Total Immunity Read Free

Hughes, both carrying submachine guns. Both had been there, in place, well in advance of Steinbach’s arrival.
    â€œDrop your guns now, assholes!” Blakely said.
    â€œFuck you,” the Arab said, turning on Blakely, letting go with a blast from his gun. The bullets sprayed the pool tables next to Blakely, who dove to the floor for cover.
    Steinbach quickly pulled his own .45 from his shoulder holster and aimed it at Oscar Hidalgo. He was about to pull the trigger when Jack threw the diamond-filled pool ball into his face. Steinbach yelled and fell backward, holding his bleeding nose.
    Jack turned quickly and saw the big Welshman, Draper, raise his gun to shoot Oscar. He picked up the pool cue and smacked him in the mouth, knocking three bloodied teeth to the floor.
    One of the other goons aimed at Blakely, but Oscar cut him in half with two bullets from his pistol.
    Jack watched as Kafidove behind a cardboard box. Jack aimed dead center at the slogan have fun with pool and fired. The bullet tore through the box and hit Kafiin the throat. The Arab fell to the floor, flopping like a dying fish.
    Jack watched as Hughes shot Draper in the back of the leg. The Welshman fell to one knee, dropped his gun, and threw up his hands.
    The bald-headed goon was caught between the crossfire and he went down in a hail of bullets. The freckle-faced boy dropped his gun and held up his arms. “No more, man,” he said.
“No más.”
Hughes quickly cuff ed him. Now Jack turned to arrest the German, but Steinbach was already half across the warehouse floor, headed for the far exit door.
    Jack took off after him, firing as he ran, but missed and watched Steinbach disappear from the warehouse into the bright sunlight of Sunset Boulevard.
    They ran down the teeming street past shoppers who were lined up for the new iPod sales from Best Buy. Jack slammed into a blonde with a pierced tongue who screamed as she fell to the pavement. Ahead of him, Steinbach turned and aimed his gun.
    â€œDown!” Jack screamed. “FBI!”
    The people on the street fell to the hot pavement as Stein- bach fired at Jack. The bullet veered off to the right and smashed into a Porsche Boxster’s windshield. It shattered into a thousand pieces. The car alarm went off , screaming through the smogged- out air.
    Jack aimed and fired back at Steinbach, but missed as the bullet hit a patio chair outside a furniture store, spinning it around.
    Steinbach ran on, turned left, heading for the lake at Echo Park. He disappeared behind a little stand of palm trees. Jack dodged around a Mister Softee truck, moved toward the lake, keeping low, behind parked cars.
    Then it happened. Steinbach made a move toward the muddy beach right near the pedal-boat rental pier. Jack fired and hit him in the right leg. Steinbach fell to his knee but turned around firing, and Jack felt the bullet whistle by his right ear.
    He crouched and fired again, and saw Steinbach fall backward into the muddy lake.
    He splashed around, flailing like a beached walrus. Jack heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Oscar and Ron Hughes just behind him, their guns drawn.
    â€œThe mutherfucker looks like Shamu,” Oscar said.
    Jack ran forward, holding his gun on Steinbach who was up now, throwing his gun onto the beach, holding his hands above his drenched, muddy head.
    â€œCome on outta there now,” Jack said. “And don’t try anything original or you’re gonna look like a paper target at a rifle range.”
    Though wet and bleeding, Steinbach wasn’t cowed.
    â€œThat’s what you’d like, hey, Jack? Blow me up, say it was self- defense. But I’m not going to play your game. No, my friend,
you’re
going to play
mine.
”
    Steinbach walked forward, hands still in the air, and a smile on his fat face.
    â€œI love games, Karl. What’s the rules?”
    â€œSimple. You . . . him, and the other two cops are never going to