And Every Man Has to Die

TEN

2031 hours

Graveyard Shift

Thomas Chisolm sat in front of his locker, considering his options. He pulled on his boots and laced them up. He’d given some thought to how he should approach Battaglia and Carson, or if he should even talk to Carson at all. In the end, he only knew one way to talk to people. Talk to ’em straight.

If talking to Batts worked, he wouldn’t need to talk with Carson. If Batts didn’t respond, then maybe he’d see if Carson were receptive. That probably depended on how entranced she was with Mr. Anthony Battaglia.

Chisolm stood and buckled his pants belt. No time like the present. He wandered toward the back of the maze-like locker room, listening for O’Sullivan’s rolling Irish lilt or Battaglia’s more guttural Italian Brooklynese. He heard the clanging of lockers and general clamor of twenty-plus cops gearing up for a graveyard shift, but none of the usual banter. Just one more sign something was up.

He rounded the corner of the last row. Battaglia and O’Sullivan stood next to open lockers. Sully buckled his gun belt and closed his locker.

“See you out there, paisan,” he said to Battaglia.

Batts gave him a distracted nod.

Sully walked past Chisolm with a casual hello, and Chisolm clapped Sully on the shoulder as he went by. Battaglia put his head through the opening in his ballistic vest and pulled the straps into place. He pressed the Velcro together, then glanced up at Chisolm.

“Hey, Tom,” he said, his voice subdued.

“Hey,” Chisolm answered. “We need to talk.”

Battaglia gave him a puzzled look. “Sure. What’s up?”

Chisolm glanced quickly around the locker room. No one was left in the same bay, but he could still hear activity all around them in other rows. He lowered his voice.

“It’s about you and Carson,” Chisolm said.

Battaglia’s expression changed to surprise, then melted into anger. He turned away from Chisolm and reached inside his locker for his uniform shirt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said forcefully.

Chisolm shook his head. “Let’s not bullshit around,” he said. “We’re cops. We live in the real world.”

“Really? Do people mind their own fucking business in this real world you’re talking about?”

Chisolm ignored the tone. “Anything that happens on this platoon is platoon business,” he said.

“I see,” Battaglia said. His eyes flashed with anger. He buttoned his shirt with rough movements. “And you’re the appointed spokesman for the platoon? Is that it?”

“No. I don’t think anyone else realizes that you’re sleeping with her.”

“Who says I’m sleeping with her?”

Chisolm gave him a dubious look. “I’m not standing here because I think something is going on. I know what’s going on, and so do you.”

Battaglia stared back at him and said nothing.

“And it needs to stop,” Chisolm added.

Battaglia finished buttoning his uniform shirt. He continued staring at Chisolm as he tucked in the shirt and buckled his trousers. Then he said, “Don’t tell me how to run my life, Tom.”

“Run your life however you want. Just keep it away from the job.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Chisolm shook his head. “You know, if you want to step out on your wife, that’s your business. You’re an asshole for doing it, but it’s your business.”

Battaglia snatched his gun belt and strapped it around his waist.

“But when you start banging another cop, one we all work with, then it’s platoon business,” Chisolm said. “My business. Because I’m the one who’s counting on you or her to be one hundred percent when you’re here. Not worrying about playing patty-cake after shift at her apartment.”

Battaglia froze in the midst of buckling his gun belt. His glare turned venomous. “You’re a fucking snake, Tom.”

“The truth is the truth,” Chisolm said. “A distracted cop is a dead cop.”

Battaglia snorted. “What are you going to do? Tattle to the sarge on me?”

Chisolm clenched his jaw to keep his composure. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I? Not him.”

Battaglia said nothing.

“So if you want to mess around on your wife, go find yourself some badge bunny at Duke’s. Maybe you can grab up some of Giovanni’s castoffs. Or if it absolutely has to be Carson, then one of you needs to change platoons. It’s that simple.”

“You know what?” Battaglia said, closing his locker with a slam. “You’re not my dad and you’re not my boss, Tom. So mind your own fucking business.”

Battaglia grazed the veteran officer’s shoulder, but Chisolm let him pass without responding to the challenge. He watched Battaglia stalk away. The creaking sound of his leather equipment punctuated each step.

Chisolm tried to relax his clenched jaw. Frustration chewed at him.

That could have gone better.

2041 hours

Valeriy Romanov sat in the passenger seat of the gold Honda parked in Sergey’s driveway. He pulled his cell phone away from his ear and pushed the cancel button. He drew a line through the third name on his list. Then he dialed the last name on the list.

Sergey stood in the kitchen window, staring out at him. Val nodded to say that all was well. Sergey didn’t return the gesture.

The telephone rang several times before a woman picked up. “Fuck you want?” she asked in a drunken slur.

“Put Krueger on phone,” Val said in a cold voice.

“Who’s this?”

“I speak to Krueger,” Val said.

There was a jostling noise, then a sleepy male voice answered. “It’s your dime,” he said. “Talk.”

“Krueger,” Val said. “Do you know who is calling you?”

Krueger started to answer, then paused. He cleared his throat and asked, “Uh, is this my, uh, new partner?”

“Da,” Val said. “And I want for you listen very careful. You will do a thing for me. I will explain exactly what and when. You are for to listen.”

2059 hours

Officer B.J. Carson hurried into the drill hall. Being late to roll call and being the rookie were two things that did not go together. Especially on graveyard.

She burst through the swinging door to find all three platoon tables full of her coworkers. Most glanced up when she came in. Some looked away, but a couple of the male officers let their gazes linger appraisingly. A few of the assembled group looked up at the clock out of habit.

One minute to spare, thought Carson, but she glanced at the clock to make sure it was still synced with her wristwatch.

It clicked over to 2100 as she slid into the rookie chair, which she had started to think of as hers. Across from her, Battaglia did not look up from the intelligence flyer. Chisolm gave her an unreadable look that made her uncomfortable. It wasn’t at all like the looks Kahn sometimes fired her way, which were obvious leers or overtures. In fact, although she was nervous around Chisolm, it wasn’t him that made her nervous. It had more to do with his status as the veteran on the platoon and being a near legend on the department. What Chisolm thought of someone was usually echoed by most other graveyard cops.

Maybe that was the key. Maybe she needed to show Chisolm that she was a good cop, like Katie said. But Katie hadn’t suggested the Chisolm part. Just the good cop part.

Lieutenant Saylor strode through the drill hall door. The chatter from all three tables fell off, then stopped as he stepped up to the lectern. Saylor read the information on the hot board, which consisted of two new stolen vehicles and a subject wanted by Detective Finch for a pair of stabbings downtown. Then he turned things over to the platoon sergeants.

“I only have a couple of items,” Sergeant Shen told them. “First up, we’re still tasked with relieving day shift on the babysitting detail with the feds.” He looked over at Carson. “Officer Carson, you’re up.”

Carson flushed for a moment, wondering if her near tardiness was the reason. “Yes, sir,” she replied.

“Head up to the Quality Inn on Division,” Shen told her. “Room 420.”

She nodded.

Kahn chuckled and muttered something about her turn in the barrel, but no one acknowledged him.

Shen continued. “Second up, on that stabbing suspect-”

Battaglia cleared his throat. “Uh, Sarge?”

Shen stopped. “Yes?”

Battaglia glanced at Carson, then at Chisolm. “I’ll take that babysitting detail.”

Shen’s expression did not change, but there was a question in his eyes. Carson could understand why. No one wanted to babysit prisoners or witnesses. It wasn’t real police work. Most cops, her included, thought that details like that sucked.

She felt the eyes of the platoon flick from Battaglia to her. She could almost hear the collective eyebrows go up.

Great, she thought. Why don’t you just announce it to the world that we’re screwing?

“Are you sure?” Shen asked. “It’s her turn.”

“Yeah,” Battaglia answered. He cleared his throat again and then cast a dark look toward Chisolm. “I’m not feeling so hot tonight. Sitting around watching TV is probably just what I need.”

Shen studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “All right. Officer Battaglia will cover the detail with the FBI.” He looked back at Carson. “It looks like routine patrol for you tonight, Officer Carson.”

“Think you can handle that?” Kahn rumbled.

Carson nodded, not caring if it was interpreted as an answer to the sergeant or the abrasive Kahn. She had an unsettled feeling in her stomach. Something was going on.

Shen continued with roll call, then dismissed the team with his customary “Be safe.” Battaglia rose first and walked straight out of the drill hall. As badly as she wanted to talk with him, she wasn’t about to go running after him. That would set even more tongues wagging.

Instead she gathered her patrol bag and headed down to the basement sally port with the rest of the group.

2112 hours

Sergey opened the door before Val had a chance to knock.

“You have made the calls?” he asked.

Val nodded. “Everything is in place. I am going now to finish it.”

“Who are you taking?”

“Yuri will drive. Black Ivan will accompany me inside.”

Sergey nodded. Then he said, “I am coming with you.”

Val frowned. “That is too dangerous.”

“Life is dangerous,” Sergey snorted derisively.

“This is an unnecessary risk,” Val said. “Ivan and I can take care of matters.”

Sergey smiled darkly. “No doubt. But I think people need to hear how it was Sergey who traveled to the hotel room where the traitor hid. That Sergey fired the gun that ended the man’s life.”

“You have ordered it,” Val said. “And it was your reward that brought the information forward. That will be enough.”

“No,” Sergey said. “No, Valeriy Aleksandrovich, I don’t think so. It might be enough for business as usual. But it isn’t enough for the legend.”

“Legend?” Val asked.

“People don’t follow men,” Sergey said. “They follow great men. And every great man has a legend about him. This will be an important piece of my legend here in America.”

You are a fool, Val thought. That will be your legend.

Val’s frown turned into a grimace. “It is a risk, that is all. But you know best.”

“Best that you do not forget that,” Sergey told him. “Now, let’s go.”

2117 hours

Chisolm walked down the stairs behind B.J. Carson, watching her ponytail bounce and bob with each step.

Should he talk to her? Would it do any good?

He tried to remember what it was like to be a rookie. He’d come on the job already battle-tested from the jungles of Vietnam, so it was different for him. The closest thing to it, probably, was his early days in the military. Had someone pulled him aside?

Chisolm smiled slightly. Hell, when he entered Special Forces, it felt like Captain Mack Greene pulled him aside every day with some sort of wisdom or another.

But police work was different than war. In some ways, it was harder, more limiting. But the prospect of getting your ass shot off didn’t happen quite as frequently as in combat, either.

So what do you say to a rookie today? If it was a man, he could use the tried and true warning about the two things that get most cops in trouble-booze and broads. Or as he heard it more often put, “A wine glass and a woman’s ass.”

It didn’t really matter how you put it, though. The important thing was that someone warn the newer cops about the pitfalls they faced in their upcoming careers. Not just what the bad guys did or what the administration might try to do, but what stupid things cops did to themselves.

The cluster of graveyard troops reached the basement sally port and stepped out through the double doors. A ragged line of patrol cars filled the center lane. Swing shift officers exited the vehicles, collecting their bags of gear and trudging away, while graveyarders jockeyed to get the lowest mileage vehicles.

Battaglia made straight for the first available car. He threw his bag into the trunk, got in, and drove out of the sally port without inspecting the vehicle or checking the lights or the shotgun.

Chisolm noticed Carson cast a concerned look after Battaglia’s car as it sped up the ramp. He definitely needed to talk to her. Not here, though. Not after the way Battaglia reacted in the locker room, and at roll call. No, he’d wait until after the initial rush of calls on their shift tapered off, then ask Carson to coffee. That’d be the best way to go about it.

Satisfied with his decision, Chisolm headed toward an empty car near the front of the line, ready to take on whatever River City had to offer.

2204 hours

Carson cruised through West Central with her windows down. A variety of smells floated through her police car as she patrolled the neighborhood: latent barbecues, motor oil, freshly cut grass, dog shit, and the musty smell from poorly maintained houses. A real potpourri for the nasal passage.

She tried to focus on the things outside her open window, but her thoughts kept coming back to one thing. Battaglia.

She needed to break it off with him, she knew. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, he was charming and said all of the things that made her feel good. But he was married.

What the hell am I thinking? And why do I always end up in relationships like this?

Her mind raced back through the catalogue of wrong men. Her best friend’s boyfriend. True, he wasn’t married, but it happened before he really stopped being her best friend’s boyfriend. Her poli-sci professor. Married. Then the assistant manager at the Bon Marche, also married. His wife had even invited her over for Christmas one year when she found out that Carson wasn’t able to go back to Wyoming for the holidays. That had been awkward.

At every stop she found herself falling into situations with married men. She used to call it bad luck, but one thing that she learned at the police academy was how to apply critical thinking. And critical thinking clearly told her that a trend like this wasn’t simply bad luck. There was more to it. But what?

She ignored the question. Instead she wondered if maybe it was different with Batts. Maybe she’d only taken up with him because she was a still a rookie.

“That’s stupid,” she whispered to no one. There was a big difference between being accepted as a fellow officer and gaining Battaglia’s acceptance by sleeping with him. Carson shook her head at herself. No, that wasn’t it.

Be honest.

She sighed. Whatever it was that drew her to married men, she could examine it at greater length sometime later. Right now, she had to decide how to handle Battaglia.

Would he really leave his wife, as he hinted in her bedroom, wrapped up in her legs in the early morning hours? Was she really something special, like he told her? Or was she really just the opposite? Something to be used, like a tissue, then thrown away?

Carson swallowed. All her life she’d felt like the tissue. Maybe this time, though, it was different. Maybe Batts was true love.

“Charlie-147 and Charlie-148 for a fight call,” squawked the radio. She glanced down, surprised at hearing the south side dispatcher’s voice. Then she realized she had the radio set to scan both frequencies.

“Charlie-147.”

“48.”

“Charlie-147 and -148, start for Liberty Park. A crowd of seven to ten black males are engaged in a large fight. The complainant reports seeing bottles and baseball bats.”

Carson flipped a U-turn. North side was uncharacteristically quiet, so she decided to go help the south officers. If nothing else, it would it give her something to think about. And maybe a chance to prove something.

As she reached for her microphone, the north side dispatcher barked out her call sign. Carson jumped. Then she grabbed the microphone and answered up.

“Also for Baker-124,” the dispatcher continued, “we have a fight at Dutch Jake Park between an unknown number of Hispanic males. Caller says it may be gang members involved. Unknown weapons.”

“Copy,” Carson said. She flipped another U-turn and headed down Broadway, her heart racing.

2206 hours

Chisolm dropped down Alberta Street, heading for West Central to back Carson and Baker-124, Matt Westboard, if they needed it. He heard Sully answer up. A moment later, Kahn’s gruff voice announced he was going to the fight call as well.

Chisolm left his radio mike on the hook. He’d leave the air open for one of the responding units in case the fight was still hot when they arrived on scene. A lot of fight calls were pretty much over by the time dispatch was able to get the information out, but you never knew.

“Adam-112,”came the dispatcher’s voice.

Chisolm reached out and depressed the mike button without removing it from the holder. “Twelve,” he hollered.

“I’m getting a report of a strong-arm robbery at Mission and Hamilton. Caller claims that three skinheads attacked her and took her purse. Suspects are still in the area. I’ll start you a south side unit to back. Mission and Hamilton.”

“Copy,” he yelled into the microphone. He hung a left on Wellesley and put on his lights and siren.

“Welcome to the circus, ladies and gents,” he muttered. “All three rings.”

2207 hours

Valeriy Romanov removed the small earphone and turned off the police scanner. He looked over at Sergey in the seat next to him.

“All three diversions are in place,” he told his boss. “The police are running around like puppies chasing their own tails, all far away from this end of the city.”

Sergey nodded. “Good. With luck, Oleg will be dead soon.”

“Not luck,” Val said. “We will make it happen.”

Sergey smiled. “Ah, Valeriy. I know you plan well. And you carry out your plans even better. But even the best plans need some measure of luck to succeed.”

Val didn’t reply. Instead, he caught Yuri’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Let’s go,” he ordered.

As Yuri pulled out of the grocery store parking lot and drove north on Division, Val pulled on a pair of thin rubber surgical gloves. From a paper shopping bag on the floor he removed the.44 Magnum. He felt the heft of the large-caliber revolver, rocking it in his hand almost lovingly. Then he extended the handle of the gun to Sergey.

Sergey didn’t move. “No, my brother. You will be my hand here. Bring me the traitor alive or leave him in a pool of his own blood.”

Val withdrew the gun, mildly surprised. For all his blustering, it turned out Sergey had lost his taste for the dirty work. His insistence on coming and being the one to pull the trigger was just one more way for him to exert his authority over Val.

Plans. Always plans within plans.

“You honor me,” Val said. He slipped a speed loader into the pocket of his jacket and held the.44 in his lap. Val looked out through the windshield. Two blocks ahead of them was a large hotel sign.

2208 hours

Carson rolled up on Dutch Jake park with her headlights darked out. All was silent. She reached for her microphone to report that the fight was over and the suspects gone. Out of the darkness, a voice rang out.

“?Chinga tu madre, puto!”

She swung her gaze left. A half block from the park, a pair of young males were shoving each other. Carson hit her overhead lights and accelerated toward them.

As soon as the lights came on, the pair rabbited away in opposite directions. Carson reached for her radio mike.

“Adam-128, I’ve got two subjects running from me. We’re about a block south of the park.” B.J. Carson’s voice was slightly elevated.

Chisolm clenched his jaw but kept driving. There were three other units headed her way, all of which were closer than he was. He had to continue to his call. There was a robbery victim there and the bad guys were still supposed to be in the neighborhood.

Still, it went against his every instinct not to back up another cop when it was obvious his help was needed. The victim he was going to help was probably fine. And the suspects were likely long gone.

Probably this or probably that. You’ve got your mission, soldier.

He pushed his accelerator down just a little more.

Anthony Battaglia sat in the hard desk chair in the hotel room, shaking his head. What he had figured would be a shit detail was turning out to be just what he needed-a vacation from his problems.

Oleg Tretiak sat across from him, studying the two cards in his hands. He looked up at Battaglia inquisitively. “These cards only mine?”

“Yeah,” Battaglia said. “Just yours. And these”-he pointed to his own two hole cards-“are only mine.”

“Okay,” the Russian said, nodding. “Ponimayu. I understand.”

Battaglia smiled. He didn’t think the Russian quite understood Texas hold ’em yet, but he seemed to be getting the bluffing part down. He doubted that whatever Tretiak was holding would beat his pocket aces.

He flicked out three cards into the center of the table. “These are cards we can both use,” he said. Then he flipped them over. An eight of spades, three of hearts, and jack of diamonds showed.

Tretiak nodded, his eyes studying the face-up cards. “Which one I use?” he asked.

“All of them,” Battaglia said. “Or any of them.”

Tretiak squinted. “Which ones you use?”

“Same. I can use any or all of them. So can you.”

“Who pick cards first?”

“No one,” Battaglia explained. “All three cards are for both of us to use. I’m going to put two more down, too. We share them all.”

“Share?”

“Yeah. They’re called community cards.” Battaglia chuckled. “Come on, you should understand this. It’s like communism. Everything in the middle belongs to all the people.”

Tretiak nodded, a smile spreading slowly across his face. “And these,” he said, holding up his own cards, “are for Communist Party members only.”

Battaglia laughed a little louder. “Exactly.”

“Okay. We bet?”

Battaglia took a deep breath and glanced at the bathroom door. Agent Leeb had been in there for twenty minutes. From the initial sounds that he could hear over the fan, the guy had a case of the runs. He’d probably be in there for a while yet.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not?” He pulled a money clip from his shirt pocket and peeled off five ones. He dropped one next to the flop. “Buck a turn?”

Tretiak removed something from his pocket and fiddled with it underneath the table, out of Battaglia’s view. Battaglia half expected him to come up with a handful of rubles or something, but he had a wad of George Washingtons in his hand. Tretiak dropped a crumpled dollar bill on top of Battaglia’s.

“Bet!” he exclaimed.

Battaglia shook his head. He wanted to say he was going to hate taking the Russian’s money, but that would have been lying.

“Here comes the turn,” he said, and burned a card. Then he flipped over a six of hearts.

Tretiak’s eyes narrowed. He picked up his hole cards, then threw out two ones. “Bet two.”

Battaglia almost told him what a buck a card meant, but it was his money, after all. He tossed in two bills.

“Call,” he said.

2209 hours

Carson let the suspect that ran through the apartment complex go. She tried to keep the other one in sight as he scampered back through the small park. She contemplated driving up onto the grass, but decided against it.

She depressed the PA button and shouted, “Police, stop!” Her voice sounded far too shrill to her. It was no surprise that it only made the dark shadow run faster.

She accelerated and cut into a parking lot next to a row of houses. She drove straight at the fleeing suspect, who stopped suddenly and stared at her. She dynamited the brakes at the last second and the front end of her cruiser skidded to a stop. The push bar nudged the suspect. The young man’s eyes flew open, then narrowed with rage.

“Jesus!” Carson yelled at him.

“?Puta!” he shouted back. Then he turned and sprinted for the nearby fence, vaulting over it into a back yard.

Carson sat in the driver’s seat, her heart pounding.

“Adam-128, I’ve lost both suspects,” Carson broadcasted.

Chisolm shrugged. He wasn’t surprised, but it didn’t matter much. There probably wasn’t a victim there, anyway. Just two guys duking it out. And now no officers were in danger, either.

“Baker-125,” Kahn transmitted. “I’m close to that strong-arm robbery. I’ll take the female victim.”

Chisolm snorted. Of course he would.

“Copy. Adam-112, you can disregard.”

Chisolm pressed the mike button. “Copy.”

He slowed down as he approached Monroe and turned off his overhead lights. Back to routine patrol.

Battaglia burned a card. “Ready for the river?” he asked.

Tretiak shrugged. “What is river?”

“The final card,” Battaglia said. “It’s called the river card.”

“Why river?”

“Fuck if I know. You ready?”

Tretiak nodded. “I ready.”

Battaglia flipped the card over. Eight of clubs. He tried not to smile. That gave him two pair, aces and eights.

“Three,” Tretiak announced, dropping the money into the center.

Battaglia considered. There were a number of hands that could still beat him. Any pocket pair that matched up, for instance. But that wasn’t the question. The question was could Tretiak be bluffing him?

He looked the wily Russian in the eye. Tretiak stared flatly, grinning at the same time. “Three,” he repeated.

The toilet flushed in the bathroom. Battaglia realized this might be the only betting hand they’d get if Leeb came out and kiboshed the whole thing. He was an FBI agent, after all. Battaglia had to decide. And there was no way he was going to back down. Not with top two pair.

He heard the water from the bathroom sink come on.

He reached for his own money.

A knock came at the door.

2210 hours

Carson shut off her overhead lights. After a moment’s thought she dumped her headlights, too. She pulled back onto the side street and rolled slowly along, watching for a shadowy figure moving in between houses.

She wanted to find this guy. She didn’t know what puta meant, but she doubted it was something good. But it was also a matter of proving herself. If people figured out what was going on with her and Battaglia, she knew they’d call her police abilities into question. It was a stupid thing, and a sexist thing, but she knew it was a very real thing.

Graveyard cops respected hard-edged police work. That meant catching bad guys. Sometimes it meant fighting them. Maybe she could get some of both on this call.

If she could find this son of a bitch.

Battaglia set his cards on the table face-down. He glanced away from the door to Tretiak.

“Did you order room service?”

The Russian shook his head.

“Pizza or something?”

“Nyet.”

Battaglia rose from his chair and walked cautiously toward the door.

The water in the bathroom shut off.

There was another knock at the door, no harder than the first.

“Don’t answer that!” Leeb called from the bathroom.

“I wasn’t going to,” Battaglia snapped. “I’m just going to look.”

He leaned forward and put his eye to the peephole.

As soon as Val saw the peephole darken, he fired three times. The.44 erupted, bucking in his hand with each shot. The wood splintered and tore with each blast.

Val stepped aside to make room for Black Ivan.

Battaglia’s world exploded. Concussions buffeted his chest. Sharp wood chunks bit into his face and throat.

He staggered back, staring stupidly at the door. Then he reached for his gun. As his hand came to rest on the handle he veered awkwardly to his right. His legs felt heavy, then suddenly weak.

He collapsed toward the wall as if in slow motion. His mind screamed out at him: “Let go of your gun and brace yourself!” But he couldn’t force his body to obey.

He crashed face-first into the wall and slid down sideways.

Black Ivan took a giant stride toward the door, a twelve-gauge shotgun clutched in his huge hands. He drove his foot into the door just beside the handle.

“Go!” Val ordered, but he didn’t have to. The large Russian was already through the doorway. He gave the wounded cop a brief look, then walked right past him.

Oleg Tretiak had moved into the far corner. Black Ivan raised the shotgun.

“Wait!” Val ordered, following Ivan inside. Shots rang out before he could give a further order. Hot zipping sounds flew by him like angry hornets. Val didn’t hesitate. He turned his.44 on the bathroom door and returned fire. He emptied the revolver, moving deeper into the room as he fired.

Another shot answered his own, then two more.

Val flipped open the cylinder and reloaded. He caught Ivan’s eye and jerked his head toward the bathroom door.

Ivan fired at the door. The shotgun’s sharp booming filled the room, followed by the menacing racking sound and another shot. The rounds tore fist-sized holes in the flimsy bathroom door. Val heard the heavy thud of somebody falling into the shower door.

“Keep that covered,” he ordered.

Ivan nodded, keeping the shotgun trained on the bathroom door.

Val turned his attention to Oleg Tretiak, the traitor.

Battaglia saw red, then black.

He blinked.

The world became a hazy, bright fog. He saw a giant shape pause in front of him, then rumble past. He drew in a rasping, gurgling breath.

I’m shot.

Panic started to seep in. He tried to control it but it was like an avalanche. The sensation enveloped him. For a moment he thought it would grab onto him and drag him down into darkness. He could feel the constant pull at the edge of his consciousness, an insistent tug toward blackness.

He wanted to draw his gun and return fire, but he couldn’t move his hand. He couldn’t move at all. He could barely breathe.

Then the pain hit, fiery and pounding. He tried to cry out, but all he could manage was a wheezing whisper. What did all the training say? He forced his mind to focus on those in-service days, sitting in the academy classroom, watching videos about critical incidents, reading all of the officer-killed summaries. What did all of that tell him?

Simple. If you knew you’d been shot, you were still alive and would probably survive.

Survive, he thought. I have to survive.

More shots rang out, but he didn’t feel any impact. Maybe he was too far gone to feel the bullets hitting him. No, that couldn’t be it. The shots were missing him. Or they were meant for someone else.

He focused on his left hand. It dangled off his hip, just a few inches from his radio. He willed it to move. First, twitch the fingers. It seemed to take forever, but finally his first two fingers responded. He forced his hand upward to the radio on his belt. He fumbled blindly for the notch near the antenna. His index finger found it, skipped over the top, then dropped back inside.

Push the button, he told himself. Call for the cavalry.

He twitched his finger and pressed downward.

The huge booming sound of a shotgun erupted.

An alert tone came over the police radio. Chisolm immediately turned the volume up.

“Signal 98,” the dispatcher said, her tone elevated. “Signal 98, Officer Emergency.Officer Battaglia at the Quality Inn on North Division. Room 420.”

She repeated the broadcast a second time, but Chisolm was no longer listening. He engaged his lights and siren and punched the accelerator.

Val savored the moment as he took two steps toward Oleg. He flashed the traitor a cold, hard smile.

“Did you think we wouldn’t find you, musor?” he asked, his tone conversational.

Oleg shook his head. “I knew you probably would.”

“Why would you betray your own people?” Val asked.

“Sergey is a fool,” Oleg said. “He is too ambitious. He was going to cause all of us to go to prison.”

Val shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But that doesn’t explain why you would skim money from us.”

“Fuck Sergey, and fuck you,” Oleg snarled. “You barely even missed what little extra I took. You drive BMWs while my wife must work at the laundry. Why should I be loyal to that?”

Val raised the.44 and pointed it at his head. “Because we are your people,” he said simply.

“My family is my people.”

Val pressed his lips together. “Come with us now, if you want to live.”

Oleg spat on the carpet in front of Val.

He had to admire the man. He knew that a more painful, torturous death awaited him if he left the motel room. But most men would trade that death later for a few more moments of life now. Oleg had a warrior’s heart. A black, traitorous warrior’s heart.

“Stukach,” he said, and squeezed the trigger.

Oleg’s head jerked backward. Blood and brain matter speckled the wall behind him.

Val turned away before the body had even hit the ground. Ivan followed him out of the room with his weapon trained on the bathroom door, acting as a rear guard, just like so many times before.

In the hallway Val pulled down a fire alarm. A loud clanging bell filled the motel. He and Ivan took the stairs down to the first floor.

Clockwork, he thought. Now just out the side door to the sedan where Sergey and Yuri are waiting.

2211 hours

Chisolm broke the light at Francis and Division, barely slowing for cross traffic. He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a pickup truck skidding through the intersection. One second difference and he’d have T-boned Chisolm. Or the other way around.

The thought flit through his mind and was gone again. He focused on the motel that was still eight blocks ahead.

Carson drove faster than she ever imagined possible. She could hear sirens all around her.

“Fire is responding to an alarm at the Quality Inn,” the dispatcher announced.

Fire?An alarm? Carson didn’t have time to think about it as she approached an S-curve on Maple. She steered through the turn using both lanes.

High, low, high, she recited automatically, just as she’d done during emergency vehicle operations training at the academy.

She took a hard right onto Francis and headed east. She saw a fire truck rolling out of the station ahead of her at Jefferson. In what seemed like less than a second she was right up on the rear of it.

Carson dropped her foot onto the accelerator and whizzed around the huge fire engine without a second thought.

Val opened the car door and slid into the back seat while Ivan clambered into the front.

“How did it go?” Sergey asked, his voice a little strained.

Val started to answer when a bullet shattered the rear window. Sergey jerked forward, then tipped sideways toward Val. Sergey’s head flopped onto Val’s lap with a wet slap.

Yuri cursed and punched the accelerator.

Val looked up to see a slender man in a white shirt and tie shuffling toward the car. Bright red blood had soaked through his shirt from his right shoulder, and his right hand hung limply at his side, but he extended his black automatic pistol toward the car with his left. His expression was one of grim determination. He fired another shot.

An electric buzz whipped past Val’s face and struck the windshield.

Yuri cursed again.

Val raised his.44 and fired back several times. The fiery blasts from the muzzle blinded him momentarily, and then Yuri came to the corner of the building, where the savvy driver took a hard right and accelerated toward Division.

Chisolm heard the shots as soon as he pulled into the motel parking lot. He saw the flashes of gunfire around the corner reflecting against the trees to the rear of the hotel. He gunned the engine and slid his.40 caliber Glock from his holster.

As he rounded the corner he saw a solitary figure in a white business shirt staggering away from him. The man’s entire right sleeve was soaked through with blood.

Chisolm swung his car to a stop at an angle, slammed the gearshift into park, popped his door open, and planted his left foot on the pavement. He pointed his gun sight squarely center-mass in the middle of the man’s back.

“Police!” Chisolm boomed. “Don’t move!”

The man slowed, then lowered his left hand. Chisolm immediately recognized the black metal shape of a gun and his index finger shifted onto the trigger.

“Drop that gun!” he yelled at the man. “Drop it, or I’ll blow a fucking hole right through your spine!”

The man looked over his shoulder at Chisolm with a slightly dazed expression. Chisolm saw the clean-cut features and the loosely knotted tie. A lanyard hung from his neck, the identification card tucked into the shirt pocket. A small gold badge was on his belt just to the right of the buckle.

“Who are you?” Chisolm called to him, though he already knew the answer.

The question pierced the man’s confusion. “FBI,” he shouted back. “Special Agent Greg Leeb.” Then he pointed in the opposite direction with his gun. “They went that way. A white Mercedes. At least three suspects.”

Chisolm lowered his gun. “Are you all right?”

Agent Leeb nodded. “Go.”

Thomas Chisolm jumped back into his car and dropped the hammer.

2212 hours

“Take a left at Lyons,” Val ordered. “More cops will be coming. We need to get out of sight.”

Far ahead of them Val saw a large fire truck navigate the turn at Francis and Division. A smaller set of lights hurtled toward them from even closer. He looked back through the shattered rear window in time to see more red and blue lights pull out of the motel parking lot.

“Go left,” he repeated to Yuri.

Yuri didn’t answer, but swung the car in a hard left turn at Lyons, then sped up even more.

Val watched to see if either police car followed. The first one whipped past Lyons toward the motel.

He smiled.

The other police car turned on Lyons and sped toward them.

Carson ignored the other patrol car headed south. Battaglia was at the motel. She had to get to the motel.

She hooked a left into the parking lot and the patrol car bottomed out as she drove over the entryway. She screeched to a stop at the sally port, leapt out of her car, and sprinted past the guests filtering out. She flung open the glass doors and searched frantically for someone in a uniform.

A man with a nametag that read “Clyde” stood near the front desk, ushering people toward the exit. Carson grabbed him by the arm and he yelped in surprise.

“Room 420!” she yelled. “Where is it?”

He pointed at the stairwell. “Up the stairs and to the end of the hall,” he recited.

Carson ran.

Chisolm kept the pair of rocketing taillights in sight as he urged every single ounce of horsepower out of the Crown Victoria’s V-8 engine. He closed ground quickly during the straight stretches, but the small Mercedes cornered much better than he could. Plus the guy was a good driver.

He should get on the radio and put out this pursuit, he knew. But the air was full of useless traffic as the entire city seemed to be responding to the motel. The harsh buzzes and beeping clicks filled the airwaves as units covered each other’s transmissions.

He kept on the white Mercedes, yoyoing from just a few car lengths behind it to half a block as it took turn after turn. As he drew near during a straight stretch on Crestline, a muzzle blast flashed from the back seat. The bullet struck Chisolm’s windshield on the passenger side and sent spider-web cracks radiating outward.

Chisolm shifted left and gunned the engine. He reached out and depressed the microphone button. “Adam-112, shots fired!” he shouted.

Suddenly, the radio became very quiet.

Carson found the door to room 420 hanging awkwardly inward, held up by the bottom hinge. She rushed inside.

A man in a bloody white shirt squatted in front of Battaglia, who was crumpled in a heap, his back pressed to the blood-smeared wall. His dark uniform shirt was torn open and his vest hung loosely over the top of the attending man’s hands. Battaglia’s face was speckled with cuts and drying blood.

The man looked up at Carson. His face was grim. “I’ve called for medics,” he said.

“They’re coming,” Carson said, her voice squeaking. “I passed them.” She stood frozen in the doorway, suddenly afraid to approach Battaglia any closer. What if he were-

“That’s for the fire alarm, which is a diversion,” the man said. “They might not know about the gunshot victim. You should go guide the medics in so they can treat this officer.”

Carson didn’t move.

“Officer?” the man repeated.

Carson shook her head. “You go,” she said, finally stepping forward. “I’m staying with him.”

The man gave her a hard look and opened his mouth. “All right,” he said. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed her wrist. Carson started at the suddenness of the motion, but his grip was firm. He drew her downward. “Press here,” he said, forcing her hand against Battaglia’s abdomen. Warm blood seeped through her fingers.

“The bullet went through the vest,” the man told her.

No. Oh, no.

“Harder,” he barked.

Carson put her other hand on top and pressed hard with both hands. Battaglia moaned in pain.

“I’ll bring in medics,” the man said. He left her alone with a dying Anthony Battaglia.

2213 hours

“Adam-112, go ahead.”

Another shot flashed out from the rear of the Mercedes. Chisolm heard the loud clunk as it struck the doorpost on the passenger side of his patrol car.

He reached out and pushed the mike. “I’ve got the suspect vehicle southbound on Crestline from Rowan now,” he transmitted. “A white Mercedes with at least three occupants.”

Instinctively he tapped the brake and jerked the car to the right. At almost the same moment another shot rang out from the back of the Mercedes. He had no idea where the bullet went.

Chisolm pushed the button again. “They’re firing out of the rear of the vehicle.”

“Copy, Adam-112.”

Another mishmash of transmissions filled the airwaves.

“Goddammit,” Chisolm yelled. “Stay off the air!”

He veered left and accelerated. He was going to end this right now.

Carson stared at Battaglia’s bloody face. His eyelids fluttered open. He didn’t seem to recognize her. He moved his lips, but no sound came out.

She leaned closer. Her hands were warm and slick with Battaglia’s blood.

“What is it?” she asked, her eyes misting over.

She heard a weak rumble in his throat. He drew a wet, gurgling breath. Then he breathed out one word. Despite the deafening sirens that filled the air and the squawk and buzz of her own portable radio, she heard him clearly.

He said, “Rebecca.”

“Ivan! Shoot him with the shotgun!” Val ordered.

Black Ivan leaned between the front seats and extended the barrel of the shotgun past Val. Val leaned toward the side window, pulling Sergey’s limp form with him.

The loud boom of the shotgun filled the car’s interior. Flame extended out of the barrel. Yuri jerked, causing the vehicle to whiplash from side to side.

Behind them, the police car dropped back half a block, out of the effective range of the shotgun. This one was smart.

“Go to the warehouse,” he ordered Yuri.

Yuri swung a left on Wellesley and accelerated. The rotating blue and red lights kept pace.

“Soon there will be more police,” Val said. “Maybe even a helicopter. We need to switch cars.”

Carson stared into Battaglia’s eyes. His face was ashen, his expression almost childlike. Carson’s vision blurred as she blinked away tears.

O’Sullivan burst into the room behind her. “Batts!” he shouted. Carson looked up at him.

“Oh, no!” he yelled. “Oh, fuck, no!”

Sully fell to his knees beside Carson. His hands searched for injuries, brushing hers aside. “I got you, buddy,” he told Battaglia. “You’re going to be fine. Just hang tight for a little while. Medics are coming and they’re gonna fix you up.”

Battaglia turned his gaze to Sully. Carson watched the recognition come into his eyes. The beginnings of a wry smile touched the corners of Battaglia’s mouth, then dropped away. He mouthed something.

“Don’t talk,” Sully said. “Just hang in there.”

Battaglia shook his head slightly and moved his lips again.

Sully looked at Carson. “Go bring in medics,” he ordered.

She didn’t move. Instead she opened her mouth to tell him that the guy in the white shirt was already doing that. But Sully cut her off.

“Now!” he shouted. There was no room for compromise in his voice. Carson rose slowly to her feet. Sully turned his attention back to Battaglia. “Hang on,” Sully told him.

Battaglia’s wet, rasping words drifted up to Carson.

“Rebecca,” he said, his words coming out as a moan.

“You’ll see her soon,” Sully told him. “I’ll call her on the way to the hospital.”

“Tell her…” Battaglia started to say, then he closed his eyes and grimaced.

“I don’t need to tell her anything,” Sully assured him. “You can tell her yourself in a little while, okay? It’s going to be fine.”

Battaglia opened his eyes again. His expression grew more panicked. He raised his hand clumsily and beckoned Sully toward him. Sully leaned in.

Battaglia whispered something Carson couldn’t hear.

Sully pulled his head back. “No, no, no. None of that, goombah,” Sully said. His voice sounded strained. “You hang in there. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Battaglia’s eyes flicked up to Carson, then back to Sully. He opened his mouth again, but his eyes glazed over in pain and rolled back in his head. He took a deep, wavering breath that never came out.

“No,” Sully whispered. “No, no, no, no!”

Carson stood frozen next to him.

“Don’t you leave me, Batts,” Sully croaked. “Don’t you dare leave me, you fucking guinea bastard.”

Battaglia remained still.

“Goddamn it, Batts,” Sully sobbed. “Don’t you leave me!”

Carson watched him lower his forehead to Battaglia’s. Tears rolled out of Sully’s eyes and splashed onto Battaglia’s face, streaking the blood.

Next came a rush of heavy footsteps as firemen and medics burst through the door and brushed her aside.

“Let us in!” one of them ordered Sully. “Get out of the way!”

A crowd formed around the fallen officer, milling frantically in an effort to save him. Sully’s wailing voice mingled with the short, chopping exchanges of the medics as they worked on Battaglia. Carson stood back, transfixed. Then, slowly, she lowered her gaze to her own bloody hands.

2214 hours

Yuri pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse. The police car was half a block behind them.

“Pull right up to the door!” Val ordered.

He looked down at Sergey. He sought a pulse in the man’s throat, but there was nothing.

Sergey was dead.

The car screeched to a halt.

“Get the door!” Val yelled. He turned to Black Ivan. “Get out and cover us!”

Both men exited the car. Val used his shirttail to wipe down the handle and trigger guard of the.44 Magnum, just in case. Then he pulled Sergey up into a sitting position, put the gun in his hand, and wrapped his left hand around it. He squeezed Sergey’s finger on the trigger, sending a shot in the general direction of the pursuing patrol car.

He fired again. Then he dropped Sergey’s hand, which still clutched the heavy weapon. Now Sergey had the gun that killed Oleg and the policeman.

He scrambled out of the door and ran for the warehouse.

Chisolm slammed on his brakes as the shots exploded out of the rear of the Mercedes and struck his patrol car with a plinking sound. He jammed the transmission into park and flung open his door.

A lone figure bolted from the Mercedes and ran for the warehouse. A smaller man stood holding open a door. A third, hulking form stood with a shotgun pointed in Chisolm’s direction.

Chisolm drew his Glock.

The man with the shotgun fired. The spattering of buckshot ripped into the front of Chisolm’s car. The shotgun wasn’t nearly so devastating at this range.

Chisolm level his handgun and squeezed off three quick rounds. The large man ducked down, but the other two disappeared inside the warehouse. A moment later the big man popped up and cranked off another booming blast from his shotgun.

Chisolm ducked and heard the pellets biting into the car. He might be on the outside of the shotgun’s effective range, but that didn’t mean those pellets couldn’t do some serious damage.

A quick glance told him that the big man was holding his ground. He reached inside the car and depressed the microphone, shouting out his number and current location. He should have backup within thirty seconds. Until then-

Another shot tore into Chisolm’s car. One projectile whizzed past his foot along the asphalt.

Chisolm rolled out from behind the doorpost. He cranked off two shots, paused, then fired two more. Just as he was about to roll back into cover, the suspect popped his head up with the shotgun. Chisolm fired as rapidly as he could, peppering the target area with lead.

After eight shots his slide locked to the rear. Smoke billowed out of the barrel and the ejection port. Empty.

Chisolm ducked down and reached for his magazine pouch, dropping the spent mag from his pistol while he pulled out a fresh one. He rammed the magazine into the well, which popped the slide loose. It snapped forward and chambered a round.

Chisolm peeked over the top of the dashboard. No movement. He scanned the area for any sign of the suspect. When he saw none, he turned and crouch-walked to the rear of the patrol car. Using the cruiser for cover, he worked his way around to the far side and looked cautiously around the corner.

The large man lay sprawled out on his back several feet from the Mercedes. The shotgun sat harmlessly on the ground an arm’s length away.

Dead? Chisolm wondered. Or trying to draw me in?

The smart money was to wait for backup. Get the warehouse contained. Call in SWAT. Get the hostage negotiators out here to try to talk them out. Or gas the living shit out of the place and force them out. All better options than going forward from his position now.

Chisolm didn’t hesitate. He worked his way back to the driver’s side, got behind the wheel, and rolled his cruiser forward. Steam rose from the engine. The temperature gauge was pinned. When he got within ten feet of the Mercedes he killed the engine.

Chisolm moved tactically to a position of advantage behind his cruiser. At this distance he could see the dark wetness on the pavement beside the man’s chest. Chisolm took a deep breath and let it out. One down.

He worked his way back to the driver’s side. His radio was full of frantic cross-traffic. He hunkered down beside his driver’s doorpost and considered his situation again. Maybe the best thing to do was to hold his ground. The suspects might escape out the back, but going in after them was way too dangerous.

Chisolm reached for the radio to direct units into the area to set a perimeter. What he heard stopped him cold.

“Medics will be transporting Officer Battaglia to Holy Family Hospital,” a broken voice that he barely recognized as Sully’s transmitted. “I need officers to block intersections along the route.”

“Copy,” replied the dispatcher.

“Update his condition,” Lieutenant Saylor directed over the clear air.

There was a short pause, then Sully came over the air briefly. “Probably DOA.”

Chisolm holstered his pistol. Instead of reaching for the radio, he hit the button for the shotgun release.

2215 hours

Val ran through the dim light of the warehouse, nearly slipping in a small puddle. The slender Yuri scampered ahead of him like a rabbit.

He wished he’d had the foresight to bring a second gun. He’d heard gunshots being exchanged between Black Ivan and the cop outside, but now it was silent. If Ivan had won that battle, he’d already be joining them inside the warehouse. So the cop must have killed Ivan. That meant he was coming for them.

Yuri reached the far side of the warehouse and opened the door, but the small room was even darker inside.

“Wait!” Val shouted.

Yuri pulled up short. Val could see his outline in the darkness as he turned back toward him.

“Give me your pistol,” he ordered, holding out his hand. “I’ll hold off the police while you get the car ready.”

Yuri didn’t hesitate. He held out the butt end of his black 9 mm. Val took it, racked the slide, and rested his thumb on the safety. Yuri disappeared into the dark room. A moment later the outer door popped open and swung wide. Light from a streetlamp flooded in, haloing Yuri as he passed through the door.

Val looked away, searching the interior of the warehouse for the far door that he’d come through. The streetlight had taken away his night vision, so the best he could make out was a guess at the general location. He held the pistol loosely in his hand and waited.

Chisolm racked the shotgun to chamber a round. Then he made his way toward the door that he’d seen the other two suspects run through.

This is the stupidest thing you’ve done outside of Vietnam, he told himself.

He shook his head. He needed to focus. If they were waiting inside the doorway to ambush him, he was toast. He needed to get inside and buttonhook out of the fatal funnel, then move to some kind of cover.

His mind flashed back to a summer night several years ago when he tracked the Scarface robber’s blood trail through a field. He remembered the hatred in his heart as he followed the man who’d killed Officer Karl Winter and wounded Officer Stefan Kopriva.

Now one of these bastards had killed Battaglia. Maybe it had been the one with the shotgun, but it might’ve been one of the two who’d run into the warehouse.

Thomas Chisolm wasn’t taking any chances.

There would be no mercy.

Val heard Yuri pulling the tarp off the car behind the warehouse. A moment later a car door opened and the engine rumbled to life. Val smiled.

The door swung open across the warehouse. A shadow flitted through and disappeared into the surrounding darkness.

Val raised his gun and fired.

Chisolm ducked behind a half-filled pallet of boxes as the shots rang out. Rounds skipped across the pavement near him, but none hit him. He recognized the sound as a small caliber handgun. Probably shooting at a distance, maybe even from across the warehouse. Which made his shotgun less effective.

Chisolm waited a moment, then rose to a half crouch and fired in the general direction of the shooter. He knew it wasn’t the best tactic. For one thing, it gave his position away. But he wanted the son of a bitch to know he shot back.

Where was the second gunman? Chisolm dropped into a low crouch and shuffled around to the far side of the pallet. He waited and listened. He heard the faint sound of a car door close. Tires chirped and an engine raced.

Then it was silent.

“Drive quickly,” Val ordered, “but not too fast.”

Yuri nodded, steering the car out of the alley behind the warehouse and onto the main road. Val could hear the approaching sirens.

“Go that way,” he directed, pointing in the opposite direction from their arrival. “I don’t want to pass police cars on their way in. They may not be looking for this car, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

Yuri accelerated away from the warehouse.

Val looked over his shoulder. In the distance he saw flashing lights, but all of them clustered toward the warehouse. He smiled and turned forward.

“Police,” Yuri said, nodding ahead of them.

A single patrol car hurtled toward them, lights flashing and siren blaring.

Val’s smile melted. “Do as you’re supposed to,” he said. “Pull to the side and let him pass.”

Yuri’s face darkened for a moment, but he obeyed. He pulled the car to the side of the road and stopped. The two men sat in stony silence as the police car approached at Mach 2.

“If he stops, you go,” Val said simply.

Yuri nodded.

Val curled his hand around the pistol and waited.

The car flew past them toward the warehouse.

It was Yuri’s turn to smile. He looked at Val and raised his eyebrows. “We go?”

Val nodded.

It was done.

2216 hours

Chisolm stood at the rear of the warehouse, staring down at the car tarp on the ground.

Son of a bitch. They were gone.

He clenched his jaw and walked back through the warehouse. As he came through the front door, several patrol cars screeched to a halt in the parking lot. Chisolm held up four fingers, indicating that the situation was Code Four, under control.

Except it really wasn’t. Two of the shooters had gotten away.

Chisolm glanced down at the large man with the shotgun. The chest wound had continued to bleed, creating a large dark pool around his left side. Chisolm moved to the car and looked inside.

He saw another suspect lying on the back seat with a large revolver in his right hand.

Chisolm raised the shotgun. “Don’t move!” he yelled.

There was no reaction. Chisolm kept the barrel of the shotgun trained on the figure. Kahn and Hiero ran toward him with weapons drawn.

“I think he’s DOA,” Chisolm said. “But I’m not sure.”

Hiero crept up to the opposite side of the car and peeked in through the rear window. Then he lowered his pistol. “Head shot,” he explained. “This one’s dead.”

“Nice job, Tom,” Kahn said. The admiration in his voice was sincere, but Chisolm shook his head.

“Two of them got away,” he said. “It’s all shit.”