Page 3 of The Grave Artist
Jake punched the keypad, then lifted the phone to his ear. “This is Jake Heron. We need an ambulance and backup at”—he looked around—“4495 East Sunset, Santa Monica. A federal agent’s been shot. She’s bleeding out. Neck wound. I can’t get to her. The shooter’s still in the building.” He chanced another peek over the hood. “I can see him.” He called out to everyone in the vicinity: “He’s aiming this way. Stay down!”
Turning to look at the black Suburban once more, Jake yelled, “Sanchez, can you hear me? Don’t try to move. The shooter’s still active. Medical and backup are on the way.”
Tim flattened his body on the sidewalk, completely prone. “What the hell’s going on?”
“That’s my partner in the SUV.” Jake’s voice caught.
“You’re cops?”
“Federal. Terrorist detail.” Jake was breathing hard. “The shooter came from nowhere. Behind us. We never saw him.” A moment passed. He called out to Sanchez again but got no response.
He ducked. “Jesus, he’s aiming this way again!”
He then looked down at Tim, who tried to make himself less of a target yet. His cheek was pushing hard into the concrete, his hands continuing to cover the back of his head.
It was then that a huge man in black tactical gear, which included a watch cap and ballistic vest, strode up to the pair.
“Thanks, Jake. You did all the work for me.” The baritone voice was gruffly cheerful.
Liam Grange, a massive wall of a man, had his cuffs out.
“Hey, wait.” Tim’s eyes widened as realization dawned. “Oh, shit ...”
He must have seen Grange’s boots, noted the man was obviously unafraid of any shooter and realized something wasn’t right about the situation.
Before Tim could make a move, Grange, who was head of Tactical Response for the Long Beach office of Homeland Security Investigations, had pulled Tim to his feet and cuffed him, without resistance, which was, for the suspect, a good thing, since Grange could have accidentally—well,probablyaccidentally—snapped the man’s wrists if he’d resisted.
Jake said, “You want to do the honors?”
He was speaking not to Grange but to Carmen Sanchez, who had joined them.
She was about Jake’s age, wore black slacks and a white blouse ironed as stiff as Sheetrock and had pinned her glossy black hair atop her head. Her only adornments were a necklace and some rings, all silver, but the most prominent accessory was on her right hip, a Glock 17. Her fingers were wrapped around the grip, an instinctive move, Jake knew. She assessed the situation before relaxing her hand.
“Didn’t need it, see?” Jake asked, referring to the blouse. Sanchez had wanted to smear it with fake blood. Jake had convinced her that Tim was probably dim enough to be fooled without garment-wasting props.
Grange patted Tim down and sat him on the curb.
He looked up at them and repeated his earlier question. “The hell is going on?”
“I’m Special Agent Sanchez with Homeland Security Investigations,” she said. “Timothy Bancroft, you’re under arrest for violations of 18 USC Sections 1961–1968, Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations. You have the right to—”
“You set this up.” He was looking around and clearly noticed the other pedestrians standing and dusting off their palms and swiping at their knees to dislodge the irritating Southern California sand. “You all did! They were in on it too.”
True. They were employees of HSI as well. Now that their fifteen-minutes-of-fame performance was over, they’d gone back to being clerical and admin staff—chatting excitedly about the operation.
Tim turned a furious gaze on Jake. “And who are you?”
Jake might have explained that he was a civilian consultant working on a pilot program in the National Security Division of HSI. But he was not obligated to. Nor inclined. And therefore he did not, but remained silent, while Sanchez finished the rest of the Miranda rights recitation and asked if Tim wanted to make a statement.
He did, though it was more of an exasperated question. “But the gunshot? I heard it.”
What he heard was Sanchez detonating a flash-bang grenade to signify the start of the undercover scam operation. The bullet hole was quite real but had happened yesterday at a DHS range near the Mojave Desert, when she let go with a shot out the back window into a sand dune. She had been doubtful the government would pay to have it repaired but agreed that the op needed the credibility of at least one live round.
Tim closed his eyes. “This is goddamn entrapment.”
“No, it’s not,” Sanchez said matter-of-factly. She recited the rest of the Miranda warning and jotted some notes about the operation on her tablet.
“You’re not getting, like, one single word out of me.”
