“How do you think we should do this?” Art asked at a red light.
“Well, there’s no reason to think he wouldn’t be armed, so I say we kick it in — no warning.”
“What if he’s got someone in there? Everything points to him being a pretty scuzzy guy, and if he has any money for his part, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s purchased some company.”
Eddie laughed. “He’s a red velvet kinda guy. Frankie said that car is pretty damn gaudy. How much you figure it set him back?”
“Who knows. We’ll see how much we get for it at auction.” Art accelerated away from the pack at the green. The engine whined through the gears, pushing the car through the next two lights as they went from yellow to red, before the back of a traffic wave slowed them. They were a scant seven blocks from the hotel.
“Let’s you and I go through first, with King four coming behind us.”
“Frankie and Thom second,” Eddie suggested.
“They’ve done good.”
“Damn straight,” Eddie confirmed, playing the cheerleader.
Art weighed it quickly. No matter how equal they were, he just didn’t like the thought of a female agent taking a bullet. But… “They deserve it. Okay.”
“Seven Sam,” the radio crackled.
Art grabbed the mike. Three blocks. “Seven Sam, go ahead.”
“Seven Sam, King Four — we have movement. Suspect is with a…stand by.” The last words were hushed. Art stepped on the accelerator and swerved out into traffic, passing a group of four vehicles with only his blue and red rear lights flashing through the back window. “Seven Sam, suspect just passed our door. He’s with a young Caucasian female. Looks like a working girl. He’s got no bags with him. Should we take him?”
Dammit! Art’s chest began to pound. “Negative.” He let off the mike. “Ed, did the warrant get processed?”
“Yep.” Eddie had his gun in hand, resting it on his lap.
“King Four, when it’s clear you kick that door and secure the room. Copy?”
“Ten-four.”
“What’s Frankie’s team?” Art asked, swerving the car into the curb lane one-handed.
“King Eight.” Art swung the car right and pulled across to the opposite side of the street, bringing the gray Chevy to a stop facing the wrong way on the east side of the park.
“King Eight, go.” It was Frankie.
“Frankie, where’s Jackson’s car?”
“In the lot on the north side of the building. We’re across the street in the tailor’s.”
“Are there any people in that lot?”
“Affirmative. Ten or twelve in a group. Business types.”
The decision was a bitch, and it had to be made fast. Jackson and his friend would be in the lot within a minute. If the agents tried to take them there, a lot of people could get hurt: Stray bullets don’t care about guilt or innocence. He could have had King Four make a move up on the eighth floor, Art thought, but hindsight was worth shit now. There was only one choice.
“King Eight, where’s the outlet for that lot?”
“Right in front of us.”
There wasn’t enough time to clear the lot, and Jackson could turn right or left onto the street, complicating things further. They had to isolate him somewhat, and try to get the lady out of danger. She was just doing her job, after all.
“Frankie, get your car out there and block it so he’ll turn east. Block the westbound lane on Sixth — put the hood up. And have Thom stay in the store. Copy?”
“Copy.”
Art looked over his shoulder before flooring the gas pedal, pulling the car back into the right-hand lane of Lafayette Park Place. “King Five.”
“Five by.”
“King Five, set up on Commonwealth north of Sixth, and keep out of sight. Copy?”
“Ten-four, got it.”
“King Six.” Art turned left onto Sixth.
“King Six, go ahead.”
“Cover Commonwealth and Wilshire, but stay away from the intersection: It’s too close to the front of the hotel. Copy?”
“Ten-four. We’ll set up over on the south side of the park.”
“All right, folks. We’ll take Sixth east of Commonwealth.” Art wanted to box in Jackson. Any direction he traveled could be blocked by one of the four units. Traffic was just beginning to let up on the periphery streets, but not on Wilshire. There was a steady flow westbound of late workers heading toward Santa Monica, and King Six found themselves the object of constant car horns as they turned west on Wilshire from Hoover, blocking the curb lane of traffic.
“Where the hell’s he going?” Art stopped on the left again, this time on Sixth.
“Food, I’d say.”
Seat belts were off now and the adrenaline was beginning its slow rise to the crescendo that would soon come.
Two minutes passed without Jackson appearing. The agent in the passenger seat of King Six had his binoculars trained on the Commonwealth and Wilshire entrances to the hotel, at times having to peer through the amazingly lush trees. He saw nothing. At the rear of the hotel Frankie had maneuvered the Bureau T-Bird at an angle so that all of the westbound lane of Sixth, and part of the eastbound one, was blocked. She was at the right of the vehicle, trying her best to be interested in the quiet six-cylinder engine and trying equally as hard to fend off several offers of help from passing motorists, all of them male.
Another minute.
“Seven Sam, this is King Eight,” Thom called. “We’ve got nothing here except a crowd gathering to help Frankie.”
Art hit the steering wheel. “Where is he?”
“Maybe they’re eating inside,” Eddie surmised, shrugging. Art flashed him a “you would have to say that” look.
“Seven Sam, King Six. We’ve got him. He’s on foot, with his lady friend, westbound on Wilshire. He came out the front.”
“Son of a bitch!” Art cursed, throwing the car hard into gear. “We could lose him in that traffic on Wilshire. King Eight.”
“King Eight, Frankie’s heading for Wilshire on foot.”
“Seven Sam, King Six, my partner is on foot.” Two agents were now out of their vehicles, moving to cut Jackson off: one behind, and Frankie trying to head him off on Wilshire.
Art and Eddie reached the intersection of Commonwealth and Sixth as King Five did from the north. Art went south on Commonwealth, more out of fear of colliding with the other unit than desire, and King Five went west on Sixth.
“Best-laid plans, boss,” Eddie commented. He was chewing his gum hard now.
Art slowed a hundred yards shy of Wilshire, and then there was the sound.
LAPD had been notified of the Bureau’s presence in the area, a routine practice when one law enforcement agency was operating within the jurisdiction of another. The message was passed over the radio to the divisional units, but without having a divisional roll call to acknowledge the information. Two motor officers missed the call, having been involved in a minor altercation with a traffic offender. After all, it hadn’t been an “officer needs help” call, something that would have grabbed their immediate attention.
This made it somewhat understandable, but no less damaging, when the two officers gunned their Kawasakis to catch up with the beat-up-looking Chrysler that had pulled away from the curb and across two lanes of traffic into the oncoming lanes. They were too far away to see the radio antenna at the front of the car, but then it became inconsequential as both hit their sirens and lights simultaneously.