was exerting an influence on his mood—he’d only had two naps in two days, one on the drive down and the second, shorter still, just before this, but nevertheless, his notion of joy was no longer being poised for action in a blighted urban landscape.
He wondered if his priorities hadn’t evolved—thathe’d segued from the pure pleasure of chasing people down and locking them up, to something harder to define—perhaps a growing interest in pondering their motivations. Right now, for example, watching the street under the sterile glow of the overhead lighting, he remained focused on bringing in—or down—a cop killer. But he was equally mindful of what might have prompted Luis Grega to turn a traffic stop and, at worst, another dance with the judicial system into a cold-blooded homicide.
Joe was conscious of an evolving bafflement on his part, not unlike that of a trained but wearying combatant, who was fighting an urge to stand up in midbattle simply to ask what the hell was going on.
These were not ruminations he shared. Ever.
Lenny Chapman turned toward the small, tightly packed group and raised his radio slightly, as if it had become a pennant to follow.
“We’re set. Surveillance has confirmed both targets. The entry team is positioning. It’s rock-and-roll time, ladies and gentlemen.”
CHAPTER 7
There was no more meditating on Joe Gunther’s part when Lenny Chapman gave them the signal to move out. Old soldier that he was, he hit the rear exit of the van like a paratrooper hurtling through the side dive door of a plane, as adrenalized as his younger companions.
They ran across Dorchester Avenue, shadows on a gloomy street, startling a couple of passersby, barely catching the attention of another, and took the entry-way stairs of a dilapidated apartment building, two at a time.
Chapman led them all the way, speaking rapidly into his radio, coordinating with the black-clad, armored entry team already ahead, who, by now, had broken down the door of James Marano’s apartment and charged inside.
However, Joe, Sammie, and the rest of Chapman’s team, assigned to take over from the entry guys and effect the arrests, never made it to the third, top floor. Midway there, Chapman held up his hand and stopped them dead in their tracks, listening incredulously to his radio.
“Shit,” he said, turning toward them, “they’ve flown.They had a hole in the wall to the next apartment, covered by a dresser.”
That was all Joe needed to hear. He turned on his heel and started pounding back downstairs, Sam instinctively in hot pursuit.
“What’s up?” she asked, breathing hard.
“Simple,” he answered, hoping not to break his neck on the dimly lighted stairs. “They planned this out. They live on the top floor. That means a roof escape. The ICE guys’re already behind them. We should try to cut them off.”
Either satisfied with this, or still working out what he meant, Sam didn’t respond. But Joe could still hear her boots banging on the steps close behind him, joined, he noticed, by others. It seemed he wasn’t alone in his thinking.
Bursting out onto the street, Joe immediately led the way across before swinging around and studying the building they’d just left.
Panting by now, he pointed to both sides, just as Chapman and a couple of others also appeared on the stoop. “Two alleyways,” Joe told her. “You take the right; I’ll take the left. Check for anything like a fire escape or maybe a jury-rigged bridge or a zip line, running to the next-door building.”
As he spoke, he was already moving left, shouting over his shoulder. Across the street, Chapman saw what they were doing and got on his radio to get an update from upstairs.
Joe ran back across Dorchester, aiming for his alleyway, and was intercepted at its mouth by one of Chapman’s men.
“You have a flashlight?” he asked him.
The man dutifully pulled a small halogen torch from a holder on his
He wondered if his priorities hadn’t evolved—thathe’d segued from the pure pleasure of chasing people down and locking them up, to something harder to define—perhaps a growing interest in pondering their motivations. Right now, for example, watching the street under the sterile glow of the overhead lighting, he remained focused on bringing in—or down—a cop killer. But he was equally mindful of what might have prompted Luis Grega to turn a traffic stop and, at worst, another dance with the judicial system into a cold-blooded homicide.
Joe was conscious of an evolving bafflement on his part, not unlike that of a trained but wearying combatant, who was fighting an urge to stand up in midbattle simply to ask what the hell was going on.
These were not ruminations he shared. Ever.
Lenny Chapman turned toward the small, tightly packed group and raised his radio slightly, as if it had become a pennant to follow.
“We’re set. Surveillance has confirmed both targets. The entry team is positioning. It’s rock-and-roll time, ladies and gentlemen.”
CHAPTER 7
There was no more meditating on Joe Gunther’s part when Lenny Chapman gave them the signal to move out. Old soldier that he was, he hit the rear exit of the van like a paratrooper hurtling through the side dive door of a plane, as adrenalized as his younger companions.
They ran across Dorchester Avenue, shadows on a gloomy street, startling a couple of passersby, barely catching the attention of another, and took the entry-way stairs of a dilapidated apartment building, two at a time.
Chapman led them all the way, speaking rapidly into his radio, coordinating with the black-clad, armored entry team already ahead, who, by now, had broken down the door of James Marano’s apartment and charged inside.
However, Joe, Sammie, and the rest of Chapman’s team, assigned to take over from the entry guys and effect the arrests, never made it to the third, top floor. Midway there, Chapman held up his hand and stopped them dead in their tracks, listening incredulously to his radio.
“Shit,” he said, turning toward them, “they’ve flown.They had a hole in the wall to the next apartment, covered by a dresser.”
That was all Joe needed to hear. He turned on his heel and started pounding back downstairs, Sam instinctively in hot pursuit.
“What’s up?” she asked, breathing hard.
“Simple,” he answered, hoping not to break his neck on the dimly lighted stairs. “They planned this out. They live on the top floor. That means a roof escape. The ICE guys’re already behind them. We should try to cut them off.”
Either satisfied with this, or still working out what he meant, Sam didn’t respond. But Joe could still hear her boots banging on the steps close behind him, joined, he noticed, by others. It seemed he wasn’t alone in his thinking.
Bursting out onto the street, Joe immediately led the way across before swinging around and studying the building they’d just left.
Panting by now, he pointed to both sides, just as Chapman and a couple of others also appeared on the stoop. “Two alleyways,” Joe told her. “You take the right; I’ll take the left. Check for anything like a fire escape or maybe a jury-rigged bridge or a zip line, running to the next-door building.”
As he spoke, he was already moving left, shouting over his shoulder. Across the street, Chapman saw what they were doing and got on his radio to get an update from upstairs.
Joe ran back across Dorchester, aiming for his alleyway, and was intercepted at its mouth by one of Chapman’s men.
“You have a flashlight?” he asked him.
The man dutifully pulled a small halogen torch from a holder on his
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