The Death Sculptor

One Hundred and Nine

Dusk had taken over Los Angeles and the wind had picked up considerably by the time they reached Pomona. The house in question was at the end of an isolated road, in a quiet neighborhood. SWAT, together with Garcia and two other police cars, parked at the top of the road and went the rest of the way on foot. At the moment their most powerful weapon was the surprise factor. The last thing they wanted to do was to give away that advantage by alerting the house occupants to their presence.

On their way to Pomona, Jack Fallon had laid out their assault plan to the three SWAT teams. One team was to enter the house through the back, via the kitchen; one would burst through the front entrance; and the third team would enter through the veranda doors that led to the main bedroom at the left side of the house. LAPD would provide cover from the outside, in case Ken Sands tried to escape through a window.

The detective who’d been observing the house had nothing new to report. All the windows and curtains were shut. They’d been shut all day, which made further reconnaissance impossible. No one had left or entered the house in the past two hours.

There was no sign of Hunter. Garcia had tried calling him twice since they left the PAB but had got no reply.

‘Status check.’ Fallon’s voice came through loud and clear in Garcia’s earpiece.

‘Team Alpha in position,’ came the immediate reply from the first team. ‘But we’re blind. There’s some sort of obstruction under the door. No way of pushing the fiberscope camera in. We’ve got no eyes inside.’

‘Team Beta in position,’ the second team responded. ‘And we’re as blind as a bat as well. No visual.’

The same obstruction had been placed under every door. ‘OK, we’re gonna have to rock and roll blind,’ Captain Fallon said. ‘Are the LAPD in position?’

‘We’re all set,’ Garcia replied, after a quick radio check, his eyes scanning the area for his partner – no Hunter. ‘Search warrant has been granted. We’ve got a green light. Are you sure you want to go in with no eyes?’

Five silent, tense seconds flew by.

‘We have no other option, unless you wanna knock on the door and smile.’

No reply from Garcia.

‘I thought not. OK, all teams, nothing but your “A” game. Let’s stick to the plan. We still have surprise on our side. Check every corner, you hear?’

‘Roger that.’

‘Alpha, Beta, on my one-count: three . . . two . . . one.’

All three teams were carrying breaching shotguns, which provided a noisier, but much faster, entry to most secure households than enforcer rams.

Garcia heard five loud blasts in quick succession, and then all hell broke loose.

All three teams entered the house almost simultaneously. Lewis Robinson and agent Antonio Toro were team Alpha. They were at the rear.

The back door led directly into the kitchen. Toro blew the locks off the door with the breaching shotgun. A fraction of a second later Robinson kicked the door in and blasted through into the house. He was immediately faced with a big, brawny man who had been sitting at a square table in the center of the room. He had a mountain of small plastic packets filled with white powder in front of him, and an Uzi submachine gun by his side. The door blast caught him completely by surprise, but despite being initially startled, he was already halfway off his seat. He had already scooped up the Uzi and its muzzle was on its way up, searching for targets. His fat finger solidly hugging the trigger.

‘Qij ju,’ he yelled in Albanian, as he saw the first figure in black come through the door. There was no way he would go quietly, and surrender was simply not in his vocabulary.

Robinson was about to yell at him to put down his weapon, but he recognized the threat straight away. The Albanian’s eyes were full of anger and determination.

Shoot or get shot.

Without hesitation, Robinson squeezed the trigger of his Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. It coughed twice. With a sound-suppressor and subsonic ammunition, the noise was no louder than a baby’s sneeze. Both shots hit the Albanian directly in the chest. He stumbled backwards, blood spurting from his wound, and quickly coloring his white T-shirt. The muscle spasms that took over his entire body made his face contort with pain, and his finger tightened on the Uzi’s trigger. A blast of uncontrolled gunfire spit out of the Uzi’s muzzle, violently smashing against the wall and the ceiling behind and above Robinson and Toro’s heads. One of the bullets missed Toro’s forehead by just a few millimeters.

The SWAT agents had carefully studied Ken Sands’s photograph on their way to Pomona. Despite his long hair and beard, they were each certain they’d be able to identify him in the house.

The man in the kitchen wasn’t him.