a delicate pincer grip. The optical wand was poised to begin scanning when the robot powered up, and the page was laid down flat.
Behind the robots was a large open warehouse floor that was the industrial doppelganger of a library, row after row of black-metal bookcases that were low enough for a person to reach the top shelves comfortably. The perimeter of the warehouse was lined by darkened staff offices.
Will sighed at the task before him. There were surely tens of thousands of books. While there had to be some kind of catalogue-and-location system around, he imagined he’d spend as much time rummaging through offices and files as taking a shoe-leather approach. So he picked a row at one end of the warehouse and just began to walk.
Half an hour later, his mind was numbed by the sea of book spines, with their pressed-on warehouse bar codes. He had to be meticulous. He couldn’t be sure all the L.A. Municipal Code books were grouped together. To his dismay, he noticed that some collections were scattered like bird-seed. At the end of one of the rows, at the rear of the building, he stopped to call Dane again but got voice mail once more. Something was definitely wrong.
His eyes leapt to a glowing image. Inside the office nearest to where he stood, there was a black-and-white monitor, a security-cam view of the dim lobby. The nameplate on the door said MARVIN HEMPEL, GENERAL MANAGER. He could imagine the weedy plant manager sitting at his desk, slurping soup, voyeuristically watching the receptionist for his lunchtime activity. He shook his head and started on the next row.
He picked up the pace and forced himself to concentrate. If he weren’t careful, he’d spend hours at it, complete the job empty-handed, and have to do it all over again. He began to touch each spine with his fingertip to make sure it registered before moving on, but stray thoughts kept entering his mind.
Where was Dane?
How was Nancy doing?
How was the endgame going to play out?
Frazier had the warehouse encircled, but he fretted that he was light on the ground for a building of this size. Only six men to cover the front, the rear loading dock, and an emergency exit on each of the long sides. He had DeCorso and two others at the front. Piper had gone in that way, he’d most likely exit that way. He dispersed his own team of three, sending one man to each side exit. He covered the loading dock himself and kept imagining Piper slowly opening the door and opening his mouth as Frazier fired a round into his body. Piper wouldn’t die, but hopefully there’d be pain.
DeCorso, of course, was taking his last breaths. Frazier mentally bade him farewell. The next time they met, he’d probably be a corpse. Something was going to kill him within the next few hours. Piper? Friendly fire? A heart attack? The night wasn’t going to end quietly.
Another hour passed, and Will marked his spot by pulling a book out halfway. He went to the men’s room to let Chinese tea out of his system and splash cold water on his face.
At the same time, Frazier and DeCorso were having an urgent debate over their radios. What was taking Piper so long? Was there an exit they could have missed? Was it possible there was a tunnel system connecting warehouses in the park?
Frazier decided to send DeCorso’s team into the lobby as an intermediate move. It was a good point of control if Piper came out that way, and it was closer to the mark if they opted to enter and take him down. One of DeCorso’s men had a piece of standard hardware that quickly hacked magnetic security card readers. They entered the lobby and took up defensive positions.
Will was approaching the rear of the building again and in the last bookcase of his current row he got a shock, as if he’d brushed against a live wire.
There they were! A row of them, L.A. County Municipal Codes for the 1980s. Getting there, he thought, getting there.
He pivoted 180 degrees to inspect the first case in the next row, and his heart began to race with excitement. The entire case was filled with the tan books. They weren’t in order, but his eye flitted over volumes covering all decades.
The 1947 volume had to be there. Somewhere.
He touched each spine and said the year out loud. He got to the bottom shelf. There, bent over, he touched it and quickly pulled it out-1947.
He sat down on the warehouse floor with the book on his lap and opened it wide, bowing the spine wide and tapping the heavy volume against the floor. The gun in his waistband bit into his leg, but he ignored the discomfort. There was a small, pleasant clatter as the plastic memory stick fell out onto the concrete. He closed his eyes and said a silent thanks.
When he got up, he saw that he was opposite the plant manager’s office again and instinctively he glanced at the TV monitor.
He froze.
There was movement on the screen.
Two men. No three. Weapons in their hands.
Watchers.
He pocketed the memory stick, drew out his Glock, and flicked the safety. There were seventeen in the mag and one in the chamber. That was it, no spares. Eighteen rounds wouldn’t last long in a firefight. There had to be a better way.
They’d have all the exits covered. At least he had a small edge on them. He could see them. Was there a way onto the roof? The warehouse was probably on a slab, but if there was a sublevel, he’d better find out.
He ran around the building, looking for escape routes, figuring the angles, returning to the office with each circuit to check on the lobby crew.
There weren’t any attractive options. He thought quickly and steeled himself for violence. He was BTH, but for all he knew, the next time Nancy saw him, he’d look like Shackleton. Fear left a coppery taste in his mouth.
DeCorso heard Frazier in his earpiece demanding a status report. He started to whisper back, “It’s quiet, no signs of…” when all hell broke loose.
The office lights went blazing on and an ear-piercing siren started blaring, almost too loud to stand without clamping hands over ears.
“The fire alarm!” DeCorso shouted, loud enough for Frazier to hear above the din.
“It’s got to be central-alarmed!” Frazier screamed back. “The fire department’ll be here any minute! Go in now! Take him! My team-maintain your positions at the exits.”
“I copy!” DeCorso shouted. “We’re going in!”
DeCorso ordered his man to unlock the door, and the three of them flew into the warehouse and immediately spread out.
They almost stopped dead at the sight before them.
The entire row of robots was dancing in a conga line of animation. Robot arms were turning pages. Flashes of blinding light illuminated pages. Digitized images of text appeared on computer displays.
DeCorso saw something. Through the scanning box of one of the middle robots he thought he picked up a glimpse of black steel. He shouted over the pulsating blare of the fire alarms, “Gun!” and raised his own to fire.
Will was in firing position behind a robot. He squeezed off two shots and placed both of them in the center of DeCorso’s chest. The man blinked once, fell straight to his knees, then pitched forward hard. The two other watchers were very good, probably ex-special ops guys, and in the next few seconds, Will was conscious of their coolness under fire.
Neither was distracted by their team leader going down. The man on Will’s left dove behind a metal cart and began spraying fire at all the middle robots. It was clear he didn’t know exactly where Will was. Paper shredded, glass shattered, but the robot arms kept looking for pages to turn.
Will concentrated on the man to his right, who was in a low crouch, searching for a target, more exposed. He aimed for central mass and let loose a three-shot volley. The man grunted and slumped, blood spreading from under his jacket.
Will’s muzzle flash was an unavoidable beacon, and the third man fired into his robot. Will ducked behind the machine and felt a searing pain in his inner left thigh, as if someone had laid a red-hot branding iron across his
