EStreet," one of the lookouts reported on the radio.
"Der gleiche Wagen wie vorher.
"He bought it," Mullins said nervously.
"Nein," the Major said. just then, they heard a
faint metallic slam-the tiny shuttered steel window
on the cash room door had opened, then closed
and locked. The Major deployed his men on either
side of the door, and he and Mullins took cover behind
the security desk.
"Attention in the cash room," the Major
shouted. "You are surrounded. My men and I have
taken your guards and police officers prisoner, and
we have already taken the other eight cash bins.
You will come out of that room immediately and
surrender yourselves. If you come out now, you will
not be harmed."
"We called the police!" a voice called from inside
the cash room. "They're on their way!"
"We have disabled the phone lines, alarms, and
power to the entire complex," the Major said. "The
police were already here, but we convinced them all
is well. No help will be arriving. It is advisable you
surrender aiid come out at once. if we become too
impatient, we may have no choice but to execute
our hostages. The decision is yours." He turned to
Mullins and asked in a low voice, "Where would
the money be kept right now?"
"They're probably locking the uncounted money
away in the bins, getting ready to put it all in the
safe," Mullins replied.
"Does the manager have access to the safe once it
is locked? Is it on a time lock?"
"I don't know," said Mullins. The leader looked
angry and exasperated, so he decided he'd better answer
with something more than this real fast. "But I
think ... yes, it is."
"Then we need to blow that door open at once,
before they put the money in the safe," the Major
said. "The dynamite, right away!" His men moved
quickly to set explosive charges on the cash room
door.
Patrick McLanahan was still waiting in the hallway
outside the surgical suite, dressed in his
plastic surgical outfit. It had been more than twenty
minutes since the obstetrician, the anesthesiologist,
several nurses, and another doctor Patrick did not
recognize finished scrubbing and entered the OR.
A nurse came trotting down the hallway with a
cart. He held out a hand to get her attention. III/m
the father," he said. "What's happening? I'm supposed
to be in there with my wife
"The doctor will let you know as soon as possible
," she said.
Patrick held the door open after the nurse rushed
inside. The scrub area was to the right, separated
from the operating room by a curtain. It was pulled
aside, and he saw a cart with what he recognized as
a defibrillator-a device used to shock an irregularly
beating heart back into a normal rhythm-being
pushed over to the operating table. Gowned and
masked medical personnel surrounded the table.
"What's going on?" Patrick shouted.
Several heads turned in his direction. He heard
the obstetrician's voice shout, "Close those doors!"
"Dammit, tell me what the hell's going on!" Patrick
shouted.
"Mr. McLanahan, let us do our work now," the
obstetrician said. "Nurse . . ." The doors to the
surgical suite were closed, and a moment later a
nurse came out, took Patrick by the arm, and instructed
him to remain in the hallway.
"What's happening?" Patrick repeated. "Is
Wendy all right?"
"It's a critical moment, that's all," the nurse said.
"What in hell does that mean?" Patrick exploded.
"Is she all right?"
"The doctor will let you know as soon as he
can," the nurse said. "Please wait here." And she
hurried back in without saying anything else.
It was a nightmare, Patrick thought, an absolute
nightmare . . .
A
s expected, they found Caruthers's squad car
parked on the K Street Mall itself, on the south
side of the Sacramento Live! complex. Off-duty of-
ficers were allowed to use city squad cars to transport
prisoners if necessary; and although the K
Street Mall was a pedestrian mall, off-limits to all
vehicles, the K Street Mall shop owners and the
public welcomed cops parking there.
Sacramento Live! occupied almost an entire city
block, between Sixth and Seventh streets and K and
j streets. A long L-shaped alley that snaked around
the compleie from Seventh Street all the way to j
Street cut off the northeast corner of the block.
From Seventh, LaFortier shined his searchlight
down the alley and saw only Dumpsters. "Looks
okay to me," McLanahan said.
"The alley curves around back there-we can't
see all the way around," said LaFortier. He pulled
the car into the alley. LaFortier aimed the searchlight
on the doors along the complex. They all appeared
secure. When they made the turn around the
curve, they saw a large Step Van delivery truck
parked near the loading dock on the east side of the
complex.
McLanahan unbuckled his seat belt. "I'll check it
out . . .
"Stay in your damn seat," LaFortier ordered. He
drove past the truck without stopping or slowing,
then exited from the alley on j Street and turned
right on the one-way street.
"Aren't we going to check out that truck?" But
LaFortier was already typing on the MI3T computer
terminal-he had memorized the plate number on
the drive-by. By the time he turned right back onto
Seventh Street, the 913 check reply came in: "Cornmercial
plates," McLanahan said, reading off the
terminal display. "Two-ton truck, registered to a
rental company in Rancho Cordova
But LaFortier was also scanning the screen.
"Wrong kind of truck," he said. "Wrong make,
wrong size. Probably stolen plates." He stopped the
car just north of the entrance to the alleyway on
Seventh Street and swung the MIDT terminal
toward himself. He typed: IJN21 TO POP3 927 CIRCUMSTANCES
SAC LIVE Poss 211, and sent the message
through with the urgent-call button, which would
send out a loud beep on all other officers' terminals.
Seconds later, the terminal came alive with the radio
designations, names, and badge numbers of the
downtown-sector patrol units. Moments later several
units responded to the call with ENRTE, including
the downtown-sector sergeant.
Paul could feel his pulse racing and his heart
pounding as LaFortier worked the terminal. He
knew something was happening, but it was all going
on via the computer. "Talk to me, Cargo," Paul
said.
"Here's what I've got," LaFortier told him. "I
sent in a 927, 'suspicious circumstances/ with a
possible 211, 'robbery in progress/ and I sent it with
an urgent-call message prefix because we've got an
off-duty cop inside who could be in trouble. The
urgent-call message causes the MDT to respond
with a readout of all of the sector units, and anyone
who might be available checks in. Here it says the
sector sergeant is en route too-he knows that
there's a fellow cop inside, and he knows that Sacramento
Live! is a hot location, and he knows from
my call sign that I'm not a downtown-sector corporal
, so he'll take charge of the scene himself when
he arrives. A 211 call always gets a lot of cops' attention
too.
"But because I called it in and I'm the senior guy
on the scene, it's my job to feed info to the en-route
units so they have an idea of what's going on and
what to do. I'm going to tell the' sergeant that I
think Rusty has been kidnapped; I'm going to tell
them about the Step Van; I'm going to run down the
report of the power failure; and I'm going to recommend
we stay off the radios or go to a tactical
channel because whoever's got Rusty's radio can
monitor us." LaFortier typed: supp ijN2i FOSS 207 SECURITYI
7 971 VEHICLE CALREG 1734BD21 POSS 503 IN ALLEY N OF
K STREET LAST RPT POWER FAILURE SAC LIVE RFCOMND
MDT OR TAC CHANNEL 6 211 SUSPCTS MAY BE moNITORING
"Now what do we do next?" LaFortier asked. It
took Paul's whirling mind a moment to catch up.
"C'mon, rook, what's next?"
"We gotta go in and check on Caruthers," McLanahan
finally replied. "Officer safety first."
"Very good. Now At that moment, another
squad car, this one with an S designation beside the
car number, signifying the patrol-sector sergeant's
car, pulled up alongside theirs. The windows between
the two cars rolled down. LaFortier recognized
the downtown graveyard-shift sergeant, Matt
Lamont. "Hey, Matt. This is my trainee, McLanaban
. Paul, Sergeant Matt Lamont, downtown patrol
."
"What's going on, Cargo?" Lamont asked. His
eyes registered McLanahan but he didn't bother to
greet him. "What are you doing downtown?"
"Was coming from the W and heard that Rusty
was doing an off-duty gig here at Sacramento Live!/'
LaFortier replied. "I was going to stop by and visit,
but I couldn't raise him on the radio. I drove around
and found a truck in the alley. The plates don't
match the vehicle registration. Someone answered
Rusty's radio, but it didn't sound like him."
"Yeah, I heard that too," Lamont said. He was in
charge of all the off-duty officers in his sector as
well as the downtown graveyard-shift units. He
picked up his radio and keyed the mike: "Security
One-Seven, Edward Ten." He tried several times;
no response. Lamont turned back to LaFortier:
"Where's Rusty's car? On the mall?" LaFortier nodded
. "All right, Cargo. Let's put your rookie in the
mall in a cover position next to Rusty's car. Cargo, I
want you on the J Street alley exit. I'll stay here and
monitor the alley on this end. This'll be a loose perimeter
only. Once we're set up and the other units
arrive, we'll have a look inside. Let's go."
LaFortier drove forward to the K Street Mall.
"Okay, Paul, listen up," he said. "Your job will be to
watch the K Street Mall exits, report anything you
see, and, most importantly, protect yourself. You
take cover behind Caruthers's car-behind the engine
block, remember, because it gives you more
protection. You've got three exits onto the mall, so
watch all three as best you can. Stay out of sight.
Don't let anyone out of the building unless their
hands are up in the air. Call for backup before you
do anything. just stay calm and think before you
move. Got it?"
"Got it, Craig."
"Good. Out you go."
McLanahan retrieved his nightstick and left the
squad car, then trotted across Seventh Street and
down the K Street Mall to the empty squad car. He
knelt beside the right front fender, oblivious to the
rain.
He found his heart racing, his breathing shallow
and rapid, and his forehead and neck sweating as if
he had just sprinted a hundred yards instead of jogging
a hundred feet. He had stationed himself between
the right front tire and the right door, with
the engine block between himself and the doors
across K Street. Visibility was poor in the rain, but
he could make out all three Sacramento Live! doorways
that emptied out on the K Street Mall.
Paul turned up his radio, but it was silent. Was it
working? Were the batteries charged? Did he leave
the South Station with dead batteries in his radio?
He double-checked that he was on the correct channel
, then turned the squelch knob and got a loud
rasping rumble of static. Shit! Enough to alert bad
guys for three blocks around. He turned the volume
down a couple of notches, then turned the squelch
knob until th.6 static disappeared. Leave the friggin'
radio alone, he told himself.
Now what? Draw his weapon? Why? There was
no threat in front of him. What if a wino or a transient
wandered onto the mall? Should he break
cover and move him, or stay hidden and hope he'd
pass? And if -he did either, what if the bad guys decided
Or what if the wino was one of the bad guys? . . .
Snap out of it, Paul! he told himself. Stop confusing
yourself with endless scenarios. just pay attention
and stay alert.
Paul tried the squad car's door-it was locked, as
it should be. He saw that the 12-gauge Remington
police-model shotgun was still in the electric quickrelease
clamp on the front seat, and filed that info
away in his head in case he'd need it-he had a set
of car keys on his key ring, and all of the department's
car doors and trunk locks were commonkeyed
so he had access to the car if necessary. He
scanned the street, looking for escape routes,
hazards, and other places for cover and concealment
. Not much out here-a couple of concrete
traffic barricades, some concrete trash cans, a few
directory/advertisement kiosks. There were few
places to hide along the mall.
More help would be arriving any minute. Good.
Something was bound to happen soon.
All right, out there!" the general manager of Sacramento
Live! shouted from inside the cash room
on the second floor. "We're coming out! We'll open
the door, then the guards will toss their guns out,
and then we'll be unarmed. Do you hear me? We
surrender! We're coming . . ."
The claymore mine blast slammed into the steel
door, ripping it from its hinges and hurling it inside
the cash room like a two-hundred-pound leaf being
tossed around by a tornado. One security gu
ard inside
died instantly, crushed by the flying door; the
body of a second one shattered as the force of the
blast hit him square-on. The third guard was just
picking himself up off the floor, leveling his weapon
at his attackers, when he was killed by a burst of
automatic gunfire from their assault rifles.
The Major now had his helmet on. A grenade
launcher was slung over his shoulder and he was
carrying an AK-74 combat assault rifle with a laser
aiming sight; a small backpack held additional ammunition
. He went into the devastated cash room
with his heavily armed personal guard and Mullins,
the renegade watchman.
The general manager and his three club managers
were cowering on the floor, blood seeping from
wounds on their faces and hands and from their ruptured
eardrums. The Major scanned the room. None
of the money bins were visible-apparently they
had all been locked away in the safe at the back. He
raised his rifle and aimed it at the man in the middle
. "Who is the general manager?" he shouted.
Mullins pointed to the man on the left, who was
crouched over the mangled body of one of the
guards. "He is," he said, praying it would help save
these poor bastards' lives.
"Sie!" the Major said in a loud voice so they
could hear him through his gas mask and through
their shattered, blood-filled ears. "Open the safe
now or you will die."
"I can't," the general manager said. "It's on a
time lock. It won't open until nine tomorrow morning
. Any attempt to open it will trigger an alarm,
and it, can't be-"
"Liar! Idiot!" The terrorist pulled the trigger of
his assault rifle, and the head of one of the club
managers burst open like an overripe melon. The
general manager, showered with blood and brains,
screamed, then stared in horror at the destroyed
head.
"Open that safe or you will watch the rest of your
employees die."
The general manager was on his feet in an instant
, fumbling for keys. He inserted a key into the
combination dial with shaking fingers, turned it,
entered a combination, turned the key again, completed
the combination, and pulled the safe door
open.
"Schweinehund! You needlessly caused the death
of one of your workers to save your profits!" the