figured he had about fifty yards to give and still be in eyesight of the apartment building. He heard a chopper overhead, somewhere in the distance.
“Let me get my tools up and I’ll push off.”
The cop flicked cigarette ash off his chest. “Put them on the fuckin’ bike and
move.
” He backed up until he got back in the car. They rolled off, went down the street, and made a left. Circling, Sully thought, back to their original spot.
He pushed the bike down First, watching the building from his peripheral vision, then stopped, pulling the wrench back. He kneeled behind the bike.
A few minutes later, a white cargo truck parked across the street in front of him. There was a pause, and then a heavy van with blackened windows rolled past him, wheeled hard onto P, and slammed to a stop. Four, five, six SWAT team members leaped out, running to the front of the apartment building, the first one carrying a Plexiglas shield, two behind him with assault rifles. At the same time, the back door of the cargo van rolled up and a jumble of agents leaped out, sprinting across a neighbor’s yard, leaping over a small boundary fence.
Percussive booms ran up the street and a puff of smoke emerged from the apartment building. Yelling. A window shattered. Two and then three flat pops. The overhead
thump-thump-thump
intensified, the helicopter directly overhead now. Sully ran to the street now, pretense gone. A cop turned, briefly put a gun on him, Sully stopped, hands up, and the cop turned back.
Officers boiled out of the narrow doorway of the apartment building, a handcuffed man between them, head down, pushing and pulling, yelling, swearing, an awkward run to the black van parked in the street. Another knot of officers at the apartment doorway, a plume of smoke trailing them, and a second man emerged, again in handcuffs, again force-marched to the van. Seconds later, a third man, feet dragging. He did not appear to be conscious.
Sirens hit full force, the vans and squad cars roaring out. Sully whipped out his cell and called Patrick on the desk.
“Suspects just got popped,” he said, giving the address and a few more grafs to get the story started.
“I’m coming with the rest,” he said, looking over his shoulder. Cops on the perimeter were looking at him, talking into their fingers, starting to move toward him.
He cursed, rushing to put the tools back, hearing a siren start
whoop-whoop-whoop
ing, and saw a patrol car start to make a U-turn. He cranked the bike, and it roared into life, and then he had the helmet on, leaning over the gas tank as he hit the throttle to keep the front end of the bike from rearing into the air as he shot forward, leaving the patrol car behind.
A block down, blowing the stop sign, the bike flying past sixty, now to seventy, he saw the blue Olds parked at the curb, waiting, not bothering to give chase.
• • •
Five hours later he was sitting at the mahogany bar in Stoney’s at the back end of the long L-shaped fixture, the Sazerac in front of him, the glass chilled, the lemon peel at the bottom like a little pickled fish.
“Wait,” the guy at the other end of the bar was saying. “Turn it back up. They saying something.”
Sully looked up in time to see Dmitri, working the bar, trying to clean up and close down, reach above the mirrored glass and turn the sound on the television up.
“—and have just released the names of the three suspects apprehended today. They are Reginald Jackson, seventeen, of the District of Columbia; D’onte Highsmith, eighteen, also of the District; and Jerome Deland, twenty-two, of Prince George’s County.” The man was looking down at a sheet of paper reading. “According to a police spokesman, all three have criminal records. Deland has four arrests, for assault, battery, unlicensed use of a vehicle—that’s the District’s charge for car theft—and possession of marijuana with intent to distribute. Court records show he was on,
“Let me get my tools up and I’ll push off.”
The cop flicked cigarette ash off his chest. “Put them on the fuckin’ bike and
move.
” He backed up until he got back in the car. They rolled off, went down the street, and made a left. Circling, Sully thought, back to their original spot.
He pushed the bike down First, watching the building from his peripheral vision, then stopped, pulling the wrench back. He kneeled behind the bike.
A few minutes later, a white cargo truck parked across the street in front of him. There was a pause, and then a heavy van with blackened windows rolled past him, wheeled hard onto P, and slammed to a stop. Four, five, six SWAT team members leaped out, running to the front of the apartment building, the first one carrying a Plexiglas shield, two behind him with assault rifles. At the same time, the back door of the cargo van rolled up and a jumble of agents leaped out, sprinting across a neighbor’s yard, leaping over a small boundary fence.
Percussive booms ran up the street and a puff of smoke emerged from the apartment building. Yelling. A window shattered. Two and then three flat pops. The overhead
thump-thump-thump
intensified, the helicopter directly overhead now. Sully ran to the street now, pretense gone. A cop turned, briefly put a gun on him, Sully stopped, hands up, and the cop turned back.
Officers boiled out of the narrow doorway of the apartment building, a handcuffed man between them, head down, pushing and pulling, yelling, swearing, an awkward run to the black van parked in the street. Another knot of officers at the apartment doorway, a plume of smoke trailing them, and a second man emerged, again in handcuffs, again force-marched to the van. Seconds later, a third man, feet dragging. He did not appear to be conscious.
Sirens hit full force, the vans and squad cars roaring out. Sully whipped out his cell and called Patrick on the desk.
“Suspects just got popped,” he said, giving the address and a few more grafs to get the story started.
“I’m coming with the rest,” he said, looking over his shoulder. Cops on the perimeter were looking at him, talking into their fingers, starting to move toward him.
He cursed, rushing to put the tools back, hearing a siren start
whoop-whoop-whoop
ing, and saw a patrol car start to make a U-turn. He cranked the bike, and it roared into life, and then he had the helmet on, leaning over the gas tank as he hit the throttle to keep the front end of the bike from rearing into the air as he shot forward, leaving the patrol car behind.
A block down, blowing the stop sign, the bike flying past sixty, now to seventy, he saw the blue Olds parked at the curb, waiting, not bothering to give chase.
• • •
Five hours later he was sitting at the mahogany bar in Stoney’s at the back end of the long L-shaped fixture, the Sazerac in front of him, the glass chilled, the lemon peel at the bottom like a little pickled fish.
“Wait,” the guy at the other end of the bar was saying. “Turn it back up. They saying something.”
Sully looked up in time to see Dmitri, working the bar, trying to clean up and close down, reach above the mirrored glass and turn the sound on the television up.
“—and have just released the names of the three suspects apprehended today. They are Reginald Jackson, seventeen, of the District of Columbia; D’onte Highsmith, eighteen, also of the District; and Jerome Deland, twenty-two, of Prince George’s County.” The man was looking down at a sheet of paper reading. “According to a police spokesman, all three have criminal records. Deland has four arrests, for assault, battery, unlicensed use of a vehicle—that’s the District’s charge for car theft—and possession of marijuana with intent to distribute. Court records show he was on,
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