by Robert Crais
Mr. Rollins decided to see. He gave Eli a call.
“We are sleeping over here, you take so long. We ordered the pizzas.”
Morons yucking it up.
“Looks good. Go meet her. And remember, you’re terrorists.”
“Where are you?”
“Going to my car. I’ll be right behind you.”
Mr. Rollins called the number he had for Charles. She answered before, and answered again.
“We’re here. Is that you inside?”
Amy said, “Yes. I’m here. I’ve been waiting.”
The woman in the Volvo waved.
“Great. See you soon. Ten seconds or so.”
Mr. Rollins put away his phone, and watched. Eli showed up a few seconds later, turned through the entrance, and stopped. Neither car moved for another ten seconds until Eli got out and spread his hands, his gesture saying, what, are you just gonna sit there?
Then Eli turned to climb back into his car, and all hell broke loose. Mr. Rollins didn’t stay to see it play out. He eased off the roof, returned to his anonymous car, and recited his list of getaway rules.
Go slow.
Stay in the right lane.
Brake early.
Mr. Rollins followed the rules, and got away.
62
Elvis Cole
THE HEAT in the rental office built quickly with so many people crowded into a small space. The CRT team commander and Kelman were up front, near the glass. The CRT commander was miked to talk to the deployed elements. Darrow was closer to us, wearing a radio headset so he could speak with Hess. Special Agent in Charge Hess was in Amy’s Volvo.
The agents almost mutinied when the SAC announced she would be in the car, but Hess held tough, and told them to watch her back. The SAC sends who the SAC wants. She was beginning to make me smile.
Joe and I stood with Jon and Amy in the rear. Amy was draped in a bullet-resistant vest heavy enough to stop a rhino. Jon had ripped it from the CRT team vehicle.
Amy was in the office because she held the phone. If Colinski called, he’d expect Amy to answer. She needed to see the field of play to know how to respond.
When the phone finally rang, everyone in the office looked at Amy except for the CRT commander. He kept his eyes on the Volvo.
“Hello?”
Amy listened.
“Yes. I’m here. I’ve been waiting.”
Amy raised her hand, and Darrow whispered to Hess.
“Wave. They see you. Wave.”
Inside the Volvo, Janet Hess waved.
Amy lowered the phone.
“They’re coming. He said ten seconds.”
Darrow repeated the information to Hess, and the CRT commander mumbled into his mike.
A bronze SS396 turned through the entrance, rolled forward, and stopped. Both agents lifted binoculars, and Kelman immediately called out identifiers.
“Sturges, driver. Front passenger, Remi Jay Wallach, he’s their blaster. One male in rear, can’t make him out.”
I squinted through the glass.
“I don’t see Colinski. Colinski isn’t in the car.”
I snapped at Darrow.
“Tell her. He isn’t with them.”
Darrow told her and asked what to do.
“What do we do, wait? He isn’t here.”
Sturges got out of his car. He stared at the Volvo for several seconds, and spread his hands, asking what she’s waiting for.
I pulled Darrow close, and spoke into his mike.
“Don’t get out, Hess. Colinski is watching. He’ll see you’re not Amy.”
Sturges turned to get into his car, and Darrow shouted, relaying Hess’s order.
“Take down! Now! Gogogo!”
I was a spectator. I watched from a glass box as others did the work.
On the command, CRT operators rushed forward from hides along the wall and behind our office, and an amplified voice shouted commands at the people in the car. Sturges dove behind the wheel, and hit the gas. I guess he thought he could get away, like they do in the movies. The car fishtailed sideways, the rear tires throwing smoke. Flashes reached from the back seat, a few at first, then a long crazy stream scribing a pointless arc. The front passenger door flew open. The passenger fell out or maybe he jumped, but either was just in time. The operators went to work with their M4s, killing the car and the people within. I knew the moment when Sturges was hit. His foot left the gas, and the slipping, sliding tires stopped spinning. His car lurched forward, and slammed into the Volvo with a dull thud.
The operators swarmed the car, proned the passenger who had fallen out, and secured the scene. I ran outside to check on Hess, but she was out of the Volvo and laughing before I reached her. I was proud of her. She really did well.
It was a good day. Amy was safe, and would get the help she needed. Hess came through for Scott. His suspension would go away, and he would return to the job he loved.
It was a good day in many ways, but it could have been better.
I promised Scott I would give him Colinski.
I didn’t.
63
Scott James
Eleven days later
THEY KNEW FROM Remi Jay Wallach, the lone survivor of Sturges’s crew, that Royal Colinski was present at the storage facility. Colinski was probably suspicious after Mitchell’s suicide, stayed back as Sturges walked into the trap, and fled. Scott didn’t fault Elvis Cole for this. Stuff happened.
Colinski’s whereabouts remained unknown. Three people could now offer testimony to link the man with capital crimes. Remi Jay Wallach, Amy Breslyn, and Scott. Since Scott was no longer the lone witness, and Colinski’s face was splashed on the evening news, Carter, Stiles, and the other detectives believed Colinski had fled the city. Even Cowly and Cole agreed. The only concession Scott made to Colinski’s escape was his weapon. Scott had never been one of those cops who slept with his gun on the nightstand, but now he did. He kept his pistol handy.
A patrol car remained outside Scott’s house for three days following Colinski’s disappearance. During that time, and in the eight days since, Maggie made no middle-of-the-night raging alerts. After the third silent night, Scott asked that the guards be canceled, and they were.
Eleven days after Colinski escaped, Scott had the day off. Late that afternoon, he and Maggie were heading to the park when his phone rang.
Cole said, “Hey, dude. I know it’s the last minute, but how about some dinner? You can bring that dog.”
“Maggie.”
“Maggie. Sorry.”
Scott was learning to like Cole, and enjoyed his company.
“Rain check? Joyce and I were planning to grab something.”
“Bring her. Pike’s coming. I’ll fire up the grill.”
“What about Jon?”
“Parts unknown. He does that.”
“Lemme call Joyce. Can I let you know in an hour?”
“No problemo.”
Scott left a message on Cowly’s phone, and smiled at Maggie.
“If we go up there, stay away from that cat.”
Maggie wagged her tail.
A soccer game was breaking up when they reached the park. Scott was glad the teams were clearing the field. He’d brought along a bag of baloney cubes and the tug toy for after their run.
Scott left his gym bag in an open location so he could keep an eye on it, and circled the park at his usual slow pace for thirty minutes. Maggie stayed glued to his left, like always, with her long shepherd tongue dangling like a pink rope.
“You must be the most patient dog in the world, following my slow butt around this park so many times.”
Wag.
Maggie was never bored when she was with Scott. Being with Scott made her happy. Made Scott happy, too.
Scot
t finished their final lap back at his gym bag. He unlocked the bag, took out her collapsible water bowl, and filled it. Maggie emptied the bowl quickly, so he filled it again, and watched her drink. Leland had taken him aside the day he returned to the roster.
Every second we have with these fine animals is a blessing. No creature, human or otherwise, will love you with such devotion, or trust you so fully. Remember this, Officer James. These dogs will lay their precious hearts bare to you, and hold back no part for themselves. Can anyone else in your pathetic excuse for a life say the same? Such trust is a gift from God Almighty above, so best you be worthy.
Scott ran his hand over Maggie’s back, long strokes, the way Leland taught him.
“I almost lost you, baby girl. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
Maggie wagged her tail and happily curled against him.
Scott put away her bowl, and took out the baloney. The instant she saw the bag she snapped to attention.
“Wanna chase a baloney ball, Maggie-girl? Wanna show me how fast you can run?”
Scott fished the first chunk from the bag and threw it as far as he could. The hefty cube flew a good thirty-five yards, and skittered into the clover beyond the parking lot. Maggie chased down the cube before it stopped bouncing.
“Good girl, Maggie! Atta girl!”
As Maggie trotted back, a man got out of a white Camry with a basketball. He bounced it five or six times, but Scott ignored him. The basketball courts were on the opposite side of the parking lot.
Maggie stood at attention when she got back, anxious to run down another treat. Scott showed her a piece of baloney.
“This one, and one more, and then we have to go, okay?”
Explaining, as he would to a child.
Scott threw a bullet. The baloney arced far past the parking lot, bounced off a sidewalk, and landed in a sandpit surrounding the swing sets more than fifty yards away.
The man with the basketball watched Maggie sprint past, tucked the ball under his arm, and walked toward Scott.
Scott inwardly groaned when he saw the baloney roll into the sand, and shouted a command.
“Maggie, down! Stay!”
Maggie’s head whipped around so fast she almost fell over. She was only a few feet from her prize, and torn.
“Maggie, down! Down!”
She gazed forlornly at the lost treat, and dropped to her belly. Scott hated to call her off, but he didn’t want her eating a mouthful of sand. He picked up his gym bag and trotted after her.
The man with the basketball was closer. Something about him was familiar, but sunglasses and a low Dodgers cap covered his features. They were the only two people at this end of the park, but the man was coming toward him.
Scott stopped.
The man tossed the basketball aside, and reached under the sweatshirt. Scott saw the flesh-colored vinyl gloves.
“Remember me, asshole?”
Colinski.
“Yeah. You tried to poison my dog.”
Colinski drew a pistol, and came toward him faster.
Maggie
Maggie dropped to her belly reluctantly. She glanced over her shoulder at Scott, and quickly turned back to the baloney. A happy flood of saliva drooled from her mouth. Maggie didn’t care about the sand and grit. The hefty cube glowed with salty scents of pork fat and chicken, and her tail thumped the ground with anticipation.
Maggie fidgeted, and glanced hopefully at Scott again. Scott was jogging toward her, but suddenly stopped and stared at the man with the basketball. The man had meant nothing until Scott stopped, and now Maggie read the change in Scott’s posture from fifty yards away. Something was wrong.
Her ears flicked upright and swiveled. Her mask darkened in concentration.
Patrol dogs and Military Working Dogs were trained to protect their handlers. If the handler was attacked, and unconscious, or fighting for his or her life, the dog had to know what to do without being told. As Leland said, “These animals aren’t robots, goddamnit! They think! You train her up right, this beautiful dog will watch your back better than a squad of goddamned Marines!”
The man approaching Scott threw the basketball aside with a sharp, snapping move, and the signs of aggression were as clear to Maggie as a point-blank gunshot. Then the man pointed a gun at Scott, and Maggie broke her stay.
Scott threatened.
Pack threatened.
K-9 Maggie accelerated to a full-stretch sprint in less than half the time possible by the world’s fastest human sprinter. Scott and the man with the gun were half a football field away, but Maggie could cover this distance a full second and a half faster than the fastest professional football players.
The pain in her wounded hips didn’t matter.
The weapon the man turned toward her didn’t matter.
Maggie stretched and pulled. She stared at the man as she ran, and saw nothing else.
Only Scott mattered.
A growl sawed from her chest like teeth gnawing bone.
Scott
Maggie was coming. Maybe she had read a threat in the man’s carriage or aggression in his approach, but Scott would never know. He loved her so deeply in this moment his eyes blurred.
Colinsky didn’t see her. Maggie was forty yards behind him, and coming at a dead sprint.
Scott nodded at his dog.
“Missed your chance, Royal. She’s got you.”
Maggie was still thirty yards behind them, and Scott knew the man had a decision. Shoot Scott first, then the dog, or the dog, then Scott. Scott was fifty feet away, so Colinski had plenty of time to shoot Maggie before Scott could reach him.
Scott spread his arms, the gesture saying, take your pick.
Colinski smirked.
“Stupid mutt.”
When Colinski turned to bead-up on Maggie, Scott took his pistol from the gym bag. He didn’t shout a warning or order Colinski to throw down his weapon. Scott pulled the trigger.
Colinski hunched when the bullet struck him. Scott shot him twice more before he fell.
When Colinski dropped and lay still, Maggie broke off her attack as she’d been trained, and circled the body. A man on the far side of the parking lot shouted.
Scott hurried over, secured Colinski’s weapon, and clipped Maggie’s lead. People gathered on the basketball courts and at the edge of the soccer field, but no one came closer.
Colinski made little hiccupping sounds, and blood burped from his mouth. He mumbled something, but Scott couldn’t make it out.
“Stop talking. Save your strength.”
Scott took his phone from the gym bag and called the emergency operator. Colinski gripped his leg as Scott dialed, and said something about rules.
Scott pulled his leg away, and stepped back.
When the emergency operator answered, Scott identified himself, and requested an ambulance and the police. The operator wanted him to stay on the line, but Scott hung up, and put his phone and pistol back in the gym bag.
Royal Colinski died before the ambulance arrived.
Scott led Maggie a few feet away, and sat on the brilliant green grass with his arm around his dog. He felt her breathe. Her heart beat strong and true. Her breath was filled with life.
64
Elvis Cole
Sixteen days later
TWO RED-TAILED HAWKS floated above the canyon like sleepy sentinels. They hung in the sky like fish in water, with no discernible effort, as much a part of the air as a cloud.
Pike said, “They’ll go soon. Getting dark.”
We were on the deck. The grill was fired, and the coals were close. My plan was to grill four beautiful lamb porterhouse chops for myself, an eggplant, and a mixed bag of veggies we could share. A vegetarian bean casserole was in the oven. The casserole was for Pike, him being a vegetarian, bu
t I liked it, too.
I held up my empty Falstaff.
“Two left. Want one?”
“Sure.”
I ducked inside for the last two Falstaffs, and tossed him a can. We popped the tops and drank. We’d been on the deck for most of the day. Drinking for most of the day, too.
I said, “Jon still gone?”
“Uh-huh.”
“When’s he get back?”
“Never says. You know.”
Pike used to make trips like this, too.
I raised my can.
“To Jon.”
“Jon.”
We drank. These weren’t our first.
I said, “Saw Amy.”
“How’s she doing?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer.
“Sees this shrink the court told her to see. It’s only been a couple of weeks. The shrink asks a few questions, they talk, the shrink makes notes. She says he’s okay.”
Pike tipped his can toward the sky.
“Look.”
The male hawk folded his wings, turned on his side, and fell like a dart. He pulled around in a long curving turn, opened his wings like parachutes, and streaked past my deck. His tiny hawk head moved as he passed, checking us out.
I said, “He’s showing off for his girlfriend.”
Pike nodded.
I was inside getting the lamb and veggies when the doorbell rang. I was surprised when I opened the door.
I said, “The SAC.”
“I guess it’s better than being called a bag.”
Hess came in without being asked, and saw Pike on the deck.
“Oh. You have company. I should’ve called.”
“Yeah. You should’ve.”
She took in the room and the view the way people do, and saw the food on the counter.
“Look, I owe you an apology and an explanation. I could’ve called, but I was scared you’d hang up.”
“You don’t act like the scared type, Hess.”
She glanced away, nervous.
“Of some things.”
She was kinda cute when she acted shy, but I’d been drinking.
“I was about to cook. C’mon out. Say hi to Joe.”
