Major shouted, and shot the general manager pointblank
in the groin with a three-round burst from his
assault rifle. The burn from the muzzle blast was a
full foot in diameter, and the noise in the small cash
room was deafening-but not as loud as the agonized
screams of the emasculated manager until he
finally bled out and died.
"Schnell!" the Major shouted, and three more of
his men rushed in, as heavily armed as their leader.
"Get the bins to the truck!" They pulled the steel
cash bins out of the vault and wheeled them outside
. The Major ignored the, two surviving club
managers, issued more instructions through his radio
, then turned to Mullins. "How will the police
deploy outside? Will they use heavy weapons?"
,,i don't think ... no, they won't," Mullins replied
, more afraid than ever of saying he didn't
know to a guy who had just killed five men in cold
blood right in front of him. "I haven't heard any
reports of a SWAT call-out, and anyway this city's
SWAT teams are only on fifteen-minute alert during
graveyard shifts-it'll take them at least a half hour
to get here. The shift sergeant might have a semiautomatic
M-16, but they don't train with it
much
"Ein einziges Gewehr? One rifle? What kind of
police force does this city have?" The Major
laughed. "A child with a Kalishnikov can do battle
with the police in this city and have a good chance
of winning! Kindezpolizei!"
"Hell, only SWAT had M-16's until just a couple
months ago-and half the politicians in this city
want the cops completely disarmed," Mullins said.
He was so glad to actually know something that he
was babbling. "All the other cops only got sidearms
or shotguns with double-ought buck. Your only real
problem is that the county jail is only three blocks
away, and police headquarters is only six. Once the
call goes out, lots of help will arrive real fuckin'
fast."
"We will be out of here long before that," the
Major said confidently. "Kill all the police!" he
shouted to his men as they made their way down
the stairs to the rear exit, heading toward the alley
and the waiting truck: "I will tolerate no gunfights
with them. We hit hard, and we hit first."
T
he explosion from the claymore mine rattled the
windows and rippled the glass front doors of Sacramento
Live! Paul McLanahan jumped. He dropped
the radio, fumbled for it in the darkness, picked it
up from the wet pavement, and mashed the mike
button: "I heard explosions! Explosions coming
from inside the building!"
"Clear this channel!" came another voice, probably
Lamont. "KMA, Edward Ten, show a 211 and
994 on this location, all downtown units respond
Code Three, set up a perimeter on Capitol, Eighth,
Fifth, and I streets, bomb explosion inside the Sacramento
Live! complex, repeat, bomb explosion inside
Sacramento Live! . . . stand by . . . KMA,
add a 246 on this location, shots fired ... Jesus,
more shots fired ... requesting SWAT and Star
unit call-outs for a 994 and 246 inside Sacramento
Live! and request a 940-Sam on my location on Seventh
Street."
"Edward Ten, One Lincoln Ten responding,"
came another radio message. That was from the
downtown-sector lieutenant, obviously monitoring
the radio. He was the one who would take charge of
the scene when he arrived.
T
o a supercharged Paul McLanahan, the automatic-rifle
fire from inside the complex sounded
even louder than the explosion. His SIG Sauer P226
was out and leveled at the front entrance to the Sacramento
Live! building before he realized it. The
gunshots seemed so close, so goddamn loud, that he
ducked as if the bullets were pinging off the walls
around him. His gun hand was shaking, and every
little sound, every gust of wind, made the gun muzzle
jump. He felt vulnerable as hell, exposed to the
entire world.
He started running through scenarios again.
What do I do if I see a guy come out of the building?
Should I challenge him? But won't that give away
my location and make me a target? If he's got a gun,
should I shoot first? What if he's got more bombs, or
even grenades?
The bulletproof vest he was wearing underneath
his uniform shirt didn't seem nearly as thick and
protective as it did half an hour ago.
C raig LaFortier had the squad car's spotlight
aimed right at the delivery door that swung open
behind the Step Van truck parked in the alley. It lit
up the three black-clothed armed men who came
rushing out of the building pushing the big wheeled
bins that LaFortier knew the clubs used to hold
their cash. He saw the hydraulic lift mounted on
the rear of the truck rise to the level of the loading
dock. Two more armed men in black were standing
in the back of the truck, ready to pull the bins inside
it.
"Five 211 suspects in the alley on the loading
dock!" LaFortier shouted into his portable radio.
"All suspects 417. Request immediate backup!" He
reholstered the radio, then took a firm Weaver grip
on his service pistol, crouched as low as he could
behind the right front fender of his squad car,
and shouted, "Police! Freeze! Drop your weapons!
Now!"
He never expected them to surrender-and they
didn't. As soon as he saw one of them unsling a rifle
from his shoulder and level it, he opened fire, aiming
three rounds each at the five gunmen he could
see across the street.
He saw them jerk and jump as the rounds hit, but
they didn't go down. Two of them leveled big assault
rifles with huge banana magazines at him.
Staying low, LaFortier ran up I Street to a nearby
parked car and crouched behind the left rear fender,
again shielded by the engine block, seconds before
the suspects opened fire. They peppered his squad
car with heavy-caliber automatic-rifle fire, shattering
the windshield and blowing out the two left
tires, and stopped shooting only when they finally
shot out the searchlight.
"Shots ftred, shots fired!" LaFortier shouted into
his radio. "Heavy automatic-rifle fire coming from
the alley, two suspects with rifles, possibly all five
have automaiic rifles. Suspects are wearing body armor
too. Go for head shots, repeat, go for head
shots! "
"Get out of there, Cargo!" he heard Lamont yell
in the radio. "Clear out east to Seventh or meet up
with the unit on Sixth. John Twelve and John Fourteen
, John Twenty-One is coming your way. Cover
him." LaFortier
knew that Seventh Street had more
units, so he decided to head toward Sixth. "This is
John Twenty-One, I'm headed west down J." He
dropped the magazine from his SIG and immediately
slammed home another one. Time to get the
hell out . . .
just then, a cop's worst nightmare appeared before
his eyes. A lone gunman, looking as if he was
covered in a suit of black armor, marched out of the
alley onto J Street with his AK-74 leveled. When he
was thirty feet from the abandoned squad car, he
shouted, "Tod allen Polizisten!" and opened fire,
spraying it in a side-to-side sweeping motion on full
auto. Then he continued to march forward, raising
the rifle up so he could aim it at anything that
moved on the other side of the car. His walk was
deliberate, no hurry in his steps, no effort to hide
himself-just as if he were a pedestrian crossing the
street.
Lafortier dropped the radio, aimed, and fired five
rounds at the guy's head. He knew he was shooting
back toward Seventh, toward Lamont and the other
units, but it was a chance he had to take-this guy
had to go. One of his shots must have hit flesh because
the guy went down and LaFortier heard him
shout, "Achtung! Ich bin angeschossen! Ich bin
angeschossen!" as he clutched his neck and began
to crawl back toward the alley.
But LaFortier didn't see the second guy until it
was too late. The gunman peered out from around
the corner of the Sacramento Live! building, took
aim at LaFortier with a shoulder-fired antitank missile
launcher, and fired. The car Craig LaFortier was
hiding behind blew twenty feet in the air an
crashed back to earth, a ball of fire and molten
metal.
Matt Lamont, who had low-crawled west on J
Street up to the alley with his sergeant's-issue M- 16
rifle cradled in his arms, was too late to help
LaFortier, but he was going to get a piece of this
cop-killer if it was the last thing he ever did. He
raised the M-16 and fired three rounds at the gunman's
head, but all of them missed. He leaped to his
feet, crouched low, and approached the corner of the
building next to the alley, determined to shoot at
any head that appeared under his sights. At the corner
of the building adjacent to the alleyway, he
risked a fast peek around the corner. A tremendous
volley of automatic-rifle fire rippled the corner of
the building. His semiautomatic rifle was no match
for at least three automatic assault rifles in the alley
. He hotfooted it back to Seventh Street and took
cover behind a tree.
"Officer down, officer down!" Lamont shouted
into his portable radio. "Code 900, Code 900, Sacramento
Live! complex, heavily armed suspects in alleyway
between J and K Streets!"
As he issued the Code 900-the dire-emergency
code, the code guaranteed to get every cop in town
headed this way on the double-Lamont was watching
the alley for any sign of the suspects. But all he
could actually see were the remnants of the burning
car across J Street, the one that had protected his
friend and fellow cop Craig LaFortier. At least Cargo
got one of the bastards before he died, Lamont
thought grimly.
What in hell happened?" Mullins asked nervously.
The explosion and the volleys of automatic gunfire
outside could be heard throughout the complex-it
sounded as if the whole damned area was
filled with cops, all out for blood.
The Major was listening for reports through his
helmet-mounted headset. "One of my men in the
alley is dead," he said.
The radio in Mullins's hand began bleeping, the
all-points alert. "They've called a Code 900," he
said. "Every cop in the county will be here in a matter
of minutes."
"Then it is time we are off," the Major said
calmly, and began issuing instructions to his men
via his headset commlink.
"What about me?" Mullins bleated. "I don't have
any armor! They'll cut me down in three seconds!"
"Shall I put you out of your misery now?" asked
the Major, leveling his rifle at the turncoat.
"No!"
"Then go, get out of my sight. You are on your
own. I let you keep your life, since au served us
well. But I warn you: If you are and if you
even think about revealing anything about myself
or my organization, then you had better pray the
police kill you first. Because I will see to it that your
agony is prolonged over several long days. Now
verschwinde! Go! My troops and I have work to
do./I
Paul McLanahan had been taught about the Code
900 in the academy, listened to the instructors,
heard the recordings of actual radio calls. But the
main thing he learned was never, ever call for one
on the radio-it was reserved for someone in a
much higher pay grade than himself. He could call
for "backup" or "cover" or "officer needs assistance
" or "officer in distress" or even "HELP!" but
could never call a Code 900. The only reason to ever
call one, the instructors had said seriously, was if
the earth was splitting open and all the citizens of
But he knew that was exactly what was happening
. He saw and heard the rocket explosion on the
other side of the complex on J Street, saw the fires,
heard the gunshots, heard the heavy machine-gun
fire in return. Jesus, Cargo, please get on the radio.
Say something, man. Say something . . .
And when Paul heard the "officer down" call, he
knew it was his partner. And with the sector sergeant
calling a Code 900 over the air, he also knew
this battle had probably just begun.
There were men shouting over on Seventh Street,
the wail of sirens just a few blocks away. The
sounds were reassuring to the young rookie, alone
and pointing his gun at a darkened building. All he
wanted to do right now was be with his partner,
cover him, defend him, carry him to safety. But he
would never leave his post until given an order to
do so, so he was glad that other officers were responding
and rushing to help Cargo. He would just
have to . . .
An ear-splitting explosion blasted him out of his
reverie. The main doors of Sacramento Live! on the
K Street Mall blew open, scattering a wall of glass
and fire thirty feet away. He felt a hard slap to his
head, followed by a gust of superheated air. His ears
were ringing so loud, he thought he might be completely
deaf. He found his finger had tightened on
the trigger of his SIG, and was afraid he might have
accidentally squeezed off a round. Then another explosion
rocked the night, and Lamont's squad car
burst into flames over on Seventh Street-another
rocket had been fired from the alley, destroying the
car and sending officers scurrying for cove
r.
And then they appeared: two columns of four
wearing helmets and gas masks, led by a figure
dressed completely in thick black body armor who
was firing an AK-74 out onto the street as the columns
brazenly strode out the shattered front doors
of the Sacramento Live! complex. The men behind
him fired smaller but still murderous-looking
HK MP-5 submachine guns, sweeping both sides
of the street with a hail of gunfire. As the column
marched down Seventh Street, the Step Van
wheeled out of the alley onto Seventh, moving into
position to pick them up.
But they were marching away from Paul, and
they didn't see him. He took aim on the closest gunman
and fired three rounds at his head. The last
man in the right column stumbled, stopped, turned
directly at Paul, lifted his visor, saw the squad car
parked there, and swept it with a two-second burst
of automatic gunfire. Highlighted in the glare of a
nearby streetlight, he made an ideal target, and Paul
took the shot and hit him square in the face. The
man screamed and went down clutching his face
and writhing on the ground.
Paul was lining up another shot when two of the
gunmen in the right column wheeled around and
opened fire with their MP-S's. He returned fire,
pulling the trigger as fast as he could, rather than
aiming, in the hope that his attackers might dive for
cover or run. But they did neither. They fired again,
concentrating their fire now.
They were coming after him, two deadly assailants
with submachine guns. Time to get the hell
out.
Paul had started to move along the right side of
the squad car, getting ready to retreat to his chosen
fall-back position, a sturdy-looking information
booth a few yards away, when he felt a pain in his
right leg. He looked down to see half of his right calf
ripped open, just above the top of his boots.
He was a kid from the TV age and had seen
plenty of guys get shot on TV. They all had it
wron he realized. His leg did not fly backward-he
never even felt the bullet hit. His leg was not shot
off. There was no spurting blood. He felt very little
pain-that was the weirdest part. What he could see
of the wound-it wasn't much-was big and uglyobviously