The Templar Reprisals (The Best Thrillers Book 3) Page 9

  “Roger that.”

  “I’m on North San Marcos Road in my Utility Interceptor. Set up roadblock at Twinridge Road. Close it as soon as I pass.”

  “Roger. Where on North San Marcos?”

  “Just passed the Farm Collective.”

  “May not make it in time, chief.”

  Now what? Continue running or block the road with his own vehicle? He wanted to know who sent these men. The only way to find out would be to capture one or more alive. Besides, they wouldn’t expect him to stand and fight.

  He wheeled around a near ninety-degree turn and Twinridge Road lay five hundred feet ahead. He kept on the gas a bit longer and then broke hard. When his speed slowed to twenty miles an hour, he cut a hard turn and slid the Interceptor to block both sides of the two-lane road just prior to the intersection. He grabbed the M-15 and jumped out of the vehicle.

  He examined the situation. As soon as the sedan driver completed the curve, he would see his car across the road. Evarts should have stopped closer to the bend to surprise them. No time to reposition. What would he do if he saw a vehicle partially blocking the road? Hit the Interceptor close to the front or back bumper to spin it out of the way. If he hid behind his car, it would crush him as it swung around. He jumped into a shallow drainage ditch alongside the shoulder and laid down flat.

  He had just brought the M-15 to firing position when the sedan barreled around the corner. He saw the car hesitate as the driver’s foot lifted, but then it almost immediately picked up speed as it aimed at the back end of his car. Smart, fast thinking. The rear end was lighter, and the vehicle would swing out of the way with little resistance.

  As the car approached at about sixty miles an hour, Evarts took aim at the tires. He squeezed off three shots at the right-side tire and then three at the left. By the time he came back around to the right side, the car was swerving slightly. Steel core radials didn’t blow like tires of old, but the veering motion meant he had hit the tire on that side. Without hesitation, he shifted his aim to the engine compartment. He put at least ten rounds into the engine. A 5.56 mm bullet wouldn’t penetrate an engine, but many drive-critical parts were vulnerable. He would have shot more, but the sedan spun the Interceptor aside and speed down the road.

  Evarts jumped up and followed the car on foot, examining the road. About twenty feet beyond the impact point, Evarts saw liquid that had been leaked from the sedan. At least one flat tire and leaking cooling fluid. Possibly other problems. That car wasn’t going far.

  He called dispatch on his phone.

  “Chief Evarts. Assailants ran roadblock I set up at Twinridge. Shots fired by officer at vehicle. Perp car damaged. Tire and radiator. All-points BOLO. Arm and dangerous. Intercept and use caution.”

  “Roger that.”

  Evarts put the phone in his pocket without terminating the call. He ran back to his prior position in the ditch and waited for the second car.

  Chapter 23

  Would the second group give chase or run for the hills? Evarts pulled his phone and reestablished contact with the dispatcher.

  “A second car may have gone east. Block Route 154, north and south of North San Marcos Road. Four perps in white rental sedan. Armed and Dangerous. How long?”

  “Roger that, one moment.” She went silent as she checked the availability of patrol cars. “Fifteen, tops, chief.”

  Too long. “Okay, roadblock thirty minutes only, then assign one cruiser to roadside observation for another thirty. Priority remains damaged car last seen at Twinridge.”

  “Roger.”

  He looked up the street. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. Crap, they ran in the other direction.

  He would give it five more minutes.

  As he waited, he thought. Twice he had been chased away from his home. Twice he had been summoned to Washington. It was beginning to feel like he was a character in the movie Groundhog Day. Then a new thought occurred to him. Were a couple of these assailants the same men who attacked him the first time? If so, then they were persistent. Usually when you elude a trap and kill two of the perps, the survivors turn skittish. And how much was that reward anyway? It must be a lot to pay a team of four and then a team of six to attack him at his house. He had not played this smart. He kept going home expecting normalcy. Trish had been the one to think clearly. She got the hell out of Dodge.

  Evarts heard a car. It was coming around the bend!

  A minivan. When the driver got closer, he pulled over well before reaching his bashed-up Interceptor.

  Evarts stood up from the drainage trough, keeping the M-15 hidden alongside the back of his leg. He waved and the driver lowered the window. He recognized the man as a distant neighbor.

  “You okay, chief?”

  “Yeah, fine, Jeff. I wasn’t in the car when it was hit. Someone ran my roadblock. Did you see any cars up the road?”

  “Nary a one. Why did—”

  “How about by my house. Anything odd?”

  “No, sir. Not that I noticed. Is there anything I should be concerned about? My family’s at home.”

  “Not really … but call and tell your family to stay inside and not to let anyone into the house. Then pull over here. There may be trouble further down this road.”

  “Did you get attacked again?”

  Evarts had forgotten about the newspaper reports of the first attack. If this kept up, they might kick him out of the neighborhood.

  He smiled. “Not exactly. Just suspicious activity. Maybe I overreacted because of that last episode.”

  “Overreacted? Do law abiding people crash through police blockades?”

  He had been foolish to try subterfuge. He swung the M-15 around and pointed it in the air. “Yeah, Jeff, sorry. I was attacked again. This time no one was hurt, and the perps ran away. Right through my roadblock. There was a second car that never came through, so I believe they headed east to 154. Make that phone call. Squad cars are on the way, and one will escort you home to check on your family.”

  Jeff nodded and dug out his phone.

  Within a few minutes, Jeff had warned his family, two squad cars arrived with sirens blaring and lights flashing, and dispatch had reported that the damaged car had been found abandoned on a long driveway a little way down the hill. There were only two houses in the immediate vicinity. Evarts had ordered a full lockdown of the area with priority on the evacuation of civilians. He urged caution and warned that the perps may have holed up with hostages.

  Evarts jumped into one of the squad cars and instructed the officer to drive back down the road. They came up on the hidden driveway in less than a thousand yards. Another patrol car blocked the entrance to the driveway. No lights or siren. Smart officer. They rolled to a gentle stop on the shoulder.

  Evarts jumped out with the M-15 at the ready. He heard nothing. They scrambled up to the drive and then Evarts used a hand signal to tell the officer to stay put while he hunched over and ran to the other side of the blocking squad car. Now they were in position. Both quietly walked up the drive on either side of the police vehicle and then the gunshot riddled rental car.

  When they got to the front of the cars, Evarts stage whispered to stop and get down. The officer on the scene was at the door of the house talking with the residents. If the perps were inside with hostages, Evarts didn’t want to alert them that backup had arrived.

  In a few minutes, the officer turned from the house and walked back toward the cars. As she approached, she touched her hat with two fingers to signal that he had spotted the two police officers crouched by the front fender. Evarts whispered a command and they backed up.

  When all three had pulled back to the trunk of the patrol car, Evarts said, “Report.”

  “Homeowner claims they’re safe, no problems but wouldn’t allow me to enter. Knew about the car in drive but didn’t request that it be towed. Nervous. I suspect the perps are in the house, so I didn’t push it.”

  Evarts bent down below the trunk and called dispatch.
“Chief Evarts at abandoned car with two officers. Suspected hostage situation. No sirens, no lights. Verify area secure for half mile in all directions.”

  “Copy that.”

  He waited for her to issue the orders, then added, “Have S.W.A.T. suit up and dispatched to this location. Also send Commander Standish here to negotiate.”

  After she confirmed she had heard the command, he hung up.

  “All right, we wait. Officer Watmore, drive your car out of the drive and down the street, then return on foot.”

  She nodded and was gone.

  Evarts and the remaining officer huddled in foliage that extended along the drive. He surveyed the surroundings. Had they been spotted? The fifty-yard driveway curved slightly, so no direct line of sight from the house to the street. He doubted the people inside the house spotted them but couldn’t be sure. These were professional killers. What would they do? Professional meant careful. This was a job, and they weren’t being paid to harm civilians. They had nothing to gain. They would want to avoid a shootout and knew their chances of beating the lumbering legal system were good.

  Evarts told the officer to crawl to his cruiser to retrieve a bullhorn.

  When the officer returned, they moved closer to the house and spread out.

  Evarts triggered the bullhorn. “Inside the house. We know you’re in there. There’s no escape. The grounds are surrounded. Streets blocked. So far, your compatriots only committed breaking and entering. You were drivers. Leave your weapons behind and step out. It’s your best chance. Come on. I shot the hell out of your car. You’ll probably sue the city for excessive use of force.”

  It was a gamble, but experience had taught him that hostage situations were resolved quickly or required lengthy negotiations that sometimes ended with violence. He wanted number one.

  They didn’t wait long.

  In less than two minutes, the perps stepped out of the house with hands raised.

  Evarts and the two other officers broke cover and walked carefully toward the killers keeping a good distance between them. Evarts kept his attention on the men while his officers shouted commands for them to keep their hands raised and for them to kneel. They complied.

  When they got close enough to speak in a normal voice, they received a recitation of their rights. Evarts eyed them carefully. They looked fit, possibly ex-military. These were more than drivers; they were backup. Capable of killing.

  He stepped into the house to find the occupants frightened but unharmed. He reassured them it was over and stepped back outside to find Commander Standish, arms akimbo with an angry expression.

  “Good afternoon, Commander,” Evarts said.

  “With all due respect, sir, that was a cowboy stunt. It could have gone south.”

  “No due respect required, Commander. It was indeed a cowboy stunt.”

  “You should have waited for my arrival,” Standish said.

  He smiled at her. “Probably.”

  “Did you really suggest they sue the city?”

  “I never took your fancy classes, but child molesters use candy to lure kids into their vehicle, so I offered money to lure them outside.”

  “Smart. Never heard that one. May I use that ploy in the future.”

  “Sure … with attribution, of course.”

  She laughed. They had worked together for over a decade and had complete confidence in each other. Evarts had promoted Standish right behind him as he had moved up the ladder and her performance had never disappointed him. For a time, she took a position as chief of a small department up north but returned to the Santa Barbara force when a commander position opened up.

  He looked down the driveway to see the perps being led to a police car for transport to the station.

  “I want extra security on those two. They’re not run-of-the-mill crooks and they have serious friends.”

  They walked down the drive toward the knot of officers putting the men in the backseat of a cruiser.

  As they approached, Standish asked, “Lock up or interview rooms?”

  “Interview rooms. I’ll interview them myself.” He stood a second by the open car door. “And Commander … turn off the recording devices.”

  Evarts knew the prisoners had overheard the comment.

  Chapter 24

  Evarts marched into the interview room with purpose, slapping a file folder onto the table as he sat. He stared at the man across the metal table. The getaway driver appeared relaxed and returned the gaze without hostility. His studied appearance suggested that this was just another inconvenience he needed to get through. His thick neck conveyed the form of a gym rat. The scarred hands the rough life of a street fighter. His cuffed hands laid flat on the table. Casual, confident. He had no identification, and his fingerprints were not on file. They had started a facial recognition scan, but it might be hours or even days before they had a hit. He wished this were a television interrogation, then they could cut to commercial and by the time they returned, the scan would magically deliver the identity of the culprit.

  As the staring contest continued, Evarts decided the man was not ex-military. Too insolent, too cocky. He was a street thug someone found and enlisted to inflict mayhem on command. The man looked like the type who enjoyed the work.

  “Where’d you grow up?” Evarts asked.

  A small flinch. He was not expecting that question.

  “You figure it out.”

  “We will,” Evarts said. “Open your shirt.”

  “Uncuff me.”

  “You have enough slack. Lean forward. Open your shirt.”

  “Make me.”

  “If you insist,” Evarts said matter-of-factly. “You’re under arrest, so I have the authority.”

  “Go fuck yourself. I ain’t strippin’ to turn you on.”

  Evarts stood. “I’ll get a couple of my gentler cops to remove your clothing.” He smiled. “Wait here.”

  Evarts hadn’t even taken one step before the man leaned forward to unbutton his shirt. As Evarts expected, the man’s chest was covered in tattoos, but Evarts was most interested in the one over his heart.

  “So, you grew up in South L.A.” Evarts feigned indifference. “And you’re a killer.”

  “What the hell? Where’d you get that from? My tats? Yer crazy.”

  “Those aren’t prison tats. In fact, ‘211’ is a Crips’ tat.”

  “I don’t know ’bout that, man.” He pointed to his chest. “This ‘211’ is so I don’t forget the phone number for social services. When I got it, I didn’t speak English. That was years ago, man.”

  “You can button your shirt,” Evarts said noncommittedly.

  The Crips used code for many of their tats. Most were a simple replacement of numbers for the corresponding numerical letter in the alphabet. Decoded, ‘211’ stood for BK, which meant Blood Killer. The Crips and Bloods were rivals and to earn that tat, the man in front of him had killed a hostile gang member. He knew one of the observing officers behind the mirror would refocus the facial recognition scan to Crip members.

  “What’s your name?” Evarts asked.

  “Jesus,” he said, pronouncing the J as an H.

  “Jesus what?”

  “Yup, Jesus What. Good name.” He looked smug. “Hey, can I get some bottled water?”

  “No. Who hired you?”

  “I don’t work, man.” He made a show of looking around. “Got a job for me here?”

  “You shouldn’t joke around. You’re under arrest for two attempted murders and a host of other charges.”

  “Two attempted what? What you talkin’ ’bout?”

  “The attack on me today and the one last week.” Evarts spoke calmly. “I should forewarn you; I take this personally.”

  “I never attacked you, man. Hell, I just pulled over to take a leak and you came chargin’ out of that driveway drivin’ like a crazy man. Scared me shitless, so I took off.”

  “Today, you were the getaway driver, but last Wednesday you w
ere one of the shooters,” Evarts said. “I have a witness that identifies you.”

  “Bullshit! Ain’t no witness for somethin’ I never did.”

  “There is. Me … I saw you shoot at me from alongside my driveway.”

  “No fuckin’ way.”

  “Fucking way.” When he got no response, Evarts added, “I told you, I take this personally.”

  He smiled. “You can’t frame me. I got an alibi for three days ago.”

  Evarts shrugged. “Won’t matter, even if it’s rock solid. Aggravated assault with a deadly weapon? Two assaults against a police officer? Flight. Hostage taking? My testimony will get you locked up in county until trial. That’s all I’ll need.”

  For the first time, Jesus appeared concerned. “What you mean that’s all you need?”

  Evarts bent over and stage whispered. “Listen, to tell the truth, I know the men who attacked me and escaped three days ago are dead. You may not know it, but the people who hired you are Islamic terrorists: a very ruthless breed of terrorists. With money and organization. They’ll go to any lengths to keep their cells from being exposed. They eliminate any and all risks. Always.” Evarts leaned against his chair back. “Understand?”

  Jesus’ brow furrowed. “You think they kill me in lock up?”

  “I know they will.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yes, fuck.”

  “You’d do that? You’re a cop, for God’s sake. Chief of Police.”

  “I told you, this is personal.”

  “Wait a minute, why do they want you dead?”

  “Your concern should be why they want you dead.”

  “I don’t know nothin’.”

  “That’s a double negative,” Evarts said. “Their concern is that you might know something.”

  Evarts allowed him to stew on the reality of the situation. Finally, Jesus slumped in his chair, his body language displaying submissiveness.

  “This is a deal negotiation, right?” Jesus said.

  “Yes,” Evarts answered. “If you tell me what you know, I’ll drop the charges to a single Class C felony.”