at the electric company plant two miles away. Day worked his way closer, concealing himself in a deep shadow near a portable trash container right next to the side of the building. The trash had a sweet, nauseating odor, and Day didn't want to have to stay there long.
Grindle and Costa walked silently past, within thirty feet of Day, but they didn't see him. Day stayed in the deep shadows and drew his revolver from his holster.
He heard a slight metallic clanking and then the low rolling sound of the overhead loading door going up. He got between the building and the trash container, worked himself to the corner and peered around, but there was nothing to be seen. Grindle and Costa had silently lowered the door behind them so their way of access couldn't he spotted from outside. They'd also extinguished the outside lights near that door for added concealment.
Day waited, watching. When Costa left to get the car he would work in behind a nearby parked trailer where he could get off a clear shot.
As he waited, the brassy taste of excitement rose in Day's throat. Nervousness, he decided, as he inched forward. He took a deep breath, then smiled confidently to himself, and that's when he realized the guilt, the shame. For the first time he admitted it to himself. He was enjoying this. He was actually enjoying himself!
The shot from inside the building wasn't very loud, like the single, flat blow of a hammer.
Day straightened and caught the sweet stench of the trash. "No...he whispered to himself. "No!" Then he was running, away from the loading area and toward the front of the building. Within a minute he'd broken the thick glass of a front door with the butt of his revolver and was inside.
He ran through the offices, through a door into the warehouse area.
Everything was dark except for a feeble glow about a hundred feet off to the left. Day remembered the sketch Grindle had made of the building's floor plan and cautiously made his way toward the light. As he got closer he could hear a radio playing, tuned to some all-night-chatter and soft-music station.
Grindle and Costa had decided to eliminate every possible risk. The old watchman was lying on his stomach in a puddle of blood in the center of the tiny office's floor. His leather holster was empty, and his cap was half-on, half-off his head to reveal a slow trickle of blood through matted gray hair.
With a shaking hand Day picked up the telephone on the desk and dialed Headquarters. He asked to he put through to the Eighth Precinct and heard desk sergeant Hap Kramer's pleasant voice.
"This is Lieutenant Day, Hap. The Bain warehouse on Palmer Road is being hit right now. Get somebody over here."
"Yes, sir."
"There are two men in on it, Bill Grindle and Rich Costa. When they leave they'll he heading east on Palmer in a stolen car with a trunkload of amphetamines. Set up roadblocks around the area." "Narcotics in trunk, heading east. . .
"How do you know east, sir?"
"Because I helped them set up the job."
"Yes... You what?"
"I'll try to stop them here. They've already killed the watchman, and they'll try to kill anybody who gets in their way. Put out an 'armed and dangerous' on them. Now get busy!"
"Yes, sir..." The sergeant's voice was unsteady, puzzled.
Day hung up the telephone with a quick, silent motion and stared down once again at the old watchman.
Then cursing, near sobbing, Day ran from the office into the darkened warehouse. Staying low, he felt his way silently toward the other end of the building, toward the loading dock.
They were working by moonlight. Grindle and Costa were just about to close the overhead door and leap from the dock when they turned and saw Day.
"Hold it where you are!" Day shouted, leveling his revolver at them. "Both of you, Grindle!"
Grindle screamed something Day didn't understand, then the slug struck Day in the right side, slapping him to the cement floor. He shook his head and saw that only the gray nighttime sky was
Grindle and Costa walked silently past, within thirty feet of Day, but they didn't see him. Day stayed in the deep shadows and drew his revolver from his holster.
He heard a slight metallic clanking and then the low rolling sound of the overhead loading door going up. He got between the building and the trash container, worked himself to the corner and peered around, but there was nothing to be seen. Grindle and Costa had silently lowered the door behind them so their way of access couldn't he spotted from outside. They'd also extinguished the outside lights near that door for added concealment.
Day waited, watching. When Costa left to get the car he would work in behind a nearby parked trailer where he could get off a clear shot.
As he waited, the brassy taste of excitement rose in Day's throat. Nervousness, he decided, as he inched forward. He took a deep breath, then smiled confidently to himself, and that's when he realized the guilt, the shame. For the first time he admitted it to himself. He was enjoying this. He was actually enjoying himself!
The shot from inside the building wasn't very loud, like the single, flat blow of a hammer.
Day straightened and caught the sweet stench of the trash. "No...he whispered to himself. "No!" Then he was running, away from the loading area and toward the front of the building. Within a minute he'd broken the thick glass of a front door with the butt of his revolver and was inside.
He ran through the offices, through a door into the warehouse area.
Everything was dark except for a feeble glow about a hundred feet off to the left. Day remembered the sketch Grindle had made of the building's floor plan and cautiously made his way toward the light. As he got closer he could hear a radio playing, tuned to some all-night-chatter and soft-music station.
Grindle and Costa had decided to eliminate every possible risk. The old watchman was lying on his stomach in a puddle of blood in the center of the tiny office's floor. His leather holster was empty, and his cap was half-on, half-off his head to reveal a slow trickle of blood through matted gray hair.
With a shaking hand Day picked up the telephone on the desk and dialed Headquarters. He asked to he put through to the Eighth Precinct and heard desk sergeant Hap Kramer's pleasant voice.
"This is Lieutenant Day, Hap. The Bain warehouse on Palmer Road is being hit right now. Get somebody over here."
"Yes, sir."
"There are two men in on it, Bill Grindle and Rich Costa. When they leave they'll he heading east on Palmer in a stolen car with a trunkload of amphetamines. Set up roadblocks around the area." "Narcotics in trunk, heading east. . .
"How do you know east, sir?"
"Because I helped them set up the job."
"Yes... You what?"
"I'll try to stop them here. They've already killed the watchman, and they'll try to kill anybody who gets in their way. Put out an 'armed and dangerous' on them. Now get busy!"
"Yes, sir..." The sergeant's voice was unsteady, puzzled.
Day hung up the telephone with a quick, silent motion and stared down once again at the old watchman.
Then cursing, near sobbing, Day ran from the office into the darkened warehouse. Staying low, he felt his way silently toward the other end of the building, toward the loading dock.
They were working by moonlight. Grindle and Costa were just about to close the overhead door and leap from the dock when they turned and saw Day.
"Hold it where you are!" Day shouted, leveling his revolver at them. "Both of you, Grindle!"
Grindle screamed something Day didn't understand, then the slug struck Day in the right side, slapping him to the cement floor. He shook his head and saw that only the gray nighttime sky was
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