which he was arrested. He thought back. It had taken Pollard almost six minutes to arrive and they had been on a rolling stakeout, waiting and ready to go. Holman still had a few seconds.
He went back to the customers and returned the girl’s phone.
“Everyone okay? Everybody still cool?”
A man in his forties with wire-rimmed glasses said, “Are we hostages?”
“No one is a hostage. Just stay cool. I’ll be outta your hair in a minute.”
Holman called toward the vault.
“Hey, David! How we doin’ in there?”
David’s voice came from the vault.
“They’re open.”
“You people just stay where you are. The police are on the way.”
Holman trotted across the lobby to the vault. David had four large safe-deposit boxes open and had dragged four nylon gym bags into the center of the floor. Three were blue and one was black.
David said, “What’s in the bags?”
“Somebody’s bad dream. You stay in here, bud. You’ll be safe in here.”
Holman lifted the bags one by one, hooking the straps over his shoulders. Felt heavier than fifty pounds.
David said, “What about these other keys?”
“You keep’m.”
Holman staggered out of the vault and immediately noticed that two of the customers were missing.
The girl who had loaned him her phone pointed at the door.
“They ran away.”
Holman thought, oh shit.
55
CECIL TOLD himself to give Holman another ten seconds. He wanted the goddamned money, but he didn’t want to die for it or get caught, and the odds of both increased the longer Holman remained in the bank. Cecil finally decided to see what was taking so long. If they had Holman proned out he was going to get the hell out of here as fast as his tired fat ass could carry him.
Cecil shut off the engine as a man and woman ran out of the bank. The woman stumbled as she came through the door and the man almost tripped over her. He pulled her to her feet, then took off running.
Cecil immediately started the engine, ready to drive away, but no one else emerged.
The bank was quiet.
Cecil shut the engine again, slipped his pistol into his holster, then got out of the car, wondering why those people had run. No one else was running, so what could be happening? Cecil started toward the bank, then hesitated, thinking he should get back in the goddamned car and get the hell away.
He glanced up and down Wilshire, but saw no lights or police cars. Everything seemed fine. He looked back at the bank, but now Holman was in the glass door with all these big-ass nylon bags hanging from his shoulders-just standing there. Cecil waved him over, thinking hurry up, what are you waiting for?
Holman didn’t leave the bank. He dropped two of the bags, then gestured for Cecil to come get them.
Cecil didn’t like it. He kept thinking about the two people running away. He flipped out his cell phone and hit a speed-dial button he had already programmed. Holman waved again, so Cecil held up a finger, telling him to wait.
“Beverly Hills Police Department.”
“FBI Special Agent William Cecil, ID number six-six-seven-four. Suspicious activity at the Grand California on Wilshire. Please advise.”
“Copy. We have a two-eleven alarm at that address. Units en route.”
Cecil felt a burning knot in his chest. His eyes flickered. Everything he wanted was sixty feet away, but now it was gone. Sixteen million dollars-gone.
“Ah, confirm the two-eleven. Suspect is a white male, six-two, two-thirty. He is armed. I say again, he is armed. Customers in the bank appear down and disabled.”
“Understand you are FBI six-six-seven-four. Do not approach. Units en route. Thanks for the advisory.”
Cecil stared at Holman, then saw lights in the corner of his eye. Red and blue flashers were turning onto Wilshire three blocks away.
Cecil ran back to his car.
56
HOLMAN WATCHED Cecil with a bad feeling, confused why the man would be wasting time on his phone when he was so close to the sixteen million. He waved again for Cecil to come get the money, but Cecil kept talking. Holman had the skin-prickling sense something was wrong, then Cecil turned back toward his car. A heartbeat later, red and blue flashes reflected off the glass buildings across the street, and Holman knew his time had run out.
He shoved through the door, the heavy bags of cash swinging like lead pendulums. Two blocks away, cars were pulling to the curbs to let the police cars pass. The cops would be here in seconds.
Holman ran at Cecil as hard as he could, pinballing off two pedestrians. Cecil reached the Taurus, threw open the door, and was climbing inside when Holman caught him from behind. Holman pulled Cecil backwards and both of them fell.
Cecil, trying to climb back into the car, said, “What the fuck are you doing, man? Get out of here.”
Holman dragged himself up Cecil’s leg, hammering at the man with his fist.
Cecil said, “Get off me, goddamnit. Let go!”
Holman should have been more afraid. He should have thought through what he was doing to realize Cecil was a blooded FBI agent with thirty years’ training and experience. But all Holman saw in those moments was Richie running alongside his car, red-faced and crying, calling him a loser; all he knew was the eight-year-old gap-toothed boy in a picture that would continue to fade; all he felt was the blind-furious need to make this man pay.
Holman didn’t see the gun. Cecil must have pulled it while Holman pounded on Cecil’s back as Cecil was crawling toward the car. Holman was still punching, still blindly trying to anchor Cecil to the street, when Cecil rolled over. An exploding white light flashed three times and the sound of thunder echoed on Wilshire Boulevard.
Holman’s world stopped. He heard only the sound of his beating heart.
He stared at Cecil, waiting for the pain. Cecil stared back, his mouth working like a fish. Behind them, the patrol cars slid to a stop as an officer’s amplified voice shouted words Holman did not hear.
Cecil said, “Sonofafuckinbitch.”
Holman looked down. The bags of money were wedged in front of his chest, scorched where the cash had trapped the three bullets.
Cecil shoved the gun across the money into Holman’s chest, but this time he didn’t fire. He dropped the gun into Holman’s arms, then rolled away, coming to his knees with his FBI credentials high over his head, shouting-
“FBI! FBI agent!”
Cecil rolled away, hands up, shouting and pointing at Holman.
“Gun! He’s got a gun! I’ve been shot!”
Holman glanced at the gun, then at the patrol cars. Four uniformed officers were crouched behind their vehicles. Young men about Richie’s age. Aiming.
The amplified voice boomed again in the Wilshire canyon, now behind the sound of approaching sirens.
