44
A SIGN ON THE METAL building read A. L. BARBER-DRY STORAGE. It reminded Pike of an airplane hangar, with hangar-sized doors, but now the doors were closed. Two oversized forklifts were parked nearby, along with yachts on metal frames. They were either on their way into the building or on their way out, but for now they beached in the parking lot.
A large slip cut into the dock allowed boats to be floated onto a sling. They were then lifted from the water and placed on a metal frame. The forklifts then carried them into the building for secure, long-term storage. The building was on the channel, but directly across the street the landscape was brown and ragged. A few stunted oaks and some marsh brush dotted the sandy plain, but nothing else. Pike knew Ballona Creek was somewhere on the other side, but a rise in the land blocked his view.
Jakovich said, “I sent them all home. We have the place to ourselves.”
Cole said, “You own it?”
“Of course.”
Jakovich unlocked the door and entered the building. Two of his men followed, but the others stayed by their cars.
Pike stopped at the door.
“You should have your men come in with us. They’ll attract attention out there.”
“There is no attention to attract, and who cares? I own it. I have every right to be here.”
The lights slowly flickered to life. The ceiling was almost three stories high, and supported by parallel steel girders. A thin frame of more girders was built onto the long walls, each facing the other. They reminded Pike of the Hollywood Squares, like a tic-tac-toe board set on its side. Most of the squares were now filled with yachts, a row on the floor with a second row above.
Jakovich and his two watchdogs set off the length of the building. Cole and Pike followed, with two more guards behind them. Cole glanced at Pike, arching his eyebrows to send a message. If Darko and Walsh followed their signal to the end of the marina, a caravan of vehicles would appear.
Cole ran his hand through his hair, palming the bug. He broke it, then flicked the tiny pieces away. Pike did the same.
A metal storage container the size of a two-axle truck sat in a bay at the far end of the building. It was just sitting there, secured by a single lock. Jakovich removed the lock and pushed open the door. It scraped the concrete floor with a high squeal.
Jakovich said, “There.”
Wooden crates stamped with Chinese characters filled the container. Pike knew from their size each crate would contain ten rifles. Three hundred crates. Jakovich mumbled something, and one of his goons pulled out a crate. It hit the floor with a bang that cracked the wood. Each rifle weighed about nine pounds. Ninety pounds. Three hundred crates, twenty-seven thousand pounds.
Jakovich toed the crate.
“You want to inspect, you better get started. You gonna be here f orever.”
Pike opened the crate. Cardboard boxes matching Jon’s box were packed inside. Pike tore open the cardboard and slid out the rifle in its plastic wrapper.
“Forget it. We don’t need to inspect.”
“You like my rifles?”
“Yes.”
“Good. So do I. I’m going to keep them. I’m going to keep your money, too.”
He made a little finger wave, and the watchdogs drew their guns.
Pike felt Cole move more than saw him, shifting to the side, and Pike shook his head.
“You’re giving up Darko?”
“I will get Darko on my own. This way, I get three-quarters of a million dollars.”
“Let me ask you something. Everything Rina told you about me, you think I’d give you seven hundred fifty thousand in cash, and come here unprotected?”
Jakovich reached under his shirt, and came out with a small black pistol.
“Yes, I think maybe you did. Now we’ll take you for a boat ride. Show you the sights.”
He was saying something in Serbian when a voice outside shouted, followed by a soft pop like a champagne cork. The two guards closest to the door turned toward the sound. Pike didn’t know if it was Darko or Walsh, and did not wait to find out. Jakovich shouted at his men, and Pike instantly moved. He stepped into Jakovich, stripped his pistol, and shot the two closest guards. They dropped their guns when they fell, and Cole scooped up the nearest. Pike locked his arm around Jakovich’s neck, and fell back, using him as a shield.
“There a way out behind us?”
“I’m looking.”
Three loud bangs echoed through the building, and three men ran through the far door. They stopped long enough to fire several shots, then noticed the two men Pike shot, and then they saw Pike holding Jakovich. Jakovich shouted something, but Pike cut off his wind before he finished. The men disappeared between the yachts as more men came through the door.
Cole shouted, “Back here. The big doors-”
The gunfire out front exploded into a firefight. Bullets snapped through the thin metal walls as if they were tissue, and plunked into the yachts. Pike dragged Jakovich to the doors, then pushed him away to help Cole open the doors. Outside, they saw a confused group of men running and gunning between Jakovich’s Hummers and Darko’s black cars.
Cole said, “This is a clusterfuck.”
“Here comes Walsh.”
An SRT wagon appeared at the far turn, followed by several unmarked cars.
Pike turned to look for Jakovich just as two men ran into the building. The first man was Michael Darko. He stopped just inside the door, saw Jakovich, and shot him. He ran closer, and shot him twice more. He shouted something in Serbian, and shot Jakovich a fourth time. Then he saw Pike, and Michael Darko gave a big smile.
“We got this bastard. You had a good plan.”
He would have stood over Frank Meyer exactly like that. Pike saw him shooting Frank in exactly the same way.
Pike raised his gun, and shot the man who had run in with Darko. Darko stood slack-jawed for a moment, as if he didn’t understand, then lifted his gun and fired.
Pike pushed Cole out, and followed, ducking behind the big door as the SRT teams identified themselves over their P.A. systems and demanded that everyone surrender. Two or three might have surrendered, but the gunfire continued.
Cole said, “He’s out the side door. He’s running.”
Darko.
Pike ran hard along the front of the building through the chaos of the fight. The SRT operators and arriving ATF agents were spreading along a perimeter, taking men into custody.
Pike ran past them.
He reached the corner of the building, and saw Darko halfway down its length, far beyond the action. Pike started after him. Darko suddenly turned toward the street. He saw Pike following, and popped off two shots, but Pike didn’t slow.
Darko ran across the street, jumped high onto the chain-link fence, and clawed his way over. He dropped into the sandy brush, staggered to his feet, and fired three more shots. One of his bullets sparked off the tarmac at Pike’s feet, but Pike kept running.
He heard Kelly Walsh shouting behind him.
“Stop it, Pike! You stop! He’s mine!”
Pike ignored her.
He hit the fence at a hard run, and crashed down into dead scrub that tore into his skin. Pike couldn’t see Darko or hear him, so he traced the fence until he found the spot where Darko climbed over. The signs were easy to follow, even as Hurwitz’s voice echoed over the P.A.
“Stand down, Pike. We are moving into the area. We’ll get him. Now stand down.”
Pike picked up his pace.
The footprints and trail scuffs led up a low rise, then down into a depression overgrown with chaparral and sage. Pike pushed through the hard scrub, so thick and dense he was unable to see anything except the ground at his feet.
The chaparral thinned as the ground rose, and tabled out into a small clearing. Darko’s footprints continued across. Pike paused to scan the far side of the rise for movement. Ballona Creek was visible about three hundred yards ahead. It was a wide creek with concrete walls, and a current that pushed to the sea. They were very close to the ocean. If Darko made it to the creek, there was a good chance he could escape.