by Wolf Wootan
“You bet. I’ll get on the horn and assemble some guys. Maybe three shifts so they don’t get sleepy—and careless.”
He took out his cell phone and ambled back towards his bike, leaving Sam watching—alone with his thoughts. Sam thought of going in now—to make sure. Then kill them. Foolish. It would get Becky and Bo killed. And probably him.
Once he was satisfied that no one could get in or out of the building without being seen, Sam drove to the beach house. He had to prepare for tomorrow—be ready for whatever might unfold.
He went into the walk-in closet in his bedroom, turned on the light, and went to the far right. He pushed on the wall in two places at the same time and a hidden door clicked open. He reached in and switched on another light. It was a small storage room where he kept things he didn’t use often. It kept moisture away and inhibited rust. His trunk was there. He unlocked it—opened it. He took out two cloth bags and took them to the kitchen table. He was about to perform a ritual that he did about every six months. It suddenly struck him that this may be the last time he did this. He most likely would die tomorrow. If he could save Becky and Bo, that would be OK.
Out of one bag he took a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots and a boot-polishing kit. He began shining the boots. When they were just the way he wanted them, he put them aside and opened the other bag. Two Colt .45 six-shooters, gunmetal blue, and two holsters. He got his gun-cleaning kit and started on the Colts. Next, he broke down his Smith .40 and cleaned it. Then he cleaned the holsters, making sure the leather was still supple.
He went to the gun safe in the den and got some new cartridges for the guns. He had bought several boxes about a month ago. He methodically loaded the guns, including three extra clips for the Smith .40. He then slowly put cartridges in the gun belts. Not that he would need them. Things would happen too fast to be able to reload the revolvers.
He went to the kitchen sink and washed the gun oil off his hands with soap and water—dried them. Out on the deck he poured himself a stiff Cutty and water, sat down and listened to the crashing waves. He considered his options again. He could guarantee the capture or demise of the bad guys by bringing the FBI in now. But the odds of Becky and Bo surviving would be low. He rejected the option—again. He had to try and do it by himself, even if he died trying. Having made up his mind, he went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee brewing. There would be no sleep tonight.
Chapter 53
Wednesday, July 11, 2001
Capistrano Beach, CA
At 7 A.M., Sam shaved and showered, then called Boomer.
“I was just going to call you, Sam,” he said. “A guy who looks like that D’Orr asshole went out about 15 minutes ago. He went to a McDonald’s and bought a sackful of food. He’s on his way back. Do you want him . . . detained?”
“No. That would endanger the women. But we now know for sure that’s the building. We’re still not sure the women are there. I don’t know when they’ll call me, or what they’ll tell me to do, so I have to stay here. Here’s what I want you to do . . .”
By 8 A.M., he was dressed and ready. He wore jeans, blue Aloha shirt with palm trees, his snakeskin boots, and his Colt .45s. His sheathed Bowie knife was on his left hip. He looked in the full-length mirrorn on his closet door.
Not the Apache of yore, he thought. I could do anything back then. Ah, youth! Ah, stupidity! Ah, responsibility! I can still call in the cavalry. No! Stick to the plan! Call, asshole! Let’s get on with it!
Sam’s cell phone rang at 9:03 A.M.
“Crown,” he answered.
“Listen closely. Go to Santa Ana now,” said D’Orr. He gave Sam the location of a bank with pay phones outside. He would call Sam there at 10:00 A.M. He repeated his warning about the police and FBI.
Sam called Boomer and updated him. Next, he called Danny and told him what was going on. He also told him that if things fell apart, he wanted Danny to make sure that the assholes didn’t get off. Danny said they wouldn’t. After they hung up, Danny dispatched some of his best shooters to the area to watch.
Sam got in his car and headed north on the I-5. At 5 minutes to 10, he called Fenster and told him he had nothing yet. He had to keep Fenster on a leash.
He parked his car, fed the meter, and put on a long leather jacket that hid his guns. He lingered next to the pay phone that D’Orr had sent him to. He popped a stick of gum in his mouth and watched the street.
Hurry up and call, asshole! I don’t want to be spotted armed to the teeth outside of a bank.
The pay phone rang. He grabbed the receiver.
“Crown.”
“Good, Crown. Now, go to Costa Mesa to 19th and Harbor Boulevard. You have 30 minutes.”
He gave Sam the location of another pay phone.
Sam was waiting by the phone at 10:25. They were moving him closer and closer to the building he had already identified. He was almost certain now that the meeting would be there. But when? He couldn’t alert Fenster until he knew the time; otherwise, the FBI would swoop in and fuck up everything. Boomer and three of his buddies roared up to a red light, revved their engines, then turned left onto Harbor Boulevard. Sam felt a small comfort knowing they were there.
The pay phone rang precisely at 10:30. Sam snatched it up.
“Crown.”
“Good. Now for your next . . .”
“Hold it, D’Orr! I’m sick and tired of this wild goose chase! I want to talk to the women before I do anything else! Put Agent Trout on the phone . . . now!”
He needed to know if the women were still alive—and if they were in the building with D’Orr. He could have them stashed somewhere else.
“You don’t trust me?” asked D’Orr with a nasty laugh.
“Hell no! You could have already killed them!”
Then in the background, Sam heard Becky scream, “Don’t trust them, Sam! They’re . . .”
Her voice was quickly choked off. D’Orr said, “Tape the brat’s mouth again.”
Becky’s alive! he thought, ecstatic.
Sam yelled at D’Orr, “You bastard! I’ll kill you for this! What’s next?”
D’Orr gave him another pay phone to go to and await a call at 11:00 A.M. Sam called Boomer.
“I heard Becky’s voice this time. She’s where D’Orr is. Are we sure D’Orr is still in that building?”
“Positive.”
“Good! I’m going in now! Can your guys be ready to do our plan in, say, 15 minutes?”
“Give me twenty. I’ll get things moving,” replied Boomer.
“One more thing, Boomer. A guy in a white Honda has been following me all morning. Probably making sure the cops aren’t with me. He’s parked across the street in a loading zone. I want to take him out of the equation first. He’ll follow me when I leave here. Box him in.”
Sam went to his Camaro and pulled into the street. The Honda left the loading zone, turned left and followed Sam. Sam turned right at the next street, went about 20 feet, and stopped. The Honda screeched to a halt. Two bikers on Harleys roared around the corner and pulled up behind the Honda. Sam was already out of his car. He yanked the Honda’s door open and grabbed the driver by the hair and dragged him out.
“Why are you following me, asshole?” barked Sam, menace in his voice.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I could convince you otherwise if I had time, but I don’t. I should slit your throat!”
Boomer got in the Honda and pulled it to the curb next to a fireplug and shut it off. Sam grabbed the nerve at the base of the man’s neck and gave it a practiced squeeze. He threw the limp body into the car. Boomer stomped on the man’s cell phone, kicked it under the car.
“Let’s go,” said Sam.
Sam put his Camaro in a public parking lot and got on behind Boomer on the Harley. They sped off in the direction of D’Orr’s building. At 10:55 A.M. they were in position across the street from the entrance. Boomer spoke into his cell phone, then tucked
it away in the pocket of his black leather jacket.
The sound of faraway thunder reached their ears—then it became louder, roaring down the street like a large wave. A column of 40 or so bikers approached the intersection to their left, some bikers side-by-side, some single file. They raced their engines indiscriminately, creating throbbing eardrums for several blocks around. When the red light changed to green, the snake of leather-clad, helmeted motorcyclists turned left and passed in front of D’Orr’s building. They continued down the block and turned left again, preparing to circle the block for another thunderous pass.
When the roar subsided a bit, Sam called Fenster and gave him the address of the building and told him he thought the bad guys were on the third floor—easy access to the roof.
“Get your choppers moving. I’m going in now. It’s up to you to contain their chopper if it shows—and mop up.”
“Sam, don’t do anything until . . .”
But Sam had disconnected.
“When your guys get back around to the signal, we go,” Sam told Boomer.
“Yes, we do.”
They did.
***
One phenomenom of a bunch of bikers riding together in a pack is that everyone stops and looks. The noise, the leathers, the logos on the jackets or sleeveless shirts, the tattoos, the pony tails and scraggly beards—the fear. The unknown. What are they up to?
Boomer took advantage of this—while the revving engines were popping at their peak—and raced his bike across the street, up the concrete walk, and into the double glass doors of the building. The doors popped open and shattered as the force of the bike tore them from their hinges.
The two guards—who had been discussing the unusual appearance of the biker-gang—were caught off guard when the Harley crashed into the lobby. Boomer braked, threw the back of the Harley around, and Sam leapt off and grabbed the nearest guard by the throat. Boomer had a short length of chain in his right, gloved hand and he struck the other guard on the back of the head. He went down like a bag of sawdust. Boomer lowered his kickstand and began to use duct tape on the felled man.
Sam ripped off his helmet and drew his Bowie knife, which he put to the guard’s throat.
“Where are they? What room?” he spat, his eyes showing his lethal intent.
“I don’t know what you’re talking . . .”
“I don’t have time for shit! You can live or die! I don’t care which! Where?” The edge of the knife drew blood.
“Third floor. Room 326.” Squeeky with fear.
“Where’s that? Room 326?”
“Southeast corner office.”
“How many of them?”
“Three of them. Plus the two women.”
Sam flipped the knife in his hand and hit the man with the handle. He slumped to the floor. Sam turned to Boomer.
“Gag and tie this one up, too. It’s the southeast corner office. Give me a distraction in exactly two minutes.”
They checked watches and Sam pulled his leather coat off so it wouldn’t hinder his access to his weapons.
“Let me go with you,” pleaded Boomer. “You’re way outnumbered.”
“You’d end up in jail at best—or dead at the worst. Just go give me the distraction I need. You guys contain the perimeter until the cops show up, then scatter to the winds. And . . . thanks, Boomer. Thank all the guys. Hurry now. I’m taking the stairs. Ninety seconds left. Go!”
Boomer finished securing the second guard, jumped on his idling Harley, and roared out the broken entry door. Sam was rushing up the stairs to the third floor. He tried to be quiet, but the thunder of motorcycle engines was still deafening. The windows of the building were rattling, covering the sound of his approach.
He paused in front of Room 326 to catch his breath. He checked his watch. Fifteen seconds to go. He remembered the mantra on his totem pole in Vietnam: It’s a good day to fight; it’s a good day to die. He hadn’t thought that way in years. Now he did.
Back on the street, Boomer made a call.
“Third floor. Southeast corner. Hit the window in . . . 10 seconds.”
Sam peered at his watch. It was time! Down on the street, one of the bikers used a professional slingshot and sent a steel marble flying towards the south window of Room 326. The projectile was like a gunshot against the window, a spiderweb forming from the point of impact, attracting the attention of the room’s occupants. Sam gave the door a cop’s kick. It smashed open. It was a cheap door.
***
Inside the room, Chase had been looking out the window at the queue of bikers when the window cracked.
“Shit! What was that?”
Bryce and D’Orr looked his way, then the door came crashing open. Confusion reigned.
Sam followed the door in, a cocked Colt .45 in each hand, took in the room in a glance. He saw Becky and Bo tied to chairs to his left, their mouths taped.
They’re alive! he thought—elated!
That cost him a half-second—the margin between life and death! He recovered quickly and took in the rest of the room. Chase was by the cracked window, looking back over his shoulder. Bryce was slightly to his right, facing Sam. D’Orr was way to his right leaning against an executive’s desk and was drawing a semiautomatic handgun from his belt. Bryce began reaching for the gun in his belt.
Sam snapped a shot at Bryce from the gun in his left hand, hitting him at the bridge of his nose, and spun to face D’Orr. D’Orr was fast. His shot caught Sam in the chest, causing Sam’s shot from the gun in his right hand to go wide, but it still caught D’Orr’s right shoulder. The force of the .45 slug knocked D’Orr onto the desk, while Sam was slammed to the floor, pain radiating from his chest like broken glass. Sam’s left arm went numb, his gun in that hand useless. D’Orr picked up his gun with his left hand and pointed it in Sam’s direction, but this time Sam was faster. His bullet caught D’Orr between the eyes, finishing him.
Chase had finally recovered and had his revolver pointing at Sam. Sam’s slug caught him in the chest and slammed him against the already cracked window. The force of Chase’s body shattered the window and he fell through the window to the ground three stories below.
Sam struggled to his feet, holstered his weapons, and staggered over to Bo and ripped the tape off her mouth.
“Shit, Sam! That hurt. You’re shot! Where’s SWAT?”
He smiled. “I’m SWAT. You OK?”
He turned and took the tape off Becky’s mouth.
“Sam! He shot you! You OK?” she gasped. “Fucking assholes!”
“Sure, Beckster. I have my vest on. I may have a cracked rib. It hurts like hell! Let me cut you guys loose.”
He pulled his knife, went behind Bo and cut the ropes binding her hands. Then he went around to the front of Bo’s chair to cut her legs free.
Becky screamed, “Sam! Behind you!”
“Drop the knife, Mr. Crown,” a woman’s voice said. Sam froze. He had committed a fatal mistake. He hadn’t cleared the floor first. He glanced over his right shoulder and saw a short, pudgy woman in a ridiculous purple pant suit—a semiautomatic in her right hand. Pointed at him.
Mrs. Rosemary Wellington, diamond thief and smuggler. She had entered through a door behind the desk where D’Orr had died.
“Drop it, I said! Or I’ll shoot the girl!”
Sam dropped it at Bo’s feet, then turned to face Wellington, protecting Bo with his body. But Becky was still exposed. The gun was pointing at Becky now. Wellington’s hand was wavering a bit. Sam could sense that guns weren’t her forte. He wondered if he could draw and shoot before she pulled the trigger and shot Becky. He used to be very fast. Was he fast enough now? Or would he get Becky killed?
“Give me the tapes, Crown,” she snapped.
“You can’t get away now. SWAT is swarming downstairs as we speak,” replied Sam.
She laughed. “I’ve called for my ride. I’ll be out of here before they get here. Give me the tapes now or I put a bullet in the kid�
�s head!”
Sam knew by “ride” she meant a chopper; otherwise, she wouldn’t be so smug. He hoped Fenster had his choppers in place. Then he felt Bo’s hand touch the small of his back—find the Smith .40 he had holstered there. She lifted his shirt and eased the gun out—thumbed the safety off.
She whispered, “Cover Becky. Now!”
Sam moved quickly to his right and stepped in front of Becky, drawing his .45 as he moved. Wellington looked confused. Bo shot her in the chest without warning. She slammed onto the desk next to D’Orr. Sam rushed to her and checked her. She was dead.
Bo reached down and retrieved Sam’s knife from the floor where he had dropped it and cut the ropes from her legs while Sam made sure there were no more bad guys lurking. Bo stood and began working on Becky’s bindings.
Sam whipped out his cell phone and called Fenster.
“Fenster.”
“This is Sam, Carl. Where are your choppers? They called one for a pickup.”
“Where are you?”
“Third floor, Room 326. The assholes are all dead, Carl. The choppers? We need to catch that chopper.”
“Under control, Sam. My two choppers spotted it, boxed it, and it’s landing as we speak. We’ll have them in custody momentarily. How are Becky and Bo?”
“OK. Becky’s shook up, of course, but they’re physically OK. Bo’s a trooper. Get your guys up here and take charge. I’ll brief you when you get here.”
“Let me talk to Bo. I’ll make this a Federal thing. Keep the locals at bay for a bit.”
Sam handed the phone to Bo and went to Becky and pulled her into his arms.
“I’m sorry, kiddo, but it’s OK now. It’s OK.”
The air was filled with the smell of cordite and the sound of sirens.
