping the hospital, but it looks like it’s clean.’
‘What about the third shooter?’
‘Early reports were confusing, ma’am. It looks like he was firing at the gunmen.’
‘Who were Street Front?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Munoz and Rodrigo. We have extensive files on them.’
‘Why were they there?’
‘It’s possible Covarra sent them, ma’am. To kill Lasko.’
‘But why?’
‘No way of knowing, ma’am.’
‘This third shooter—’
‘Was Cutter Grogan,’ Difiore broke in. ‘He must have found out somehow that Lasko was going to be killed.’
‘Grogan?’ Matteo whirled on her in astonishment. ‘That man looked nothing like him.’
‘Disguise. He’s expert at them. Who else would it be? Why else would a stranger open fire on Street Front shooters?’
‘There could be many reasons,’ Cruz said heatedly.
‘Yeah? Such as?’
‘It was Grogan,’ she asserted when none of the cops had an answer. ‘You’ve got camera footage of what
went down?’
‘Yeah,’ Matteo nodded.
‘Let Quindica and me go through it as well. We’ll—’
‘Vance!’ A cop hurried over, holding a gun in a baggie. ‘We found this beneath a vehicle in the parking lot to that side. Where that shooter jumped out.’
Difiore leaned in to look at the weapon. ‘Glock,’ she noted. ‘That’s Grogan’s preferred gun. I’m sure you’ll find his prints on it when you dust it. He must have thrown it out when he jumped.’
Matteo looked at her, at the weapon and then at Dade. ‘What I said the other day,’ he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, ‘about Grogan having some kind of a deal with Covarra … what if Lasko was in on it, too? That would be why the Street Front wanted to kill him. Grogan got some—’
‘Vance,’ Dade cut him off. ‘More evidence and fewer theories, please.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He nodded to Cruz and Estrada and led them away.
‘That isn’t true,’ Difiore protested as she checked out the chief’s expressionless face.
‘I know.’ Dade turned to her. ‘Vance’s got the wrong idea about both of them. He won’t find any proof to back it up. Then, he’ll start digging and come up with the right answers.’
‘Ma’am, how did Cutter know the hit would happen?’
‘Ask him when he calls.’
79
Cutter saw Beth’s text when he was checking the news the next day.
Lasko doesn’t have anyone. His folks died young. No special person in his life, from what we can see. He’s a loner.
He shrugged after considering it for a moment. He couldn’t make sense of the detective’s words. They might not be significant.
LAPD suspects you, she continued, but haven’t disclosed it to the public. Those shooters are Munoz and Rodrigo. Street Front Killers.
He nodded to himself. He knew their identities.
He turned on the TV and followed the news for a while. Security beefed up at the hospital. Suspected gang shooting. One cop in serious condition.
He grimaced at that. Could I have done anything more? Should I have shot them in their backs?
They could have been doctors, he argued with himself. I had to be sure.
His phone buzzed as if on cue. Another text from Beth.
Matteo’s updated the case file. He suspects you, Covarra and Lasko had some kind of arrangement. Drug dealing.
He read it in disbelief and called her immediately.
‘Yeah,’ she replied, as if she had been talking to him. ‘He thinks you took Street Front drugs from his warehouses. That meeting on Jesse Street was to strike a deal with him. Lasko was dirty, too. You had some kind of disagreement with both of them, shot the cop and got away.’
‘That’s what Matteo thinks?’ he asked, stunned.
‘Looks like his task force is considering that angle. You gotta admit, it makes sense from their perspective.’
‘Anyone who knows me—’
‘Dade knows you, but why would she overrule her best detective? She’ll want to see proof. As of now, this is just speculation on Matteo’s part.’
Makes sense. It changes nothing for me. LAPD was already hunting me.
‘What about Lasko?’
‘He’s been disciplined several times. Suspended as well. There are rumors he’s a racist. He’s not the most reputable cop in the city. He could be dirty.’
What if that was an act? To gain the trust of snitches he was developing?
Only the detective could answer his questions, and he was in the hospital.
‘Think of the upside,’ she urged. ‘You can walk into any gang now and they’ll accept you.’
She hung up on that positive note.
He smiled ruefully, thought for several moments and then shrugged.
There wasn’t anything he could do to clear himself, other than hope Lasko recovered.
No point in going to Difiore and Quindica. They might believe me, but my word won’t be enough.
Got to get back to my mission.
He brought up the GPS tracking app and checked the green dot on it. Zohrab’s still in Little Armenia.
He washed his breakfast dishes and dressed swiftly. Carried his gymbag and backpack out and considered which ride he would take. He still had the Tahoe, Limon’s cab and the Land Cruiser.
I’ll take the Toyota. It’s built well and Chuck’s beefed it up. It’s sturdy enough for what I’m planning.
Cutter drove to Little Armenia and looped around Janikyan’s alley in a wide circle. Fountain Avenue, Sunset Boulevard, and back. Where should I station myself? Does it even matter? He argued with himself. As long as Zohrab’s got the patch, I can follow him anywhere.
He parked behind a food truck on Serrano Avenue and began the wait. It turned out not to be a long one.
The green dot moved at lunchtime, and judging by its speed, the bodyguard was in a vehicle.
He’s heading to Hobart. Cutter squeezed into a narrow gap in the traffic, waved apologetically when an angry honk sounded, and sped through traffic. He drove fast, got on Fountain and took the left to Serrano, flicking his eyes between his phone and the traffic in front.
‘There!’ he said aloud when the green dot turned out to be a Tahoe with darkened windows. He followed it as it joined Sunset Boulevard and headed to Hollywood.
He got confirmation at a red light that Zohrab wasn’t alone. I can make out three heads inside. He crossed his fingers and hoped one of the men was Janikyan.
He unzipped his backpack, which was on the passenger seat, searched through it and brought out the soluble trackers. He applied them liberally to his right palm and drove with his left hand.
What he planned was called PIT, Pursuit Intervention Technique, aka TVI, Tactical Vehicle Intervention, a maneuver widely used by cops and military forces to stop a fleeing vehicle.
Cutter got the opening to implement it once they had crossed Van Ness. Traffic had cleared up all the way to the next set of lights, some distance away.
He floored the gas and closed the distance to the Tahoe. Came up on its left and swerved into it abruptly just ahead of its rear wheel.
The Tahoe skidded with an audible squeal of tires. It spun in a slow arc with rubber burning as the driver fought to control it and came to a shuddering stop almost a hundred and eighty degrees, facing the way it had come.
Cutter steered his ride to the right lane and stopped. He had to act fast, while the Tahoe’s passengers were jolted and in shock from the collision.
And before cops arrive.
He jumped out with his Glock in his left hand and a hammer in his right and shattered the front and rear windows of the SUV. Zohrab, blinking in shock in the driver’s seat, struggled to free his seat belt.
Cutter knocked him out with the hammer and switched the instrument and gun between hands as he took in Panig Janikyan in the rear seat. Bleeding from a cut in his forehead, clawing for the door handle, no seat belt around him. A third man by his side, who had recovered the quickest and had brought up an assault rifle.
He shot the man in the face as someone screamed in the distance. He didn’t look up, didn’t panic and let his surroundings fade into grey. He was nothing but controlled motion and cold, calculated action as he yanked the door open and dragged the gang leader out with his left hand. It was an awkward hold because of the hammer, and the Armenian leader punched him weakly.
Cutter took it on his chest, then crushed the gangster’s lips with a savage slam of his right palm.
‘You knew all along,’ he growled. ‘You knew those women were killed with your guns. Who was it? Did you shoot them?’
Janikyan wasn’t the head of a vicious gang for nothing. He lunged forward with a roar, blood streaming from his cut lips. His fingers came up as claws to scratch and gouge.
Cutter slammed the hammer on his temple and caught his collar to drag him to his vehicle.
‘Who killed them?’ he yelled as he yanked his captive savagely.
/> The round slammed into concrete at the base of his feet.
He acted instantly and brought Janikyan in front of him as cover. Curled his left elbow around the man’s throat and squeezed hard to throttle his struggling.
A vehicle was coming up fast on Sunset, with bangers hanging out of it. One of them fired wildly as he took in what was happening.
I can take Janikyan, but they’ll chase me. A shootout in LA’s crowded streets wouldn’t go down in his favor. They won’t care who they kill, but I can’t risk civilians.
He released Janikyan and kicked him on the butt forcefully, to send him staggering at the oncoming vehicle. He fired a burst of rounds at it as it swerved and the shooters ducked inside.
‘This isn’t over,’ he threatened Janikyan and dashed to the Land Cruiser. Fired it up in an instant and raced down Sunset. He cut through the red light, narrowly avoiding a crash with a tour bus, hung a right on Gower, twisted and turned through alleys and streets, conscious that his ride would be reported to the cops by civilians.
Got to move fast and dump it somewhere.
The journalist on the radio channel burst into excited chatter as he reported the shooting. ‘They turned Sunset into the Wild West!’ he exclaimed. ‘Initial reports that it was a movie shoot were wrong. These were criminals—’
Cutter turned down the volume and headed into the Hollywood Hills. Took Fern Dell Drive up into the hills and turned into The Trails, a café in the midst of Griffith Park. He parked between two SUVs and climbed out. Donned his shades and looked about casually. Hikers and families. No cops, no one looking at him suspiciously. He checked that the neighboring vehicles were empty and swiftly changed his ride’s plates with spare ones he carried.
He shouldered his backpack and gymbag and hit a hiking trail.
‘Camping overnight?’ another traveler asked him.
‘Dunno,’ he grumbled. ‘Some friends were supposed to join me but they’re running late. Can’t raise their phones.’