Suspect Read Free Page B

reached the intersecting street, a deep, throaty growl shattered the perfect silence, and a black Kenworth truck exploded from the cross street. It T-boned the Bentley so hard the six-thousand-pound sedan rolled completely over and came to rest right side up on the opposite side of the street. The Kenworth skidded sideways and stopped, blocking the street.
    Stephanie said, “Holy crap!”
    Scott slapped on their flashers, and pushed out of their car. The flashers painted the street and surrounding buildings with blue kaleidoscope pulses.
    Stephanie keyed her shoulder mike as she got out, searching for a street sign.
    “Where are we? What street is this?”
    Scott spotted the sign.
    “Harmony, three blocks south of the Harbor.”
    “Two-Adam-twenty-four, we have an injury accident at Harmony, three blocks south of the Harbor Freeway and four north of Wilshire. Request paramedics and fire. Officers assisting.”
    Scott was three paces ahead, and closer to the Bentley.
    “I got the Batmobile. You get the truck.”
    Stephanie broke into a trot, and the two veered apart. No one and nothing else moved on the street except steam hissing from beneath the Bentley’s hood.
    They were halfway to the accident when bright yellow bursts flashed within the truck and a hammering chatter echoed between the buildings.
    Scott thought something was exploding within the truck’s cab, then bullets ripped into their patrol car and the Bentley with the thunder of steel rain. Scott instinctively jumped sideways as Stephanie went down. She screamed once, and wrapped her arms across her chest.
    “I’m shot. Oh, crap—”
    Scott dropped to the ground and covered his head. Bullets sparked off the concrete around him, and gouged ruts in the street.
    Move. Do something.
    Scott rolled sideways, drew his pistol, and fired at the flashes as fast as he could. He pushed to his feet, and zigzagged toward his partner as an old, dark gray Gran Torino screamed down the street. It screeched to a stop beside the Bentley, but Scott barely saw it. He fired blindly at the truck as he ran, and zigged hard toward his partner.
    Stephanie was clutching herself as if doing stomach crunches. Scott grabbed her arm. He realized the men in the truck had stopped firing, and thought they might make it even as Stephanie screamed.
    Two men wearing black masks and bulky jackets boiled out of the sedan with pistols and lit up the Bentley, shattering the glass and punching holes in its body. The driver stayed at the wheel. As they fired, two more masked men climbed from the truck with AK-47 rifles.
    Scott dragged Stephanie toward their black-and-white, slipped in her blood, then started backwards again.
    The first man out of the truck was tall and thin, and immediately opened fire into the Bentley’s windshield. The second man was thick, with a large gut that bulged over his belt. He swung his rifle toward Scott, and the AK-47 bloomed with yellow flowers.
    Something punched Scott hard in the thigh, and he lost his grip on Stephanie and his pistol. He sat down hard, and saw blood welling from his leg. Scott picked up his pistol, fired two more shots, and his pistol locked open. Empty. He pushed to his knees, and took Stephanie’s arm again.
    “I’m dying.”
    Scott said, “No, you’re not. I swear to God you’re not.”
    A second bullet slammed into the top of his shoulder, knocking him down. Scott lost Stephanie and his pistol again, and his left arm went numb.
    The big man must have thought Scott was done. He turned to his friends, and when he turned, Scott crabbed toward their patrol car, dragging his useless leg and pushing with his good. The car was their only cover. If he made it to the car, he could use it as a weapon or a shield to reach Stephanie.
    Scott keyed his shoulder mike as he scuttled backwards, and whispered as loudly as he dared.
    “Officer down! Shots fired, shots fired! Two-Adam-twenty-four, we’re dying out here!”
    The men from the gray sedan