by Frank Zafiro
He smiled.
The other police car turned on Lyons and sped toward them.
Carson ignored the other patrol car headed south. Battaglia was at the motel. She had to get to the motel.
She hooked a left into the parking lot and the patrol car bottomed out as she drove over the entryway. She screeched to a stop at the sally port, leapt out of her car, and sprinted past the guests filtering out. She flung open the glass doors and searched frantically for someone in a uniform.
A man with a nametag that read “Clyde” stood near the front desk, ushering people toward the exit. Carson grabbed him by the arm and he yelped in surprise.
“Room 420!” she yelled. “Where is it?”
He pointed at the stairwell. “Up the stairs and to the end of the hall,” he recited.
Carson ran.
Chisolm kept the pair of rocketing taillights in sight as he urged every single ounce of horsepower out of the Crown Victoria’s V-8 engine. He closed ground quickly during the straight stretches, but the small Mercedes cornered much better than he could. Plus the guy was a good driver.
He should get on the radio and put out this pursuit, he knew. But the air was full of useless traffic as the entire city seemed to be responding to the motel. The harsh buzzes and beeping clicks filled the airwaves as units covered each other’s transmissions.
He kept on the white Mercedes, yoyoing from just a few car lengths behind it to half a block as it took turn after turn. As he drew near during a straight stretch on Crestline, a muzzle blast flashed from the back seat. The bullet struck Chisolm’s windshield on the passenger side and sent spider-web cracks radiating outward.
Chisolm shifted left and gunned the engine. He reached out and depressed the microphone button. “Adam-112, shots fired!” he shouted.
Suddenly, the radio became very quiet.
Carson found the door to room 420 hanging awkwardly inward, held up by the bottom hinge. She rushed inside.
A man in a bloody white shirt squatted in front of Battaglia, who was crumpled in a heap, his back pressed to the blood-smeared wall. His dark uniform shirt was torn open and his vest hung loosely over the top of the attending man’s hands. Battaglia’s face was speckled with cuts and drying blood.
The man looked up at Carson. His face was grim. “I’ve called for medics,” he said.
“They’re coming,” Carson said, her voice squeaking. “I passed them.” She stood frozen in the doorway, suddenly afraid to approach Battaglia any closer. What if he were—
“That’s for the fire alarm, which is a diversion,” the man said. “They might not know about the gunshot victim. You should go guide the medics in so they can treat this officer.”
Carson didn’t move.
“Officer?” the man repeated.
Carson shook her head. “You go,” she said, finally stepping forward. “I’m staying with him.”
The man gave her a hard look and opened his mouth. “All right,” he said. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed her wrist. Carson started at the suddenness of the motion, but his grip was firm. He drew her downward. “Press here,” he said, forcing her hand against Battaglia’s abdomen. Warm blood seeped through her fingers.
“The bullet went through the vest,” the man told her.
No. Oh, no.
“Harder,” he barked.
Carson put her other hand on top and pressed hard with both hands. Battaglia moaned in pain.
“I’ll bring in medics,” the man said. He left her alone with a dying Anthony Battaglia.
2213 hours
“Adam-112, go ahead.”
Another shot flashed out from the rear of the Mercedes. Chisolm heard the loud clunk as it struck the doorpost on the passenger side of his patrol car.
He reached out and pushed the mike. “I’ve got the suspect vehicle southbound on Crestline from Rowan now,” he transmitted. “A white Mercedes with at least three occupants.”
Instinctively he tapped the brake and jerked the car to the right. At almost the same moment another shot rang out from the back of the Mercedes. He had no idea where the bullet went.
Chisolm pushed the button again. “They’re firing out of the rear of the vehicle.”
“Copy, Adam-112.”
Another mishmash of transmissions filled the airwaves.
“Goddammit,” Chisolm yelled. “Stay off the air!”
He veered left and accelerated. He was going to end this right now.
Carson stared at Battaglia’s bloody face. His eyelids fluttered open. He didn’t seem to recognize her. He moved his lips, but no sound came out.
She leaned closer. Her hands were warm and slick with Battaglia’s blood.
“What is it?” she asked, her eyes misting over.
She heard a weak rumble in his throat. He drew a wet, gurgling breath. Then he breathed out one word. Despite the deafening sirens that filled the air and the squawk and buzz of her own portable radio, she heard him clearly.
He said, “Rebecca.”
“Ivan! Shoot him with the shotgun!” Val ordered.
Black Ivan leaned between the front seats and extended the barrel of the shotgun past Val. Val leaned toward the side window, pulling Sergey’s limp form with him.
The loud boom of the shotgun filled the car’s interior. Flame extended out of the barrel. Yuri jerked, causing the vehicle to whiplash from side to side.
Behind them, the police car dropped back half a block, out of the effective range of the shotgun. This one was smart.
“Go to the warehouse,” he ordered Yuri.
Yuri swung a left on Wellesley and accelerated. The rotating blue and red lights kept pace.
“Soon there will be more police,” Val said. “Maybe even a helicopter. We need to switch cars.”
Carson stared into Battaglia’s eyes. His face was ashen, his expression almost childlike. Carson’s vision blurred as she blinked away tears.
O’Sullivan burst into the room behind her. “Batts!” he shouted. Carson looked up at him.
“Oh, no!” he yelled. “Oh, fuck, no!”
Sully fell to his knees beside Carson. His hands searched for injuries, brushing hers aside. “I got you, buddy,” he told Battaglia. “You’re going to be fine. Just hang tight for a little while. Medics are coming and they’re gonna fix you up.”
Battaglia turned his gaze to Sully. Carson watched the recognition come into his eyes. The beginnings of a wry smile touched the corners of Battaglia’s mouth, then dropped away. He mouthed something.
“Don’t talk,” Sully said. “Just hang in there.”
Battaglia shook his head slightly and moved his lips again.
Sully looked at Carson. “Go bring in medics,” he ordered.
She didn’t move. Instead she opened her mouth to tell him that the guy in the white shirt was already doing that. But Sully cut her off.
“Now!” he shouted. There was no room for compromise in his voice. Carson rose slowly to her feet. Sully turned his attention back to Battaglia. “Hang on,” Sully told him.
Battaglia’s wet, rasping words drifted up to Carson.
“Rebecca,” he said, his words coming out as a moan.
“You’ll see her soon,” Sully told him. “I’ll call her on the way to the hospital.”
“Tell her…” Battaglia started to say, then he closed his eyes and grimaced.
“I don’t need to tell her anything,” Sully assured him. “You can tell her yourself in a little while, okay? It’s going to be fine.”
Battaglia opened his eyes again. His expression grew more panicked. He raised his hand clumsily and beckoned Sully toward him. Sully leaned in.
Battaglia whispered something Carson couldn’t hear.
Sully pulled his head back. “No, no, no. None of that, goombah,” Sully said. His voice sounded strained. “You hang in there. Everything’s going to be all right.”
Battaglia’s eyes flicked up to Carson, then back to Sully. He opened his mou
th again, but his eyes glazed over in pain and rolled back in his head. He took a deep, wavering breath that never came out.
“No,” Sully whispered. “No, no, no, no!”
Carson stood frozen next to him.
“Don’t you leave me, Batts,” Sully croaked. “Don’t you dare leave me, you fucking guinea bastard.”
Battaglia remained still.
“Goddamn it, Batts,” Sully sobbed. “Don’t you leave me!”
Carson watched him lower his forehead to Battaglia’s. Tears rolled out of Sully’s eyes and splashed onto Battaglia’s face, streaking the blood.
Next came a rush of heavy footsteps as firemen and medics burst through the door and brushed her aside.
“Let us in!” one of them ordered Sully. “Get out of the way!”
A crowd formed around the fallen officer, milling frantically in an effort to save him. Sully’s wailing voice mingled with the short, chopping exchanges of the medics as they worked on Battaglia. Carson stood back, transfixed. Then, slowly, she lowered her gaze to her own bloody hands.
2214 hours
Yuri pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse. The police car was half a block behind them.
“Pull right up to the door!” Val ordered.
He looked down at Sergey. He sought a pulse in the man’s throat, but there was nothing.
Sergey was dead.
The car screeched to a halt.
“Get the door!” Val yelled. He turned to Black Ivan. “Get out and cover us!”
Both men exited the car. Val used his shirttail to wipe down the handle and trigger guard of the .44 Magnum, just in case. Then he pulled Sergey up into a sitting position, put the gun in his hand, and wrapped his left hand around it. He squeezed Sergey’s finger on the trigger, sending a shot in the general direction of the pursuing patrol car.
He fired again. Then he dropped Sergey’s hand, which still clutched the heavy weapon. Now Sergey had the gun that killed Oleg and the policeman.
He scrambled out of the door and ran for the warehouse.
Chisolm slammed on his brakes as the shots exploded out of the rear of the Mercedes and struck his patrol car with a plinking sound. He jammed the transmission into park and flung open his door.
A lone figure bolted from the Mercedes and ran for the warehouse. A smaller man stood holding open a door. A third, hulking form stood with a shotgun pointed in Chisolm’s direction.
Chisolm drew his Glock.
The man with the shotgun fired. The spattering of buckshot ripped into the front of Chisolm’s car. The shotgun wasn’t nearly so devastating at this range.
Chisolm level his handgun and squeezed off three quick rounds. The large man ducked down, but the other two disappeared inside the warehouse. A moment later the big man popped up and cranked off another booming blast from his shotgun.
Chisolm ducked and heard the pellets biting into the car. He might be on the outside of the shotgun’s effective range, but that didn’t mean those pellets couldn’t do some serious damage.
A quick glance told him that the big man was holding his ground. He reached inside the car and depressed the microphone, shouting out his number and current location. He should have backup within thirty seconds. Until then—
Another shot tore into Chisolm’s car. One projectile whizzed past his foot along the asphalt.
Chisolm rolled out from behind the doorpost. He cranked off two shots, paused, then fired two more. Just as he was about to roll back into cover, the suspect popped his head up with the shotgun. Chisolm fired as rapidly as he could, peppering the target area with lead.
After eight shots his slide locked to the rear. Smoke billowed out of the barrel and the ejection port. Empty.
Chisolm ducked down and reached for his magazine pouch, dropping the spent mag from his pistol while he pulled out a fresh one. He rammed the magazine into the well, which popped the slide loose. It snapped forward and chambered a round.
Chisolm peeked over the top of the dashboard. No movement. He scanned the area for any sign of the suspect. When he saw none, he turned and crouch-walked to the rear of the patrol car. Using the cruiser for cover, he worked his way around to the far side and looked cautiously around the corner.
The large man lay sprawled out on his back several feet from the Mercedes. The shotgun sat harmlessly on the ground an arm’s length away.
Dead? Chisolm wondered. Or trying to draw me in?
The smart money was to wait for backup. Get the warehouse contained. Call in SWAT. Get the hostage negotiators out here to try to talk them out. Or gas the living shit out of the place and force them out. All better options than going forward from his position now.
Chisolm didn’t hesitate. He worked his way back to the driver’s side, got behind the wheel, and rolled his cruiser forward. Steam rose from the engine. The temperature gauge was pinned. When he got within ten feet of the Mercedes he killed the engine.
Chisolm moved tactically to a position of advantage behind his cruiser. At this distance he could see the dark wetness on the pavement beside the man’s chest. Chisolm took a deep breath and let it out. One down.
He worked his way back to the driver’s side. His radio was full of frantic cross-traffic. He hunkered down beside his driver’s doorpost and considered his situation again. Maybe the best thing to do was to hold his ground. The suspects might escape out the back, but going in after them was way too dangerous.
Chisolm reached for the radio to direct units into the area to set a perimeter. What he heard stopped him cold.
“Medics will be transporting Officer Battaglia to Holy Family Hospital,” a broken voice that he barely recognized as Sully’s transmitted. “I need officers to block intersections along the route.”
“Copy,” replied the dispatcher.
“Update his condition,” Lieutenant Saylor directed over the clear air.
There was a short pause, then Sully came over the air briefly. “Probably DOA.”
Chisolm holstered his pistol. Instead of reaching for the radio, he hit the button for the shotgun release.
2215 hours
Val ran through the dim light of the warehouse, nearly slipping in a small puddle. The slender Yuri scampered ahead of him like a rabbit.
He wished he’d had the foresight to bring a second gun. He’d heard gunshots being exchanged between Black Ivan and the cop outside, but now it was silent. If Ivan had won that battle, he’d already be joining them inside the warehouse. So the cop must have killed Ivan. That meant he was coming for them.
Yuri reached the far side of the warehouse and opened the door, but the small room was even darker inside.
“Wait!” Val shouted.
Yuri pulled up short. Val could see his outline in the darkness as he turned back toward him.
“Give me your pistol,” he ordered, holding out his hand. “I’ll hold off the police while you get the car ready.”
Yuri didn’t hesitate. He held out the butt end of his black 9 mm. Val took it, racked the slide, and rested his thumb on the safety. Yuri disappeared into the dark room. A moment later the outer door popped open and swung wide. Light from a streetlamp flooded in, haloing Yuri as he passed through the door.
Val looked away, searching the interior of the warehouse for the far door that he’d come through. The streetlight had taken away his night vision, so the best he could make out was a guess at the general location. He held the pistol loosely in his hand and waited.
Chisolm racked the shotgun to chamber a round. Then he made his way toward the door that he’d seen the other two suspects run through.
This is the stupidest thing you’ve done outside of Vietnam, he told himself.
He shook his head. He needed to focus. If they were waiting inside the doorway to ambush him, he was toast. He needed to get inside and buttonhook out of the fatal funnel, then move to some kind of cover.
His mind flashed back to a summer night several years ago when he tracked the Scarface robber�
��s blood trail through a field. He remembered the hatred in his heart as he followed the man who’d killed Officer Karl Winter and wounded Officer Stefan Kopriva.
Now one of these bastards had killed Battaglia. Maybe it had been the one with the shotgun, but it might’ve been one of the two who’d run into the warehouse.
Thomas Chisolm wasn’t taking any chances.
There would be no mercy.
Val heard Yuri pulling the tarp off the car behind the warehouse. A moment later a car door opened and the engine rumbled to life. Val smiled.
The door swung open across the warehouse. A shadow flitted through and disappeared into the surrounding darkness.
Val raised his gun and fired.
Chisolm ducked behind a half-filled pallet of boxes as the shots rang out. Rounds skipped across the pavement near him, but none hit him. He recognized the sound as a small caliber handgun. Probably shooting at a distance, maybe even from across the warehouse. Which made his shotgun less effective.
Chisolm waited a moment, then rose to a half crouch and fired in the general direction of the shooter. He knew it wasn’t the best tactic. For one thing, it gave his position away. But he wanted the son of a bitch to know he shot back.
Where was the second gunman? Chisolm dropped into a low crouch and shuffled around to the far side of the pallet. He waited and listened. He heard the faint sound of a car door close. Tires chirped and an engine raced.
Then it was silent.
“Drive quickly,” Val ordered, “but not too fast.”
Yuri nodded, steering the car out of the alley behind the warehouse and onto the main road. Val could hear the approaching sirens.
“Go that way,” he directed, pointing in the opposite direction from their arrival. “I don’t want to pass police cars on their way in. They may not be looking for this car, but I don’t want to take any chances.”
