Crown's Law (51 page)

***

One phenomenom of a bunch of bikers riding
together in a pack is that everyone stops and looks. The noise, the
leathers, the logos on the jackets or sleeveless shirts, the
tattoos, the pony tails and scraggly beards—the fear. The unknown.
What are they up to?

Boomer took advantage of this—while the
revving engines were popping at their peak—and raced his bike
across the street, up the concrete walk, and into the double glass
doors of the building. The doors popped open and shattered as the
force of the bike tore them from their hinges.

The two guards—who had been discussing the
unusual appearance of the biker-gang—were caught off guard when the
Harley crashed into the lobby. Boomer braked, threw the back of the
Harley around, and Sam leapt off and grabbed the nearest guard by
the throat. Boomer had a short length of chain in his right, gloved
hand and he struck the other guard on the back of the head. He went
down like a bag of sawdust. Boomer lowered his kickstand and began
to use duct tape on the felled man.

Sam ripped off his helmet and drew his Bowie
knife, which he put to the guard’s throat.

“Where are they? What room?” he spat, his
eyes showing his lethal intent.

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

“I don’t have time for shit! You can live or
die! I don’t care which! Where?” The edge of the knife drew
blood.

“Third floor. Room 326.” Squeeky with
fear.

“Where’s that? Room 326?”

“Southeast corner office.”

“How many of them?”

“Three of them. Plus the two women.”

Sam flipped the knife in his hand and hit the
man with the handle. He slumped to the floor. Sam turned to
Boomer.

“Gag and tie this one up, too. It’s the
southeast corner office. Give me a distraction in exactly two
minutes.”

They checked watches and Sam pulled his
leather coat off so it wouldn’t hinder his access to his
weapons.

“Let me go with you,” pleaded Boomer. “You’re
way outnumbered.”

“You’d end up in jail at best—or dead at the
worst. Just go give me the distraction I need. You guys contain the
perimeter until the cops show up, then scatter to the winds. And .
. . thanks, Boomer. Thank all the guys. Hurry now. I’m taking the
stairs. Ninety seconds left. Go!”

Boomer finished securing the second guard,
jumped on his idling Harley, and roared out the broken entry door.
Sam was rushing up the stairs to the third floor. He tried to be
quiet, but the thunder of motorcycle engines was still deafening.
The windows of the building were rattling, covering the sound of
his approach.

He paused in front of Room 326 to catch
his breath. He checked his watch. Fifteen seconds to go. He
remembered the mantra on his totem pole in Vietnam:
It’s a good day to
fight; it’s a good day to die
. He hadn’t thought
that way in years. Now he did.

Back on the street, Boomer made a call.

“Third floor. Southeast corner. Hit the
window in . . . 10 seconds.”

Sam peered at his watch. It was time! Down on
the street, one of the bikers used a professional slingshot and
sent a steel marble flying towards the south window of Room 326.
The projectile was like a gunshot against the window, a spiderweb
forming from the point of impact, attracting the attention of the
room’s occupants. Sam gave the door a cop’s kick. It smashed open.
It was a cheap door.

***

Inside the room, Chase had been looking out
the window at the queue of bikers when the window cracked.

“Shit! What was that?”

Bryce and D’Orr looked his way, then the door
came crashing open. Confusion reigned.

Sam followed the door in, a cocked Colt .45
in each hand, took in the room in a glance. He saw Becky and Bo
tied to chairs to his left, their mouths taped.

They’re alive!
he thought—elated!

That cost him a half-second—the margin
between life and death! He recovered quickly and took in the rest
of the room. Chase was by the cracked window, looking back over his
shoulder. Bryce was slightly to his right, facing Sam. D’Orr was
way to his right leaning against an executive’s desk and was
drawing a semiautomatic handgun from his belt. Bryce began reaching
for the gun in his belt.

Sam snapped a shot at Bryce from the gun in
his left hand, hitting him at the bridge of his nose, and spun to
face D’Orr. D’Orr was fast. His shot caught Sam in the chest,
causing Sam’s shot from the gun in his right hand to go wide, but
it still caught D’Orr’s right shoulder. The force of the .45 slug
knocked D’Orr onto the desk, while Sam was slammed to the floor,
pain radiating from his chest like broken glass. Sam’s left arm
went numb, his gun in that hand useless. D’Orr picked up his gun
with his left hand and pointed it in Sam’s direction, but this time
Sam was faster. His bullet caught D’Orr between the eyes, finishing
him.

Chase had finally recovered and had his
revolver pointing at Sam. Sam’s slug caught him in the chest and
slammed him against the already cracked window. The force of
Chase’s body shattered the window and he fell through the window to
the ground three stories below.

Sam struggled to his feet, holstered his
weapons, and staggered over to Bo and ripped the tape off her
mouth.

“Shit, Sam! That
hurt.
You’re shot! Where’s SWAT?”

He smiled. “I’m SWAT. You OK?”

He turned and took the tape off Becky’s
mouth.

“Sam! He shot you! You OK?” she gasped.
“Fucking assholes!”

“Sure, Beckster. I have my vest on. I may
have a cracked rib. It hurts like hell! Let me cut you guys
loose.”

He pulled his knife, went behind Bo and cut
the ropes binding her hands. Then he went around to the front of
Bo’s chair to cut her legs free.

Becky screamed, “Sam!
Behind you!
”

“Drop the knife, Mr. Crown,” a woman’s voice
said. Sam froze. He had committed a fatal mistake. He hadn’t
cleared the floor first. He glanced over his right shoulder and saw
a short, pudgy woman in a ridiculous purple pant suit—a
semiautomatic in her right hand. Pointed at him.

Mrs. Rosemary Wellington, diamond thief and
smuggler. She had entered through a door behind the desk where
D’Orr had died.

“Drop it, I said! Or I’ll shoot the
girl!”

Sam dropped it at Bo’s feet, then turned to
face Wellington, protecting Bo with his body. But Becky was still
exposed. The gun was pointing at Becky now. Wellington’s hand was
wavering a bit. Sam could sense that guns weren’t her forte. He
wondered if he could draw and shoot before she pulled the trigger
and shot Becky. He used to be very fast. Was he fast enough now? Or
would he get Becky killed?

“Give me the tapes, Crown,” she snapped.

“You can’t get away now. SWAT is swarming
downstairs as we speak,” replied Sam.

She laughed. “I’ve called for my ride. I’ll
be out of here before they get here. Give me the tapes now or I put
a bullet in the kid’s head!”

Sam knew by “ride” she meant a chopper;
otherwise, she wouldn’t be so smug. He hoped Fenster had his
choppers in place. Then he felt Bo’s hand touch the small of his
back—find the Smith .40 he had holstered there. She lifted his
shirt and eased the gun out—thumbed the safety off.

She whispered, “Cover Becky. Now!”

Sam moved quickly to his right and stepped in
front of Becky, drawing his .45 as he moved. Wellington looked
confused. Bo shot her in the chest without warning. She slammed
onto the desk next to D’Orr. Sam rushed to her and checked her. She
was dead.

Bo reached down and retrieved Sam’s knife
from the floor where he had dropped it and cut the ropes from her
legs while Sam made sure there were no more bad guys lurking. Bo
stood and began working on Becky’s bindings.

Sam whipped out his cell phone and called
Fenster.

“Fenster.”

“This is Sam, Carl. Where are your choppers?
They called one for a pickup.”

“Where are you?”

“Third floor, Room 326. The assholes are all
dead, Carl. The choppers? We need to catch that chopper.”

“Under control, Sam. My two choppers spotted
it, boxed it, and it’s landing as we speak. We’ll have them in
custody momentarily. How are Becky and Bo?”

“OK. Becky’s shook up, of course, but they’re
physically OK. Bo’s a trooper. Get your guys up here and take
charge. I’ll brief you when you get here.”

“Let me talk to Bo. I’ll make this a Federal
thing. Keep the locals at bay for a bit.”

Sam handed the phone to Bo and went to Becky
and pulled her into his arms.

“I’m sorry, kiddo, but it’s OK now. It’s
OK.”

The air was filled with the smell of cordite
and the sound of sirens.

***

Fenster and the FBI SWAT team arrived ten
minutes later, as well as a bunch of Costa Mesa cops. Carl took
over the crime scene and issued the necessary orders.

“Jeez, Sam! There are bodies everywhere! One
down in the hedge, three in here. I’ve heard the rumors about you,
but now I’ve seen it first hand. Who wants to tell me what
happened?”

Bo said, “First, Carl, get a paramedic in
here for Sam. He took one in the chest—in his vest, fortunately.
He’s probably got broken ribs—at least a bad bruise. I want him
checked out now!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Carl replied with a small
bow—and a wry smile.

It took four hours before Sam, Bo, and Becky
were released so they could go back to the beach house. It was 5:30
when Sam poured Bo a glass of white wine and fixed himself a Cutty
and water. Becky had gone to her room to lie down. She said she
didn’t need Dr. Sue when Sam offered to call her.

“Well,” said Bo, “you had to do it all by
yourself, didn’t you?”

She had already apologized profusely for not
protecting Becky. Sam had told her that the ruse of the cop car
would have fooled him, too.

He shrugged. “There was no other way. SWAT
would have caused a hostage situation and got both of you killed.
And I did have help. Boomer and his guys not only found you, they
performed beautifully in helping me rescue you.”

“I was wondering what all the noise was
about. How did you find us? You never made that clear to Fenster. I
heard D’Orr’s phone calls and he never got to the point of telling
you where we were.”

“I had a lot of people looking.” He didn’t
intend to mention Danny’s Green Dragons. “We got lucky. One of
Boomer’s guys spotted Chase buying Italian take-out food last
night. Then D’Orr was spotted this morning buying breakfast at the
Golden Arches. I knew I had to move quickly while he thought I
didn’t know where he was. Catch him by surprise. I told Fenster
where you were just before I went in so he could bring his choppers
in and cut off their escape—in case something went wrong. I had him
standing by.”

“I’ll have to admit, I never thought you
could find us. I was really scared—especially for Becky. You know I
would have given my life to have saved her, if I could.”

“Underestimated me again, eh?” he smiled.

“I keep doing that. Never again. When I
talked to my boss this afternoon, he was upset that no one was left
alive to interrogate. He would like to find out who they were
selling secrets to.”

“What an asshole! Damned tunnel vision!
Wasn’t he happy that you and Becky were alive? A kidnapping solved?
A murder of a Federal agent solved? A big, evil smuggling
organization shut down?”

“He’s just focused on his job,” replied Bo.
“He said he was happy it was over. He begrudgingly sends his thanks
to you.”

Sam sipped his drink as he stared at the
ocean, not caring what her boss thought.

“Maybe it’s not over,” he repied
enigmatically.

“We’ll find out who they sold secrets to
eventually.”

“That’s not what I mean. Something else is
bothering me.”

“Well, you’ve had a bad day. A bad week. You
need some food—and some rest. Let me go fix us some omelets.”

Sam laughed, then winced as pain grabbed his
chest. “It hurts when I laugh. I’ll go fix the omelets. I can’t
stand to watch you murder perfectly good eggs.”

Thursday, July 12, 2001

Capistrano Beach, CA

The next morning, Sam’s parents returned
home, and they all had lunch together on the deck. Sam and Bo
brought them up to date on what had happened. Afterwards, Sam said
he had to go out for awhile. He had something to take care of. He
had remembered what was bothering him.

At 4 P.M. Sam steered his red Camaro up
a winding road in Laguna Beach and finally pulled into the driveway
of a medium-sized cottage. He stepped out of the car and glanced at
the view—rolling, green hills to the east, the Pacific Ocean to the
west. A choice lot. Fantastic views! He walked up the path to the
front door and pushed the doorbell button. He could hear the chimes
singing
When the Saints Come Marching
In
inside. The front door opened.

“Sam!” exclaimed Chandra Claudet with a
smile. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

“Unfinished business. I promised you a
scoop on the
Dynology
story,
remember? May I come in?” Sam responded.

She stepped back and he entered her living
room and walked to the large window and stared at the ocean in the
distance. He saw two packed suitcases in the attached dining
room.

“Going somewhere, Chandra?” he asked without
turning to face her.

“Yes. I’m taking some vacation time. Lord
knows I need it! I haven’t had a day off in months. Can I fix you a
drink? I have to leave for the airport soon, but we can have a
quick toddy for the body,” she laughed.