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29

THE VAN PULLED up at an angle to the left rear side of the Cherokee. On one of the screens, Ballard could see that Dehaven was in the passenger seat. The camera positions and a light reflection off the windshield did not allow a clear view of the driver. Bosch walked directly to the passenger window to confront Dehaven. His back was to the open hatch of the Cherokee, and his words were partially muffled by his body and the limited reach of the bug. Ballard leaned over Olmstead's shoulder to get closer to the speaker.

"You… alone," Bosch said.

"Relax," Dehaven said. "He's…"

Bosch pointed into the van at the driver.

"He… the van," he said.

"Okay, not a…" Dehaven said. "Just take… cool."

Bosch turned back to the Cherokee, his voice now directed at the bug.

"I'll be cool as long as he stays in the fucking van," he said.

Dehaven opened his door and got out behind him. Bosch walked to a position under the hatch where he knew his words would be clear and recorded.

Ballard checked all corners of the screens for a red dot or other indicator. "You are recording this, right?" she asked.

Olmstead said nothing. Spencer said nothing.

"What the fuck?" Ballard said. "You're not recording this?"

Her voice obscured something Bosch said.

"Ballard, be quiet," Olmstead barked. "We need to hear. Yes, it's recorded."

Ballard didn't believe him. And she knew there was only one reason not to record the takedown.

"If Bosch gets hurt, I won't keep my mouth shut about this," she said.

Olmstead held his hand up for silence.

On the screen, the deal was about to go down. Dehaven was at the back of the Cherokee next to Bosch and was pulling towels out of one of the beach bags. He held the towels under one arm while looking into the bag. He reached down to inspect the weapons without lifting them out of the bag. Seemingly satisfied, Dehaven stuffed the towels back in that bag and moved on to the second one. This time when he removed the towels, he dropped them next to the bag, leaving both hands free.

"No slings?" he said. "Dude, I ordered slings."

"You gave me short notice on that," Bosch said. "I can get 'em Tuesday or Wednesday for you."

"That'll be too late."

"For what?"

"What?"

"Too late for what?"

"Too late for none of your fucking business."

"You're right. I don't want to know your business. I just want to finish ours. Where's the money?"

"In the pocket of the guy you told to stay in the van. He's the buyer. I'm just the go-between."

"Then you can go get the money from him."

"I sure can."

Dehaven picked the two beach bags up by the straps, one in each hand, and turned from the Cherokee.

"No, they stay here till you bring me the cash," Bosch said.

"Oh, come on, man," Dehaven said. "You'll get your money."

He attempted to walk past Bosch to the van, but Bosch put his hand in front of Dehaven's chest. Dehaven shrank back from it.

"Don't touch me, man," he said.

"You want the guns, you pay for the guns," Bosch said.

Ballard could feel the mounting tension between the two men. They stood there staring at each other for a long moment before Dehaven dropped the bags to the ground.

"Fine, tough guy," he said. "I'll get you your money."

He walked past Bosch to the van. He reached in through the open passenger window, and it appeared to Ballard that he took something from the driver, though the hand-pass was below the window line.

Dehaven turned toward Bosch as he took his hand out of the window. The move was smooth and quick. While making the pivot, he dropped his hand to his side, guarding it from Bosch's view.

Ballard's eyes jumped from one screen to another as she looked for an angle on Dehaven's left hand. Olmstead beat her to it.

"Gun!" he yelled into the microphone. "Blue, blue, blue!"

Blue was the go word. In the command post, Ballard didn't hear the shots, but almost immediately after Olmstead yelled the word into his mic, she saw Dehaven's body jerk from the impacts of at least two sniper hits. He collapsed to his knees and then fell backward to the asphalt, a handgun next to his left hand.

Ballard saw Bosch drop to the ground and crawl to the side of the Cherokee for cover.

The van started forward and she saw the flash of gunfire from inside as the driver shot at Bosch through the open passenger-side window. But Bosch got to a safety point against the rear tire of his car.

Then came the explosion of glass as sniper shots pierced the van's windshield and took out the driver. The van kept moving for twenty-five yards and drove directly into one of the concrete pedestals of the parking lot's light poles. It stopped and Ballard saw no movement from inside.

"Clear the van!" Olmstead barked. "Clear the van!"

On the wide screen, Ballard saw FBI cars race across the lot to the van. She saw Bosch crawl back to Dehaven. He shoved the gun away and put a hand to Dehaven's neck to check for a pulse. He bent over the body and turned an ear to listen for breath.

He straightened up and looked directly at one of the cameras.

"Dehaven's down for good," he said.

Agents wearing black assault gear were now on foot and moving in on the van, their weapons trained on the driver's position. One agent got to the door and opened it. The driver tumbled out to the ground. Another agent opened the side door while a third covered. They moved in weapons-first and in a moment backed out.

Ballard heard the all-clear call on the radio.

"Spencer, get us over there," Olmstead said.

Spencer jumped up and went through a curtain to the front cab of the van. Olmstead followed him and took the front passenger seat. The engine roared to life and took off with such a jerk that Ballard was thrown into the back doors. They popped open and she fell to the street.

The van didn't stop. From the ground, she watched it drive away.