Crown's Law (50 page)

“I’ll come to you. I don’t want to mess up
your dinner. How about I pick you up at your place and we drive
around the block? This won’t take long.”

“God, you’re enigmatic!”

He gave Sam his address and hung up.

***

Sam picked up Carl Fenster and drove slowly
around the block, telling Carl what had happened.

“Shit, Sam! You should have called me as soon
as you found the car! And you placed illegal bugs? What were you
thinking? All right, we’ll table that. We’ve got a kidnapping here.
Plus, kidnapping of a Federal agent. I’ll have to call the SAC and
get things moving.”

“Not so fast, Carl. Let’s discuss this a
moment. I don’t want any SWAT shit! When they tell me where to
bring the tapes, I’m going alone. They’ll kill Bo and Becky if they
see or smell anything! I want you in the loop, but for later—to mop
up in case I’m dead.”

Sam told Carl about the chopper attack in
Colorado, and that the JTFE knew about it.

Carl exclaimed, “Shit! They never told me
about that!”

“I think they’ll try and escape from wherever
they are by chopper. So I need—we need—an armed chopper, maybe
more, ready to stop them in case . . .”

“We’ll set it up so we can listen in on your
phone, and when they call, we’ll be able to move . . .”

“No, Carl! You’re not listening! When they
call me tomorrow, they’ll tell me where to deliver the tapes, and
when. Based on what they say, I’ll call you and tell you an area to
direct the choppers to. I will not give you an exact location until
I’m ready to go in. Then you can move the choppers in. You can have
some SWAT guys on board if you want. They can mop up what’s
left.”

“I can’t allow this!” exclaimed Carl.

“You have no choice. After I talk to them
tomorrow, I may change plans—based on what they say. In the
meantime, you just arrange your forces and stand by.”

“I don’t like it, but here’s my cell phone
number. Keep me in the loop. If I don’t hear from you by 10 A.M.
tomorrow, I’ll come arrest you and . . .”

“Thanks, Carl. I’ll be in touch.”

***

As Sam was on I-5 heading south, his cell
phone rang.

“Talk to me.”

“Sam? Boomer. One of my guys spotted a man
who looks a lot like that Chase guy coming out of a restaurant in
Costa Mesa. Several bags of takeout food.”

“Damn! Great! Did your guy follow him?”
exclaimed Sam.

“Of course. The restaurant’s at 19th and
Harbor Boulevard. From there he went north for about a mile, then
left for a block to a 3-story office building.”

He gave Sam the address.

“You’re sure it’s Chase?”

“Can’t be positive, of course. The guy looks
like the photo. And who would bring take-out food to an office
building this time of night?”

“Some guys having a late business meeting? I
don’t know. It’s still worth checking out. It’s all we have. I’ll
meet you there as soon as I can. I have to get turned around—I’m
heading south on the I-5.”

“OK. I’m in Santa Ana. I’ll beat you
there.”

***

It was 7:45 P.M. by the time Sam parked his
Camaro behind Boomer’s Harley—a half block from the suspect
building.

“Anything new?” asked Sam.

Boomer shrugged. “All quiet. Jerry’s watching
the back. Couple of offices lit on the third floor. Lights on in
the small lobby. Two guards. Maybe rent-a-cops, I’m not sure.”

“Let’s walk down and get a better look,” said
Sam as he strode off down the block. Boomer followed a step behind
as he lit a long, brown cheroot.

They stopped across the street in the shadow
of an awning that covered the entrance to a building and watched in
silence for a few minutes.

Sam finally remarked, “Flat roof. Perfect for
a chopper to land on.”

“I noticed.”

More silence. A car went by. Then another the
opposite direction. Not much traffic at the moment.

Boomer asked, “You gonna call in the FBI?
Have ’em check it out?”

“No. Not yet at least. If they’re really in
there, I don’t want a SWAT standoff. They’ll kill Becky and Bo and
try to get away in a chopper. I’m sure of that. When they call me
tomorrow, they’ll have to tell me where to bring the tapes they
want. Then we’ll know for sure if this is the place. They might
even have the women stashed somewhere else. We need this place
watched all night—in case they try to go elsewhere. Can your guys
handle that?”

“You bet. I’ll get on the horn and assemble
some guys. Maybe three shifts so they don’t get sleepy—and
careless.”

He took out his cell phone and ambled back
towards his bike, leaving Sam watching—alone with his thoughts. Sam
thought of going in now—to make sure. Then kill them. Foolish. It
would get Becky and Bo killed. And probably him.

Once he was satisfied that no one could get
in or out of the building without being seen, Sam drove to the
beach house. He had to prepare for tomorrow—be ready for whatever
might unfold.

He went into the walk-in closet in his
bedroom, turned on the light, and went to the far right. He pushed
on the wall in two places at the same time and a hidden door
clicked open. He reached in and switched on another light. It was a
small storage room where he kept things he didn’t use often. It
kept moisture away and inhibited rust. His trunk was there. He
unlocked it—opened it. He took out two cloth bags and took them to
the kitchen table. He was about to perform a ritual that he did
about every six months. It suddenly struck him that this may be the
last time he did this. He most likely would die tomorrow. If he
could save Becky and Bo, that would be OK.

Out of one bag he took a pair of snakeskin
cowboy boots and a boot-polishing kit. He began shining the boots.
When they were just the way he wanted them, he put them aside and
opened the other bag. Two Colt .45 six-shooters, gunmetal blue, and
two holsters. He got his gun-cleaning kit and started on the Colts.
Next, he broke down his Smith .40 and cleaned it. Then he cleaned
the holsters, making sure the leather was still supple.

He went to the gun safe in the den and got
some new cartridges for the guns. He had bought several boxes about
a month ago. He methodically loaded the guns, including three extra
clips for the Smith .40. He then slowly put cartridges in the gun
belts. Not that he would need them. Things would happen too fast to
be able to reload the revolvers.

He went to the kitchen sink and washed the
gun oil off his hands with soap and water—dried them. Out on the
deck he poured himself a stiff Cutty and water, sat down and
listened to the crashing waves. He considered his options again. He
could guarantee the capture or demise of the bad guys by bringing
the FBI in now. But the odds of Becky and Bo surviving would be
low. He rejected the option—again. He had to try and do it by
himself, even if he died trying. Having made up his mind, he went
to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee brewing. There would be
no sleep tonight.

Wednesday, July 11, 2001

Capistrano Beach, CA

At 7 A.M., Sam shaved and showered, then
called Boomer.

“I was just going to call you, Sam,” he
said. “A guy who looks like that D’Orr asshole went out about 15
minutes ago. He went to a
McDonald’s
and bought a sackful of food. He’s on
his way back. Do you want him . . . detained?”

“No. That would endanger the women. But we
now know for sure that’s the building. We’re still not sure the
women are there. I don’t know when they’ll call me, or what they’ll
tell me to do, so I have to stay here. Here’s what I want you to do
. . .”

By 8 A.M., he was dressed and ready. He wore
jeans, blue Aloha shirt with palm trees, his snakeskin boots, and
his Colt .45s. His sheathed Bowie knife was on his left hip. He
looked in the full-length mirrorn on his closet door.

Not the Apache of
yore
, he thought.
I could do
anything back then. Ah, youth! Ah, stupidity! Ah, responsibility! I
can still call in the cavalry. No! Stick to the plan! Call,
asshole! Let’s get on with it!

Sam’s cell phone rang at 9:03 A.M.

“Crown,” he answered.

“Listen closely. Go to Santa Ana now,” said
D’Orr. He gave Sam the location of a bank with pay phones outside.
He would call Sam there at 10:00 A.M. He repeated his warning about
the police and FBI.

Sam called Boomer and updated him. Next, he
called Danny and told him what was going on. He also told him that
if things fell apart, he wanted Danny to make sure that the
assholes didn’t get off. Danny said they wouldn’t. After they hung
up, Danny dispatched some of his best shooters to the area to
watch.

Sam got in his car and headed north on the
I-5. At 5 minutes to 10, he called Fenster and told him he had
nothing yet. He had to keep Fenster on a leash.

He parked his car, fed the meter, and put on
a long leather jacket that hid his guns. He lingered next to the
pay phone that D’Orr had sent him to. He popped a stick of gum in
his mouth and watched the street.

Hurry up and call, asshole! I don’t want to
be spotted armed to the teeth outside of a bank.

The pay phone rang. He grabbed the
receiver.

“Crown.”

“Good, Crown. Now, go to Costa Mesa to 19th
and Harbor Boulevard. You have 30 minutes.”

He gave Sam the location of another pay
phone.

Sam was waiting by the phone at 10:25. They
were moving him closer and closer to the building he had already
identified. He was almost certain now that the meeting would be
there. But when? He couldn’t alert Fenster until he knew the time;
otherwise, the FBI would swoop in and fuck up everything. Boomer
and three of his buddies roared up to a red light, revved their
engines, then turned left onto Harbor Boulevard. Sam felt a small
comfort knowing they were there.

The pay phone rang precisely at 10:30. Sam
snatched it up.

“Crown.”

“Good. Now for your next . . .”

“Hold it, D’Orr! I’m sick and tired of this
wild goose chase! I want to talk to the women before I do anything
else! Put Agent Trout on the phone . . . now!”

He needed to know if the women were still
alive—and if they were in the building with D’Orr. He could have
them stashed somewhere else.

“You don’t trust me?” asked D’Orr with a
nasty laugh.

“Hell no! You could have already killed
them!”

Then in the background, Sam heard Becky
scream, “Don’t trust them, Sam! They’re . . .”

Her voice was quickly choked off. D’Orr said,
“Tape the brat’s mouth again.”

Becky’s alive!
he thought, ecstatic.

Sam yelled at D’Orr, “You bastard! I’ll kill
you for this! What’s next?”

D’Orr gave him another pay phone to go to and
await a call at 11:00 A.M. Sam called Boomer.

“I heard Becky’s voice this time. She’s where
D’Orr is. Are we sure D’Orr is still in that building?”

“Positive.”

“Good! I’m going in now! Can your guys be
ready to do our plan in, say, 15 minutes?”

“Give me twenty. I’ll get things moving,”
replied Boomer.

“One more thing, Boomer. A guy in a white
Honda has been following me all morning. Probably making sure the
cops aren’t with me. He’s parked across the street in a loading
zone. I want to take him out of the equation first. He’ll follow me
when I leave here. Box him in.”

Sam went to his Camaro and pulled into the
street. The Honda left the loading zone, turned left and followed
Sam. Sam turned right at the next street, went about 20 feet, and
stopped. The Honda screeched to a halt. Two bikers on Harleys
roared around the corner and pulled up behind the Honda. Sam was
already out of his car. He yanked the Honda’s door open and grabbed
the driver by the hair and dragged him out.

“Why are you following me, asshole?” barked
Sam, menace in his voice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I could convince you otherwise if I had
time, but I don’t. I should slit your throat!”

Boomer got in the Honda and pulled it to the
curb next to a fireplug and shut it off. Sam grabbed the nerve at
the base of the man’s neck and gave it a practiced squeeze. He
threw the limp body into the car. Boomer stomped on the man’s cell
phone, kicked it under the car.

“Let’s go,” said Sam.

Sam put his Camaro in a public parking lot
and got on behind Boomer on the Harley. They sped off in the
direction of D’Orr’s building. At 10:55 A.M. they were in position
across the street from the entrance. Boomer spoke into his cell
phone, then tucked it away in the pocket of his black leather
jacket.

The sound of faraway thunder reached their
ears—then it became louder, roaring down the street like a large
wave. A column of 40 or so bikers approached the intersection to
their left, some bikers side-by-side, some single file. They raced
their engines indiscriminately, creating throbbing eardrums for
several blocks around. When the red light changed to green, the
snake of leather-clad, helmeted motorcyclists turned left and
passed in front of D’Orr’s building. They continued down the block
and turned left again, preparing to circle the block for another
thunderous pass.

When the roar subsided a bit, Sam called
Fenster and gave him the address of the building and told him he
thought the bad guys were on the third floor—easy access to the
roof.

“Get your choppers moving. I’m going in now.
It’s up to you to contain their chopper if it shows—and mop
up.”

“Sam, don’t do anything until . . .”

But Sam had disconnected.

“When your guys get back around to the
signal, we go,” Sam told Boomer.

“Yes, we do.”

They did.