Cloudburst (36 page)

“Yeah.”

The reflected sunlight hit the car as it emerged from the underground garage. Art flipped the visor down and took his new sunglasses from the elastic holder. Eddie already had his on, but not the ones he liked. Off duty he wore his flashy rainbowed Oakleys.

*  *  *

Eddie checked the car clock against his watch. “The other units should be at the park.”

Next to the Sheraton Townhouse was Lafayette Park, one of the urban oases that the city somehow never managed to keep free of crime, mostly drug dealing. It was appropriate that Marcus Jackson should choose the hotel next door to lie low.
Thank God for his idiot brother
, Art thought.

The drive down Wilshire to the Townhouse would be short in distance, but a fight with traffic the whole way, not to mention the dipping sun that would shine in their eyes continually. Time wasn’t much of a concern, thankfully. One team was already in a room next to Jackson, after notifying the hotel manager and admonishing him to keep quiet. Three other teams would assist in the arrest.

“How do you think we should do this?” Art asked at a red light.

“Well, there’s no reason to think he wouldn’t be armed, so I say we kick it in—no warning.”

“What if he’s got someone in there? Everything points to him being a pretty scuzzy guy, and if he has any money for his part, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s purchased some company.”

Eddie laughed. “He’s a red velvet kinda guy. Frankie said that car is pretty damn gaudy. How much you figure it set him back?”

“Who knows. We’ll see how much we get for it at auction.” Art accelerated away from the pack at the green. The engine whined through the gears, pushing the car through the next two lights as they went from yellow to red, before the back of a traffic wave slowed them. They were a scant seven blocks from the hotel.

“Let’s you and I go through first, with King four coming behind us.”

“Frankie and Thom second,” Eddie suggested.

“They’ve done good.”

“Damn straight,” Eddie confirmed, playing the cheerleader.

Art weighed it quickly. No matter how equal they were, he just didn’t like the thought of a female agent taking a bullet. But… “They deserve it. Okay.”

“Seven Sam,”
the radio crackled.

Art grabbed the mike. Three blocks. “Seven Sam, go ahead.”

“
Seven Sam, King Four—we have movement. Suspect is with a…stand by.
” The last words were hushed. Art stepped on the accelerator and swerved out into traffic, passing a group of four vehicles with only his blue and red rear lights flashing through the back window. “
Seven Sam, suspect just passed our door. He’s with a young Caucasian female. Looks like a working girl. He’s got no bags with him. Should we take him?
”

Dammit
! Art’s chest began to pound. “Negative.” He let off the mike. “Ed, did the warrant get processed?”

“Yep.” Eddie had his gun in hand, resting it on his lap.

“King Four, when it’s clear you kick that door and secure the room. Copy?”

“
Ten-four.
”

“What’s Frankie’s team?” Art asked, swerving the car into the curb lane one-handed.

“King Eight.” Art swung the car right and pulled across to the opposite side of the street, bringing the gray Chevy to a stop facing the wrong way on the east side of the park.

“
King Eight, go.
” It was Frankie.

“Frankie, where’s Jackson’s car?”

“
In the lot on the north side of the building. We’re across the street in the tailor’s.
”

“Are there any people in that lot?”

“
Affirmative. Ten or twelve in a group. Business types.
”

The decision was a bitch, and it had to be made fast. Jackson and his friend would be in the lot within a minute. If the agents tried to take them there, a lot of people could get hurt: Stray bullets don’t care about guilt or innocence. He could have had King Four make a move up on the eighth floor, Art thought, but hindsight was worth shit now. There was only one choice.

“King Eight, where’s the outlet for that lot?”

“
Right in front of us.
”

There wasn’t enough time to clear the lot, and Jackson could turn right or left onto the street, complicating things further. They had to isolate him somewhat, and try to get the lady out of danger. She was just doing her job, after all.

“Frankie, get your car out there and block it so he’ll turn east. Block the westbound lane on Sixth—put the hood up. And have Thom stay in the store. Copy?”

“
Copy.
”

Art looked over his shoulder before flooring the gas pedal, pulling the car back into the right-hand lane of Lafayette Park Place. “King Five.”

“
Five by.
”

“King Five, set up on Commonwealth north of Sixth, and keep out of sight. Copy?”

“
Ten-four, got it.
”

“King Six.” Art turned left onto Sixth.

“
King Six, go ahead.
”

“Cover Commonwealth and Wilshire, but stay away from the intersection: It’s too close to the front of the hotel. Copy?”

“
Ten-four. We’ll set up over on the south side of the park.
”

“All right, folks. We’ll take Sixth east of Commonwealth.” Art wanted to box in Jackson. Any direction he traveled could be blocked by one of the four units. Traffic was just beginning to let up on the periphery streets, but not on Wilshire. There was a steady flow westbound of late workers heading toward Santa Monica, and King Six found themselves the object of constant car horns as they turned west on Wilshire from Hoover, blocking the curb lane of traffic.

“Where the hell’s he going?” Art stopped on the left again, this time on Sixth.

“Food, I’d say.”

Seat belts were off now and the adrenaline was beginning its slow rise to the crescendo that would soon come.

Two minutes passed without Jackson appearing. The agent in the passenger seat of King Six had his binoculars trained on the Commonwealth and Wilshire entrances to the hotel, at times having to peer through the amazingly lush trees. He saw nothing. At the rear of the hotel Frankie had maneuvered the Bureau T-Bird at an angle so that all of the westbound lane of Sixth, and part of the eastbound one, was blocked. She was at the right of the vehicle, trying her best to be interested in the quiet six-cylinder engine and trying equally as hard to fend off several offers of help from passing motorists, all of them male.

Another minute.

“
Seven Sam, this is King Eight
,” Thom called. “
We’ve got nothing here except a crowd gathering to help Frankie.
”

Art hit the steering wheel. “Where is he?”

“Maybe they’re eating inside,” Eddie surmised, shrugging. Art flashed him a “you would have to say that” look.

“
Seven Sam, King Six. We’ve got him. He’s on foot, with his lady friend, westbound on Wilshire. He came out the front.
”

“Son of a bitch!” Art cursed, throwing the car hard into gear. “We could lose him in that traffic on Wilshire. King Eight.”

“
King Eight, Frankie’s heading for Wilshire on foot.
”

“
Seven Sam, King Six, my partner is on foot.
” Two agents were now out of their vehicles, moving to cut Jackson off: one behind, and Frankie trying to head him off on Wilshire.

Art and Eddie reached the intersection of Commonwealth and Sixth as King Five did from the north. Art went south on Commonwealth, more out of fear of colliding with the other unit than desire, and King Five went west on Sixth.

“Best-laid plans, boss,” Eddie commented. He was chewing his gum hard now.

Art slowed a hundred yards shy of Wilshire, and then there was the sound.

LAPD had been notified of the Bureau’s presence in the area, a routine practice when one law enforcement agency was operating within the jurisdiction of another. The message was passed over the radio to the divisional units, but without having a divisional roll call to acknowledge the information. Two motor officers missed the call, having been involved in a minor altercation with a traffic offender. After all, it hadn’t been an “officer needs help” call, something that would have grabbed their immediate attention.

This made it somewhat understandable, but no less damaging, when the two officers gunned their Kawasakis to catch up with the beat-up-looking Chrysler that had pulled away from the curb and across two lanes of traffic into the oncoming lanes. They were too far away to see the radio antenna at the front of the car, but then it became inconsequential as both hit their sirens and lights simultaneously.

*  *  *

The sound of a wailing high-pitched siren was not unusual in L.A. at any hour, but there was enough of a ghoul factor to make anyone look.

Marcus Jackson turned to see what unfortunate soul had gotten busted. Probably someone running a light, since there were only two bursts on the siren. Kind of a ‘hey you, look in your rearview’ sort of message. What a bitch…

The man was definitely out of place, both in posture and appearance. First of all, he was white, a distinctive trait in this racially mixed minority area. And he was jogging, but then stopped when he saw Jackson turn around.

No more warning was needed. “Later, babe,” Marcus said, patting the lady’s ass before darting out into the stop-and-go traffic on Wilshire. The .357 revolver came out from under his jacket.

Agent Dan Burlingame from King Six saw the suspect bolt. His feet began immediately propelling his slightly overweight frame faster. “
He’s running, south across Wilshire,
” he yelled into his radio.

“Who was that?” Art asked. “He didn’t identify!” The accelerator hit the stops and the car lurched forward. Ahead, a wall of cars blocked the intersection.

Eddie hit the siren, but it could not make the cars, nose to ass, move; there was just no room. The threat of a $250 fine didn’t deter people from filling the intersection. King Six worked past the jam on the opposite side of the street, but slowly. One of the LAPD motors followed him, clued in now to the Bureau car’s identity, but unsure of what to do. The other motor officer pulled into traffic to clear a path in the intersection for the Chevy, its siren wailing and grille lights flashing.

Frankie, at a dead run, reached Wilshire in time to see Jackson dodging traffic in the eastbound lanes. “
This is Frankie, I’m on him. He’s westbound on Wilshire. South side of the street. I see a gun. He’s armed.
”

Cars were slowing at the sight of the man and his gun, making it easier for Frankie to weave her way across the street, but slowed traffic even more at the rear of the pack. She saw Dan entering lanes to her left. He was having a harder time, even having to do a half roll over the hood of a taxi.

In front of Art the motor cop threw up his hands in frustration.

“Screw it, let’s go.” Art pushed the door, taking the keys and a radio from the charger. Eddie followed.

The sight people were seeing was uncommon even for Los Angeles. Traffic had come to a halt on Wilshire as the agents converged on Jackson on foot and in vehicles. The lone motor officer who had stuck with King Six was in the dark as to what was going on, but he stayed close behind the Bureau Chrysler, yelling frantically into his radio for information from his dispatcher.

Jackson spun in a running circle to check his rear—he didn’t like what he saw. Two of them were close!

Inside, Marc.
The doorway was set into the old building. He pushed off hard up the three steps and was inside.

Frankie and Dan hit the doorway simultaneously, seconds later, one on each side. Both were puffing hard.

“
He’s inside a gray-brick four-story,
” Frankie said into the radio. “Dan, check for exits.”

“Gotcha.” He moved east along the building’s front and disappeared down a side alley.

Frankie’s partner brought their car to a screeching halt fifty feet away, blocking the eastbound lanes of Wilshire. He ran toward Frankie, who directed him to the opposite side of the structure. Art and Eddie ran up, looking like half-dressed knights in their flak vests.

“Where’s he at?” Art was breathing hard.

“Inside, he went up,” Frankie answered. Several strands of hair had come loose from her ponytail and were hanging in her face. She threw them back with a toss of her head. “He’s armed.”

Art was pressed against the wall, looking alternately up and at Frankie. Eddie stood farther back by the comer, his gun trained upward covering the windows. King Five and King Six pulled up seconds apart from opposite directions.

There were now eight agents and one LAPD motor cop covering the building.

“Ed, over here.” Art shouted. Another agent took up Eddie’s position.

“Yeah, boss?” he panted.

“We’ve gotta take him. I don’t want him offing himself in there. No way.”

“It’s probably dark in there,” Eddie guessed, half joking and half not.

“You, me, and Frankie,” Art decided. “Okay?”

Francine Aguirre, whose unofficial Bureau nickname was Stud, smiled and nodded. Strangely, she was not afraid, but then it might have been the high-octane chemicals her body was pumping into her bloodstream.

“Let’s do it,” Eddie answered, spitting his gum on the sidewalk.

“You.” Art pointed to the faceless motor cop, still in his mirrored sunglasses and black-and-white helmet. The officer approached, crouching along the wall. “I’m Agent Jefferson, FBI. You cover the front. Anyone without a badge comes out, put them facedown. Got it?”

“Yeah.”
What the hell is going on?
He wanted the backup he called for to be there—now!

“All units: Frankie, Eddie, and I are going in.” Art tucked the radio in his back pocket. “Let’s go.”

Eddie led off. The front door creaked open inward—just like in the movies, Eddie thought. His gun was pointed forward, held in two hands. The Joker was deadly serious about this. Somewhere in the building was a guy who would more than likely blow a hole in him if given the chance. That didn’t sound appealing.