Stephen shook his head. “It’s obscured by some sort of glass.”
They went past Twenty-Fourth Street, both doing better than twice the speed limit. The Buick crossed the intersection with Twenty-Third, just missing a panel truck making a turn into Illinois. The Suburban missed the truck by even less.
The radio crackled to life. “3-Boy-15 to all units! 10–53! 3-Boy-19 has crashed at intersection of Twenty-Fifth and Illinois! Shots fired! 10–56! Suspects are in pursuit of us in a dark gray van!” The sounds of automatic weapons mixed with breaking glass and bullets hitting flesh stopped the transmission.
In the rear view mirror, Liam watched the rear-most police car veer off-course, cross the oncoming lane and crash into a parked car with enough force to send both vehicles onto the sidewalk.
“3-Boy-22 to all units!” a different voice said. “3-Boy-15 and 3-Boy-19 are both10-80! 10–56!”
Liam raised the radio mic. “3-Boy-22, this is Oscar-2. Take the lead in pursuit of the Buick. We’ll handle the 10–56.” He glanced back at the two men. “Steven, Danny, change seats. Dante, get ready to let Boy-22 past us, then block the road. Stephen, roll down the window and get ready to fire.” He lowered his own window.
Behind the police car, Liam could see a gray van coming up fast. “Dante, Now!”
Dante twisted the wheel to the left and the Suburban sped into the opposite lane, clear of traffic for the moment. The police car shot past the van. As soon as the car sped past, Dante jammed on the brakes and turned the SUV’s wheel to the right. The three-ton vehicle straddled the center line, blocking the road in both directions. As soon as the Suburban made the turn, Liam and Stephen had their P-90s out the windows, pointed at the oncoming van.
Someone in the van stuck an AK-47 out the open cargo side door. Liam snarled, “Fire!”
Firing 900 rounds per minute, it took both men less than four seconds to empty each fifty-round magazine. The van’s hood was ripped apart and the windshield shattered as a hundred slugs pierced both with ease. The van slowed and veered right, plowing into a pair of parked cars.
Liam and Stephen changed magazines amid the chaos.
“Danny!” Liam barked. “Cover us! Stephen, with me! Dante, get ready!”
“There’s an MP5 the bag!” Stephen yelled as he opened the door and climbed out. Choi dug into the bag until he found the German submachine gun.
Liam and Stephen advanced toward the crashed van, weapons held at the shoulder and pointing at the vehicle. Fifty feet from the van, the driver’s door was shoved open. The driver staggered out, wearing a cheap suit and clutching an AK-47 assault rifle. Blood covered his face, chest and hands, and the left side of his face had been ripped open. His left eye was missing. He screamed in fury as soon as he saw the pair and slowly tried to bring his weapon up to fire.
Both Liam and Stephen fired short bursts that struck the driver and staggered him, but he continued raising the assault rifle. Liam shifted targets and put a burst of 4.7mm rounds into the man’s head. With most of his head gone, the body dropped to the road.
The pair continued advancing. In the distance, they could hear more sirens, getting closer as they moved nearer to the van. Steam poured from the shattered radiator, forming a translucent cloud shrouding the front of the van. There was a thud from the back, something striking the doors. Another thud and the doors flew open. Both men stopped as another player climbed out of the van’s rear. As he shuffled into view, both OUTCASTs couldn’t believe what they saw. The man’s right arm was gone at the elbow, a belt strapped halfway up the upper arm. He had clearly been struck by several bullets in the torso and leg, but he still moving, a pistol in his good hand.
“Freeze!” Choi yelled, his MP5 up and pointed at the horrendously injured man.
The target, his face filled with hate, raised his pistol. Before he could aim, Liam shot him in the head with a four-round burst. The nearly decapitated man dropped to the roadway.
“Did we walk into a zombie movie by mistake?” Stephen yelled.
“Gotta be drugs,” Liam said. “Dan, cover the front. Me and Stephen will go around the back and check for survivors.”
They reached the van but didn’t find any more survivors. There were two more bodies in the van, both dead from multiple gunshots.
Liam adjusted the channel on his radio. “Oscar-2 to CHP H-30. Are you still tracking the bad guys?”
“Affirmative. Suspects just passed Twentieth Street, three police cars in pursuit.”
A SFPD car came to a stop twenty yards behind the van. Both officers came out with guns drawn. Liam placed the P-90 on the ground and approached the cops, his Homeland Security badge held out in front of him at arm’s length. One of the policemen came forward, examined the badge and ID, then motioned to his partner to stand down.
Liam pointed to the van. “Secure this crime scene. You have four DOAs, and messy ones at that. These are the bastards who took out Boy-Fifteen and Nineteen back there. We’re going after the snipers who shot up the pier a few minutes ago.”
The squeals of wheels made Liam turn in time to see Dante backing up the Suburban until it was only a few feet away. He picked up the P-90 and ran for the big SUV as Stephen and Choi got back into the SUV. Liam barely had enough time to leap into the front seat before the Suburban shot away from the crash scene, siren wailing.
They barreled through intersections, weaving their way through traffic that would not or could not get out of the way. They reached Twentieth where there were multiple explosions in rapid succession a quarter of a mile ahead. Liam used the vehicle’s radio as a cloud rose into the air. “Oscar-2 to CHP H-30. What happened?”
“Explosions at intersection of Mariposa and Illinois. Street’s impassable with badly damaged cars.”
“Do you see the suspect car?”
Twenty seconds ticked by. “Negative, Oscar. Between the explosions and the smoke, we lost them.”
Liam slammed his hand down on the padded dashboard. “Damn it!”
“What do you want to do?” Dante asked.
“Shut off the sirens. Let’s get back to the DEA office. Maybe Tanner and the others had better luck.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Naomi took one look at the building they were about to enter and shook her head. “This isn’t one of those hidden gems, is it?”
Vessler grinned. “Not by a long shot.”
Tanner frowned. “Are you sure this Alec W is here?”
“First place to look. If he isn’t here, there are a couple of other rabbit holes I know of.”
The North Bayside Hotel took up four floors of the five-story building, with a topless bar on the ground floor. The building was on the edge of San Francisco’s Financial District, within sight of the iconic Transamerica Tower. Despite the closeness to the city’s financial heart, the structure had a rundown look and feel to it. The light blue paint on the walls was faded and many windows had clothing hanging from them to dry.
They walked past the topless bar, its loud music grinding from within, to a rough wooden door with a steel kickplate. Faded letters on the wood named the hotel.
Inside, the smell of urine mixed with old cigarette smoke, body odor, and other less identifiable smells assaulted their nostrils. They found themselves in a hall six feet long and five wide, with unwashed walls and a dirty linoleum floor. At the end of the hall a flight of worn stairs led up.
“Okay,” Vessler began in a soft tone. “Alec Wong, alias Alec W, is a low-level pusher and Triad wannabe. He’s the one who told us about the pier pickup, and we think he’s the one who sold Dyachenko the Red Ice.” She glanced at her watch. “He should be awake by now — he usually hits a few spots where his regulars from the Financial District go for lunch. He acts tough, but he’s nothing but talk. Follow my lead, they know me around here.”