said would be torn down to build a new stadium if the Dodgers left Chavez Ravine. The buildings and streets in that part of town were deserted. No homeless people. No traffic. No reason for anyone to be there that night, even an LAPD radio car.
Stephanie frowned.
“You sure you know where you’re going?”
“I know where I’m going. Just hang on.”
Scott was trying to find an all-night noodle house a Rampart Robbery detective had raved about, one of those pop-up places that takes over an empty storefront for a couple of months, hypes itself on Twitter, then disappears; a place the robbery dick claimed had the most amazing ramen in Los Angeles, Latin-Japanese fusion, flavors you couldn’t get anywhere else, cilantro-tripe, abalone-chili, a jalapeno-duck to die for.
Scott was trying to figure out how he had screwed up the directions when he suddenly heard it.
“Listen.”
“What?”
“Shh, listen. Turn off the engine.”
“You have no idea where this place is, do you?”
“You have to hear this. Listen.”
Uniformed LAPD officer Stephanie Anders, a P-III with eleven years on the job, shifted into Park, turned off their Adam car, and stared at him. She had a fine, tanned face with lines at the corners of her eyes, and short, sandy hair.
Scott James, a thirty-two-year-old P-II with seven years on the job, grinned as he touched his ear, telling her to listen. Stephanie seemed lost for a moment, then blossomed with a wide smile.
“It’s quiet.”
“Crazy, huh? No radio calls. No chatter. I can’t even hear the freeway.”
It was a beautiful spring night: temp in the mid-sixties, clear; the kind of windows-down, short-sleeve weather Scott enjoyed. Their call log that night showed less than a third their usual number of calls, which made for an easy shift, but left Scott bored. Hence, their search for the unfindable noodle house, which Scott had begun to believe might not exist.
Stephanie reached to start the car, but Scott stopped her.
“Let’s sit for a minute. How many times you hear silence like this?”
“Never. This is so cool, it’s creeping me out.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”
Stephanie laughed, and Scott loved how the streetlights gleamed in her eyes. He wanted to touch her hand, but didn’t. They had been partners for ten months, but now Scott was leaving, and there were things he wanted to say.
“You’ve been a good partner.”
“Are you going to get all gooey on me?”
“Yeah. Kinda.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss you more.”
Their little joke. Everything a competition, even to who would miss the other the most. Again he wanted to touch her hand, but then she reached out and took his hand in hers, and gave him a squeeze.
“No, you’re not. You’re going to kick ass, take names, and have a blast. It’s what you want, man, and I couldn’t be happier. You’re a stud.”
Scott laughed. He had played football for two years at the University of Redlands before blowing his knee, and joined LAPD a couple of years later. He took night classes for the next four years to finish his degree. Scott James had goals. He was young, determined, and competitive, and wanted to run with the big dogs. He had been accepted into LAPD’s Metro Division, the elite uniformed division that backed up area-based officers throughout the city. Metro was a highly trained reserve force that rolled out on crime suppression details, barricade situations, and high-conflict security operations. They were the best, and also a necessary assignment for officers who hoped to join LAPD’s most elite uniformed assignment—SWAT. The best of the best. Scott’s transfer to Metro would come at the end of the week.
Stephanie was still holding his hand, and Scott was wondering what she meant by it, when an enormous Bentley sedan appeared at the end of the street, as out of place in this neighborhood as a flying carpet, windows up, smoked glass, not a speck of dust on its gleaming skin.
Stephanie said, “Check out the Batmobile.”
The Bentley oozed past their nose, barely making twenty miles per hour. Its glass was so dark the driver was invisible.
“Want to light him up?”
“For what, being rich? He’s probably lost like us.”
“We can’t be lost. We’re the police.”
“Maybe he’s looking for the same stupid ramen place.”
“You win. Let’s forget the ramen and grab some eggs.”
Stephanie reached to start their car as the slow-motion Bentley approached the next T-intersection thirty yards past them. At the moment it reached the intersecting street, a deep, throaty growl shattered the perfect silence, and a black Kenworth truck exploded from the cross street. It T-boned the Bentley so hard the six- thousand-pound sedan rolled completely over and came to rest right side up on the opposite side of the street. The Kenworth skidded sideways and stopped, blocking the street.
Stephanie said, “Holy crap!”
Scott slapped on their flashers, and pushed out of their car. The flashers painted the street and surrounding buildings with blue kaleidoscope pulses.
Stephanie keyed her shoulder mike as she got out, searching for a street sign.
“Where are we? What street is this?”
Scott spotted the sign.
“Harmony, three blocks south of the Harbor.”
“Two-Adam-twenty-four, we have an injury accident at Harmony, three blocks south of the Harbor Freeway and four north of Wilshire. Request paramedics and fire. Officers assisting.”
Scott was three paces ahead, and closer to the Bentley.
“I got the Batmobile. You get the truck.”
Stephanie broke into a trot, and the two veered apart. No one and nothing else moved on the street except steam hissing from beneath the Bentley’s hood.
They were halfway to the accident when bright yellow bursts flashed within the truck and a hammering chatter echoed between the buildings.
Scott thought something was exploding within the truck’s cab, then bullets ripped into their patrol car and the Bentley with the thunder of steel rain. Scott instinctively jumped sideways as Stephanie went down. She screamed once, and wrapped her arms across her chest.
“I’m shot. Oh, crap—”
Scott dropped to the ground and covered his head. Bullets sparked off the concrete around him, and gouged ruts in the street.
Scott rolled sideways, drew his pistol, and fired at the flashes as fast as he could. He pushed to his feet, and zigzagged toward his partner as an old, dark gray Gran Torino screamed down the street. It screeched to a stop beside the Bentley, but Scott barely saw it. He fired blindly at the truck as he ran, and zigged hard toward his partner.
Stephanie was clutching herself as if doing stomach crunches. Scott grabbed her arm. He realized the men in the truck had stopped firing, and thought they might make it even as Stephanie screamed.
Two men wearing black masks and bulky jackets boiled out of the sedan with pistols and lit up the Bentley, shattering the glass and punching holes in its body. The driver stayed at the wheel. As they fired, two more masked men climbed from the truck with AK-47 rifles.
Scott dragged Stephanie toward their black-and-white, slipped in her blood, then started backwards
