Hot Wire (25 page)

The cops took forever to get their act together and when they finally started to move in, they took their sweet time about it. We couldn't do anything but sit there, waiting for the bomb to go off while they worked their way through the building with the dogs, talking on their radios as they searched the maze of cargo. They had a couple snipers lying on top of the crates – I saw the light reflect off their scopes – and there must have been more of them lurking all around us. Nothing happened for a while, then two SWAT types ran out of the stacks and took up a position about fifty feet from the Lexus. It was just like the movies except we couldn't get up and leave.

"What's taking so long?" Arn asked hoarsely.

"They don't know what's going on," I said.

"Who the hell asked you?"

Somebody yelled on the east side of the building and the dogs went crazy, snarling and howling like they'd just treed a raccoon. The cops had probably flushed one of the
locos
, but we couldn't see what was going on and the noise died down in a couple minutes.

"Where's Matthews?" somebody yelled.

A woman in a Highway Patrol uniform and some Chinese dork wearing a trench coat walked out of the stacks, flanked by a couple of SWAT goons carrying military shotguns with pump grips and integral lasers. It was hard to see through the glare of the spotlights, but I recognized the Customs guy, Chang, and that dyke from the CHP who'd grilled me at the Emeryville station. They all had throat mikes and the SWAT goons had dressed for a riot. They were wearing ballistic helmets and body armor under black tactical vests, and they had flashbang pouches strapped to their legs. Splitting up, they kept an eye on the prisoners while Chang and the dyke picked their way through the mob.

"Stand up." Chang stood over Matthews, hands in the pockets of his trench coat, his face pinched into a nasty scowl. "You want to tell me what you're doing here?"

"There's no time to explain." Matthews got to his feet. "We have to evacuate the warehouse. Now!"

"Is that right?" Chang pressed a button on his throat mike. "Call HAZMAT! Tell them we need Bomb Disposal immediately! Find Deacon and Gonzalez and get them over here!"

"LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER," the bullhorn echoed through the structure. "ALL THE EXITS HAVE BEEN SEALED. THERE'S NO WAY OUT."

"Fuck you!" somebody yelled. "
Maldita puta
!"

"Over there!" Two of the goons ran into the stacks.

"Clear the area around the device," Chang shouted. "Don't let anybody near it, don't touch anything and keep your distance!"

More SWAT goons emerged from the stacks, crouched over and swivelling back and forth with their shotguns. In a few minutes, the space in front of the office was swarming with cops.

"What
is
that thing?" The CHP dyke couldn't take her eyes off the bomb. Holding a Glock in both hands with the barrel pointed in the air, she looked ultra-butch in her Highway Patrol uniform, all loaded down with cuffs, Taser, walkie-talkie and a dozen utility pouches clipped to her belt. "Is that what I think it is?"

"It's a nuclear weapon," Matthews said. "It's been activated and it could go off at any time. We have to clear the building immediately so we can disarm it."

They stared at him blankly.

"COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP." The cop on the bullhorn sounded like he was getting bored with his lines.

"It can't be..." The dyke looked like she was about to lose it. Shielding her eyes from the glare, she hunted around for her men. "Get everybody back! Tell them to stay away from it!"

"Where's that translator?" Chang shouted into his mike.

An electronic flash went off, making me jump. Some evidence technician was taking pictures of the bomb. Chang looked around, spotted Deacon and Heberto sitting in the crowd of prisoners and walked over to them, pointing his gun at Heberto's face.

"Get up!" he ordered. "Both of you!" Then he yelled into his throat mike: "Bring him in! North side of the building!"

"There's no time for this," Matthews shouted.

Deacon was so fat he had trouble standing up, but Heberto gave him a hand and he finally made it, flushed and wheezing. The SWAT goons moved around the open area, swinging their shotguns back and forth as they tried to cover everybody. Talking over their helmet mikes to the rest of the bone-crushers, they looked plenty nervous.

Chang got in Deacon's face. "You're under arrest for auto theft, international transport of contraband, possession of narcotics with intent to sell, organized criminal activity and suspicion of transporting explosive material across state boundaries."

"None of this crap belongs to us," Deacon said.

"Forget it." Chang signaled to one of his men. "You can't hide behind a phony lease this time."

"I'm telling you this ain't our place."

Matthews walked over to them. "This doesn't have anything to do with Deacon," he told Chang. "There's another group involved here. It's not just Deacon and his crew."

"Shut up," Chang yelled, then shouted into his throat mike: "What's the status on HAZMAT? We need more backup and transport. We've got thirty or forty detainees and there's more of them trapped inside. We need to clear the site immediately." Then he turned back to Deacon. "Heroin and hot cars," he said. "That's what we have here. We'll probably clear half the GTA cases in the city when we open those containers in the lot."

"You have made a blunder," Heberto said. "When you check the manifest and the ownership documents, you will see there is no connection."

"They screwed up," Deacon told him. "They got nothing and they know it."

"Oh yeah?" Chang checked his watch. "We'll see about that."

He flashed a hand-signal and a cop walked over with this ratty-looking slob wearing a trench coat and a Stetson hat. Surprise, surprise – it was Detective Jacobo, Deacon's washed-up bag man. He looked pasty under the lights, his skin pitted and greasy, his bloodshot eyes darting around like bugs trying to squirm their way out of his skull. Dragging a sleeve across his lips, he glanced at me, then looked away, flinching at every noise.

"What the hell?" Deacon flushed when he saw him. "What're
you
doing here?"

Heberto closed his eyes. He knew what it meant. Jacobo had been working undercover to save his own ass and there was no telling how much he knew about their operations.

"Sorry, Deke," Jacobo said, his jowls and forehead glistening with sweat. "I tried to warn you, but you just wouldn't listen."

"What is this?" Deacon turned to Chang. "What're you trying to pull?"

"Figure it out for yourself." Chang waved at the SWAT goons. "Read them their rights and get them out of here."

"I didn't have any choice, Deke." Jacobo fidgeted under the lights like a flasher in a lineup. They must've flipped him a long time ago and now Chang was trotting him out to screw with Deacon's head. "I got called into Internal Affairs after they popped Emma. She spilled her guts all over the place. I heard her rat you out. She ratted us all out."

"You lying scumbag," I shouted, but Brown grabbed me and pulled me back into line before I could do anything stupid. Again. One of the SWAT goons ran over and poked me with his shotgun, leering like a hyena. Chang was smiling. Deacon looked kind of sick.

"
Rata hijo de puta
!" someone yelled. "You rat motherfucker!"

The shout came from the stacks behind us and everybody turned at the same time – Matthews, Chang, the CHP dyke, the SWAT goons – just as Castel jumped out with a shotgun and blew Jacobo's head off.

The blast wiped the ugly off Jacobo's face and splattered it around like graffiti from a tagger's spray can. So much for Mr. Bag Man. He staggered backwards, canceled from the neck up, then his fat carcass toppled over and sprawled across the floor, his trench coat ripped and smoking.

That's all it took to set it off.

Castel had come out of nowhere. He was like twenty feet away when he pulled the trigger and the spread knocked Matthews, Chang and the CHP dyke off their feet. Heberto turned around and collided with a fed, both of them trying to get out of the line of fire, and Deacon blundered into the table, his flowered shirt peppered with burns. The rest of the goons hit the deck or took off running in all directions.

Castel fired again, wasting a cop.

"
Andate al carajo! Puto pajero
!"

I dived to the floor next to Brown, covering my head with my hands. Arn dropped beside me, wild-eyed and panting, then somebody landed on top of him, rolled over and took off running, stepping on my back.

Castel pumped and fired, yelling in Spanish. The kick knocked him backwards and he was still falling when one of the SWAT goons raised his shotgun and blew him into the stacks. The gun went off next to my ear and this giant bell started clanging in my head. Castel smacked into a crate, his glass eye flying through the air, then his buddies flipped out and started shooting at the cops in front of the office.

It was complete insanity.

The
locos
were all around us, just blasting away. They'd been hiding in the stacks – dodging the cops, squirming into crawl spaces – when Castel freaked out and shot Jacobo. We were completely surrounded, but the warehouse was full of cops and spooks and nobody was safe.

Matthews sprawled on the floor with his hands over his head, his trench coat scorched and tattered. Chang and the CHP dyke crouched beside him, shooting into the stacks with these giant magnums that sounded like cap guns a mile away. They both looked bruised and bloody.

Crates splintered. A light exploded in the rafters. The SWAT goon who'd shot Castel caught a round and fell on the table with a steaming dent in his vest. The table collapsed and he rolled across the floor, clinging to his shotgun, then he jumped to his feet and staggered towards the office, but another round knocked his helmet off and he crashed into the wall. The office windows shattered, venetian blinds flying apart like a gust had blown them off their runners.

Arn crawled over to the Lexus, trying to find some cover.

Brown was shouting in my face, but he sounded like a mouse squeaking on the other side of the planet. Static hissed in my ears and I could feel something warm trickling down my neck. He grabbed my sleeve, yelling like a maniac in a silent movie, then he dragged me over to the car, crawling beside me with the suitcase full of cash and the briefcase with all the documents that were going to win him the Pulitzer Prize. Goons were running everywhere, scrambling for safety. I saw a muzzle flash in the stacks and one of them landed in front of me with a hole in his dripping head.

We squirmed under the Lexus and I cracked my skull on the drive shaft, but I never felt a thing. The warehouse must've sounded like a demolition derby in the middle of World War III, but all I could hear was this muffled thumping mixed up with distant screams. Rounds hit the car, smashing the rearview, sparking off the hub caps, punching holes in the door. We crowded together and gaped at all the chaos.

A spotlight exploded and muzzles flashed in the darkness of the stacks. Deacon and Heberto had taken cover behind the wreck of the table and they were shooting at the cops or somebody – I couldn't tell. They must've found their guns or taken them off the stiffs sprawled around them on the floor. One of Crewcut's guys crawled over to the SWAT goon lying against the wall, grabbed his shotgun, and crawled into the office. Kneeling in the doorway, he fired at the spotlights, then somebody shot him in the gut.

Arn was shouting at Brown. I rubbed my neck and saw blood on my fingers. I must have caught some buckshot. Then my hearing came back with a roar of yells and shotgun blasts that sounded like a riot in a waterfall.

"Get the money!" Arn yelled. "We got to move!"

Laser beams flickered through the smoke, spotlights sweeping across the Lexus, flaring in my eyes, jumping around like the lights from a mirrored disco ball. Feedback screeched over a bullhorn. Feds and goons and cops ran back and forth or crawled through pools of blood or took dozens of impacts and blew apart like dolls. A sub-machine gun rattled in the stacks, short bursts, a long burst – it sounded like the fight had spread through the entire warehouse. Smoke billowed from one of the aisles leading to the dock – tear gas, most likely – and I thought I saw Baldy shooting at the spotlights with a pistol. Two shotguns went off at the same time, then somebody fired a volley on our left and I saw this canister roll across the floor.

"Don't look at it!" Brown yelled. "Cover your ears!"

The canister was a black tube with orange stripes and holes on both ends. A flashbang. It rolled past a couple of dead goons and came to a stop by the table about ten feet away.

I never saw it go off. Never heard a thing.

A burst of light zapped my head and the warehouse turned into a black-and-white negative for a couple seconds. Everything came to a standstill, frozen in place like a single frame from a movie somebody had paused so they could go to the john. The blast was so loud I never heard it, but I got this dizzy rush like I was spinning in one of those gravity deals they use on astronauts, whirling like a crankshaft, faster and faster, then the ride slammed to a stop and I thought I was going to barf my guts out.