The sound of a wailing high-pitched siren was not unusual in L.A. at any hour, but there was enough of a ghoul factor to make anyone look.
Marcus Jackson turned to see what unfortunate soul had gotten busted. Probably someone running a light, since there were only two bursts on the siren. Kind of a ‘hey you, look in your rearview’ sort of message. What a bitch…
The man was definitely out of place, both in posture and appearance. First of all, he was white, a distinctive trait in this racially mixed minority area. And he was jogging, but then stopped when he saw Jackson turn around.
No more warning was needed. “Later, babe,” Marcus said, patting the lady’s ass before darting out into the stop-and-go traffic on Wilshire. The .357 revolver came out from under his jacket.
Agent Dan Burlingame from King Six saw the suspect bolt. His feet began immediately propelling his slightly overweight frame faster. “He’s running, south across Wilshire,” he yelled into his radio.
“Who was that?” Art asked. “He didn’t identify!” The accelerator hit the stops and the car lurched forward. Ahead, a wall of cars blocked the intersection.
Eddie hit the siren, but it could not make the cars, nose to ass, move; there was just no room. The threat of a $250 fine didn’t deter people from filling the intersection. King Six worked past the jam on the opposite side of the street, but slowly. One of the LAPD motors followed him, clued in now to the Bureau car’s identity, but unsure of what to do. The other motor officer pulled into traffic to clear a path in the intersection for the Chevy, its siren wailing and grille lights flashing.
Frankie, at a dead run, reached Wilshire in time to see Jackson dodging traffic in the eastbound lanes. “This is Frankie, I’m on him. He’s westbound on Wilshire. South side of the street. I see a gun. He’s armed.”
Cars were slowing at the sight of the man and his gun, making it easier for Frankie to weave her way across the street, but slowed traffic even more at the rear of the pack. She saw Dan entering lanes to her left. He was having a harder time, even having to do a half roll over the hood of a taxi.
In front of Art the motor cop threw up his hands in frustration.
“Screw it, let’s go.” Art pushed the door, taking the keys and a radio from the charger. Eddie followed.
The sight people were seeing was uncommon even for Los Angeles. Traffic had come to a halt on Wilshire as the agents converged on Jackson on foot and in vehicles. The lone motor officer who had stuck with King Six was in the dark as to what was going on, but he stayed close behind the Bureau Chrysler, yelling frantically into his radio for information from his dispatcher.
Jackson spun in a running circle to check his rear — he didn’t like what he saw. Two of them were close!
Inside, Marc. The doorway was set into the old building. He pushed off hard up the three steps and was inside.
Frankie and Dan hit the doorway simultaneously, seconds later, one on each side. Both were puffing hard.
“He’s inside a gray-brick four-story,” Frankie said into the radio. “Dan, check for exits.”
“Gotcha.” He moved east along the building’s front and disappeared down a side alley.
Frankie’s partner brought their car to a screeching halt fifty feet away, blocking the eastbound lanes of Wilshire. He ran toward Frankie, who directed him to the opposite side of the structure. Art and Eddie ran up, looking like half-dressed knights in their flak vests.
“Where’s he at?” Art was breathing hard.
“Inside, he went up,” Frankie answered. Several strands of hair had come loose from her ponytail and were hanging in her face. She threw them back with a toss of her head. “He’s armed.”
Art was pressed against the wall, looking alternately up and at Frankie. Eddie stood farther back by the comer, his gun trained upward covering the windows. King Five and King Six pulled up seconds apart from opposite directions.
There were now eight agents and one LAPD motor cop covering the building.
“Ed, over here.” Art shouted. Another agent took up Eddie’s position.
“Yeah, boss?” he panted.
“We’ve gotta take him. I don’t want him offing himself in there. No way.”
“It’s probably dark in there,” Eddie guessed, half joking and half not.
“You, me, and Frankie,” Art decided. “Okay?”
Francine Aguirre, whose unofficial Bureau nickname was Stud, smiled and nodded. Strangely, she was not afraid, but then it might have been the high-octane chemicals her body was pumping into her bloodstream.
“Let’s do it,” Eddie answered, spitting his gum on the sidewalk.
“You.” Art pointed to the faceless motor cop, still in his mirrored sunglasses and black-and-white helmet. The officer approached, crouching along the wall. “I’m Agent Jefferson, FBI. You cover the front. Anyone without a badge comes out, put them facedown. Got it?”
“Yeah.” What the hell is going on? He wanted the backup he called for to be there — now!
“All units: Frankie, Eddie, and I are going in.” Art tucked the radio in his back pocket. “Let’s go.”
Eddie led off. The front door creaked open inward — just like in the movies, Eddie thought. His gun was pointed forward, held in two hands. The Joker was deadly serious about this. Somewhere in the building was a guy who would more than likely blow a hole in him if given the chance. That didn’t sound appealing.
It was dark inside the old building, which at one time had probably been a bustling center of professional offices, but now was a dingy brick cube full of empty offices above the ground floor. A man poked his head out of a ground-floor office. Two guns, Art’s and Frankie’s, automatically centered on him.
“What’s u—”
“Get in-side,” Frankie ordered in measured syllables. “And stay there.” His head disappeared and the door lock clicked.
“You’re sure he went up?” Art asked.
“Yeah,” Frankie confirmed. “You should have seen the clodhoppers he was wearing. I heard them all the way outside.”
“Okay.”
Eddie looked up the stairs. “Here we go,” Eddie said.
Moving upstairs was a painfully tedious process when the stairs zigzagged up to each level. Eddie found himself the point, on his back squirming up each step while training his weapon at the perch of the level above. Art and Frankie following him also concentrated their attention upward, though it was considerably more comfortable. Eddie worked his way up to the second floor with the other two a few feet behind.
“Word has it you’ve got a good nose,” Art whispered to Frankie. “Now would be a wonderful time to demonstrate it.”
Frankie was on the right side of the wide hallway, looking down its short length. There were four windowed doors on each side, and a single window at the end of the corridor. Light pierced its glazed surface, shining through the swirling dust particles and illuminating the faded hospital green left wall. She twisted her head, looking up the center of the staircase shaft.
“I’d say he’s up top,” she surmised. “He’s gotta know he’s cornered. The higher up he goes, the farther he is from us.”
“I buy that,” Eddie agreed.
“All right, Ed, you and I go up. Frankie, you’re here. Don’t let him get past if he comes.”
“If he does, it means he got past us, which won’t be a good sign.” Eddie quietly snickered through his nose.
Frankie watched the agents begin their move up. She kept her attention focused on them; that was her job — cover. But she also shot frequent glances down the hallway, just in case.