'Hello… Hello?' Shane said, then closed the phone.
He could see a plume of dust rolling down the road on the west side of the property, heading toward the barns. Seconds later he heard the high whine of an engine wound tight, then, finally, he could make out a tan Land Rover racing ahead of the billowing cloud of dirt. He wasn't sure if Tony was in that vehicle, but it finally skidded to a stop in front of the hay barn, throwing dust that began swirling and drifting with the breeze.
Shane inched closer on his stomach. His phone was vibrating on his hip-Alexa trying to get back to him. He ignored it and kept going.
When he was about twenty-five yards away, he could see two black men open the back door of the Land Rover and yank out Tony Filosiani. He was bleeding badly from two wounds, one in the shoulder area, another near the stomach. The Day-Glo Dago was doubled over, unable to walk. His toes cut a line in the dust as two African- American gangbangers with Crip blue headbands pulled him across the front yard of the dairy and into the barn.
Suddenly something wet and cold touched Shane's leg. He exploded upright onto his feet, his heart pounding. He turned and saw that the friendly cow with the bedroom eyes had just nuzzled his ankle.
Shane took a deep breath, kneeled down again, and got his jackhammering heart under control. He decided to make a run for it across open ground, try to reach cover on the near side of the barn. He had to admit, the plan was a little John Wayne, but his position was out in the open, and he sure as hell didn't like the looks of Tony's wounds. Despite the chief's in-your-face M. O., he was becoming very fond of the Day-Glo Dago. Or maybe he was just becoming another in a long line of department suck-ups. He shook off the thought, gathered his knees under him, said a quick prayer, then took off.
Sprinting on the sandy dirt wearing loafers reminded Shane of the slow-motion running he often did when he was being chased by overwhelming evil in his nightmares. This twenty-five-yard adrenaline dash was so dismal he could have timed it with a sundial. He finally reached the side of the barn and flattened himself against the weathered wood. Somehow, miraculously, his sluggish sprint had gone unobserved. He tried to catch his breath as he resurveyed the dairy.
Shane could now see half a dozen Crip and Blood work cars parked behind the Colonial-style house, out of view of the main road. His cell vibrated again on his hip; he cursed Alexa's stubbornness, but this time he answered.
He whispered angrily, 'They got Tony. He's been wounded.'
'I called for backup. Now get out of there,' she said resolutely. 'That's an order.'
'I'm trying to get him out of there,' he said. 'Call you when it's done.' As he hung up, he could hear her angry protest. Shane crept slowly around the barn. When he reached the corner, he stopped. From this angle he could see several more cars parked behind the milking sheds. Mercedes and BMWs, probably motherships. Dennis Valentine's blue Rolls-Royce was a ways off, under a tree. Shanepulled the Beretta off his ankle and chambered it. From the look of all the rolling stock hidden from the road, Shane figured there were at least twenty gangbangers out here.
He edged around the corner of the barn, then started to make his way toward a standard-sized door cut in the center of the side wall. As he got closer, Shane dropped to his stomach. With the barrel of his gun, he gently touched the door. It was unlatched, so he pushed it open a crack wider and looked inside. Through the slit, he could see only half the barn, but that area was deserted. He listened for voices; nothing but silence, so he carefully pushed the door wider, craning his neck in for a better look.
He had just seen five men, including Tony, enter this barn seconds ago, but now it was absolutely empty.
Shane held his breath, then wiggled the rest of the way through the opening, staying on his stomach with the Beretta out in front of him until he could see the entire room. The hay trailer had been pulled inside the barn and was parked next to the east wall. From his prone position on the floor, he could see under the still-loaded trailer. Nobody was there, but several bales of hay had been removed from the center of the load. Shane assumed that was where the shipment of White Dragon had been stashed. Suddenly he heard voices. They were distant, sounding as if they were echoing through a tunnel. Then silence. Shane slowly got to his feet and began to move deeper into the barn. He stopped, stood very still, and listened. The voices started again. Shane cautiously followed the direction of the sound and soon found a metal door. It was on the far end of the barn, partially hidden behind a riding blanket. The door had been left slightly ajar, so the voices were leaking through the opening. He reached out and slowly pulled the door wider. It creaked loudly on rusted hinges. Shane froze, then tried again, pulling it an anxious inch at a time. Once he had a few feet clearance, he quickly swung his gun through the opening, pivoted, and followed it in.
He was looking down a dimly lit, short flight of stairs that led to a narrow concrete passageway. Shane kicked off his loafers. In his stocking feet, he crept down the steps until he got to the floor of the tunnel. He was standing in a long, curving concrete corridor. There were a few dim lights hanging from exposed fixtures. Moisture glistened from the walls. He could make out muffled laughter. Then he heard Tony cry out in pain.
Shane moved slowly along the hallway, putting one foot carefully before the other, his gun extended firmly in both hands. He was hugging the far wall to get the longest visual reach down the curving tunnel. He crept forward until, finally, he saw a bright light reflecting off the glistening walls ahead. As he drew closer, he saw another set of stairs leading to a lit area above.
Suddenly, more talk… Shane couldn't make out all that was being said because it was distorted by echo. Tony's voice sounded weak, but he thought he heard the chief say, 'Fuck you, asshole.'
Shane was now at the foot of the concrete steps. Desperately trying not to make any noise, he began to creep silently up the stairs in his socks, his Beretta out in front of him.
Just as he was almost at the top, a gunshot thundered through the echoing silence, followed immediately by a screaming ricochet. A slug chipped the wall beside his head, stinging his cheek with flying concrete before it whined away, thunking into a riser at the top of the stairs. Shane dropped to one knee and spun around, squinting back into the dark passageway. He saw two vague shapes wearing blue headbands. Huge chrome Colts glinted in their outstretched hands. Both had stopped and had him in their sights. Shane was raising his Beretta, ready to fire, but he was already too late.
Chapter 48
Two more shots thundered in the tunnel. Instantly, Shane plastered himself against the cold, curved wall, as both Crip gangsters flew forward, landing facedown on the concrete floor. Miraculously, Shane wasn't bleeding.
A second later, Shane heard several weapons trombone behind him. A shotgun racked. Alexa was moving up the corridor, the smoking Smith in her right hand. Suddenly Shane felt cold steel on the back of his head, then somebody behind him yanked the Beretta out of his grip.
'Drop the piece!' Dennis Valentine shouted at Alexa.
She froze, caught out in the open with her gun up. Shane was between his wife and Dennis, who was backed by armed g'sters. It was why she hadn't fired again. She was afraid she'd hit him. Alexa held her breath, powerless in the narrow corridor, her eyes wide, her.38 glinting impotently.
Shane felt an icy fear for his beautiful wife.
'Drop it!' Valentine demanded.
'Hey, dirtbag, no LAPD officer ever gives up a weapon.' Alexa's voice was a low, adrenalized hiss.
'I've got no more use for your guy here,' Dennis said. 'Put it down or I'm gonna paint this place red with him.'
She looked at Valentine, trying to gauge the threat. 'I don't think so,' she said. 'Not your style.'
'I'm not the one's gonna do it.' He motioned to a tall, muscular African American. 'He is.' One of the Crips stepped forward. From the corner of his eye Shane caught a glimpse of Russell Hayes, the man Amac credited with arranging Stone's murder. Without hesitation, Hardcore Hayes put his cut-down.12-gauge to Shane's head. Fear and
