The Crossing

45

Bosch quickly pushed the button on the doorknob, locking it, then reached over and flicked off the office’s overhead light. He moved quickly back toward the desk, pulling his weapon out of the holster on his hip.

Schubert stood up from his chair and his eyes grew wider with every step Bosch took toward him.

“They’re here,” Bosch whispered. “They must’ve followed me or they were watching you and waiting.”

“For what?”

“For me to make the connection.”

Bosch pointed to a door to the left of the desk.

“Where does that go?” he asked.

“It’s just a bathroom,” Schubert said.

“Is there a window?”

“Yes, but it’s small and it’s a twenty-foot drop.”

“Shit.”

Bosch turned around and surveyed the room, trying to come up with a plan. He knew that going out into the hall would be a mistake. They’d be open targets. They were going to have to make their stand right where they were.

He turned back and grabbed the corded phone off the desk. He knew calling on the landline would automatically deliver the building’s address to the 911 operator. It would speed the response.

“How do I get an outside line?” he asked quickly.

Schubert reached over and hit a button on the bottom of the phone base. Bosch heard the dial tone and punched in 9-1-1. He then pointed toward the office window.

“Close the curtain, make it dark.”

The call to 911 started ringing. Schubert did as instructed, hitting a button on the wall next to the window. A curtain started automatically moving across the ceiling track. Bosch kept his eyes on the office door.

“Come on, come on, come on, pick up,” he said.

Once the curtain closed off direct light, the room dropped into shadow. Bosch then pointed at the bathroom door.

“Go in there,” he commanded. “Lock the door and stay low.”

Schubert didn’t move.

“You dialed nine-one-one,” he said. “Can’t you just call for backup?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a cop. Now go in there.”

Schubert looked puzzled.

“I thought—”

“I said GO!”

There was nothing whispered about the command this time. It propelled Schubert backwards toward the bathroom door. He went inside and closed the door. Bosch heard the click of the lock. He knew it wouldn’t stop Ellis and Long if it came to that. But it might buy a few more seconds.

The 911 operator finally answered and Bosch spoke in a loud and exaggeratedly panicked voice. He wanted Ellis and Long to know he was calling for help. They were probably in the hallway outside at that moment and Bosch thought there was a chance they would retreat if they heard him making the call.

“Yes, hello, I need help. There are two armed men in my office and they’re going to kill everybody,” he said loudly. “Their names are Ellis and Long, Ellis and Long, and they came here to kill us.”

“Hold on, sir,” the operator said. “Your location is fifteen-fifteen West Third Street?”

“Yes, that’s it. Hurry!”

“What is your name, sir?”

“What does that matter? Just send help.”

“I need your name, sir.”

“Harry Bosch.”

“Okay, sir, we are sending help. Please stay on the line for me.”

Bosch moved directly behind the desk. He put the phone in the crook of his neck and used his thigh and his free hand to lift the edge of the desk and tip it over on its side, its aluminum top now a barricade facing the door. Everything on the desk, including the desk phone, his own phone, and the cup full of pens slid off and loudly crashed to the floor. The phone’s handset was yanked from his neck when the cord reached its maximum extension. Bosch knew there was no time to go back around to retrieve it. He had to hope the call wasn’t disconnected and that the operator didn’t decide it was a prank.

Bosch crouched down behind the barricade. He knocked a fist on the underside of the desktop and felt and heard wood. The double layer of wood and metal might actually stop bullets — if he was lucky.

He squatted down further behind the blind and pointed his Glock at the door. He had brought the gun as part of the show to trick Schubert into believing he was a cop. Now it might be the only thing that kept them alive. The gun was maxed with thirteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. He hoped it would be enough.

He heard a slight metallic sound from the far side of the room and knew Ellis and Long were outside the door and trying the knob. They were about to come in. Bosch realized at that very moment that he was in the wrong spot. He was positioned dead center in the room exactly where they would expect him to be.