The Waiting

28

Ballard sat in the second row of folding chairs, behind Gordon Olmstead and another agent, Spencer, who was wearing an Amazon delivery uniform as cover because he was the driver of the command-post van. The van was parked on Ocean Boulevard, a block away from the parking lot displayed on the four screens attached to the inside wall.

Olmstead sat in front of a stick microphone and was in constant contact with all agents involved in the operation. Speakers mounted below the screens allowed Ballard to hear the play-by-play on the comms. The only one of the team not transmitting was Bosch. He had previously declined to wear an earpiece. His car was wired for sound but he didn’t want to speak; if he was being watched by a Dehaven confederate, it might tip him off.

At 7:25 the agents watching the caravan on the PCH where Dehaven parked his van overnight reported that Dehaven and another man were in the van and pulling into traffic. They were on their way.

Olmstead shook his head and keyed his mic. “They’re already breaking the rules,” he said. “Subject was to arrive solo. Everybody stay sharp. We are off script.”

Tension in the van ratcheted up a notch. Ballard watched the screens and saw Bosch open the door of his Cherokee.

“He’s getting out,” Ballard said. “Why’s he getting out?”

“It’s part of the plan, Renée,” Olmstead said. “Cool your jets.”

Ballard was annoyed by his tone and by the fact that she had been left out of the planning, but she knew this wasn’t the time to go to war over it. She watched as Bosch went to the back of the Cherokee and lifted the rear hatch. He was wearing an old army camo jacket that looked bulky.

“Is he wearing plates?” she asked.

“No,” Spencer said. “He refused a vest, plates, anything that would look like he might be law enforcement.”

Bosch sat on the back bumper and folded his arms across his chest. Next to him in the rear cargo space of the Cherokee were two beach bags with straps. They looked like they were filled with striped beach towels, but Olmstead explained that the towels concealed the mini machine guns, two in each bag, with ineffective firing pins.

“We wanted two bags so Dehaven would have to carry them with two hands,” he said.

Ballard nodded, knowing that the two-handed carry would hinder an effort to draw a weapon.

Minute-by-minute updates on Dehaven’s progress on the coast highway were radioed to the command post.

“He’s going to be early, people,” Olmstead said. “Be ready.”

“Is there any way to get that message to Bosch?” Ballard asked.

“Not unless we break position,” Olmstead said. “We don’t want to do that and Bosch knows to be ready for anything. Early arrival, late arrival — doesn’t matter.”

Ballard nodded. She knew that Bosch was ready. She had checked with him earlier that morning and given him every opportunity to back out of the operation, but he refused. He told her that the situation went beyond recovering her badge. He wanted to be part of the team that took Dehaven down.

At 7:46 the follow team reported that Dehaven’s van was on the California Incline and three to five minutes from the beach parking lot. The tension in Ballard’s chest tightened and she pushed her chair back and stood. It was the only way to deal with the adrenaline hit. She started shifting her weight from one foot to another, her eyes intent on the screens.

“Renée, you’re jumpy,” Olmstead said. “You need to relax. Everything is in hand.”

“I can’t relax,” Ballard said. “Not till this thing is over and he’s safe. I pulled him into this.”

She studied the screens that showed four images of Bosch from four different camera angles. He was still sitting, arms crossed, on the back bumper. He certainly seemed calm even if she wasn’t.

“I need to be down there with him,” she said.

“Too dangerous,” Olmstead said. “You can’t even get out of the van at this point. We don’t know what other eyes are out there.”

“I know, I know. Are all of these frames fixed? They’re too tight. You can’t see what’s happening in the lot.”

“Hold on.”

Olmstead made a radio call to one of the lot surveillance teams and told them to widen their camera’s angle. It was the camera on the southwest corner of the lot that offered a view over the right side of the Cherokee and Bosch’s left shoulder. The angle widened and Ballard could see the entire lot, including the roller-hockey game being played on the north end.

“That better for you?” Olmstead asked.

“Better,” Ballard said. “But you let them play hockey with this going down?”

“They play every Saturday morning. We don’t know if Dehaven knows that. We cancel it and it could be a tell. It could blow the whole operation. Nothing is going to happen here. We’re going to follow them back to the nest, remember?”

“I remember. It’s just that plans don’t always go as intended.”

Almost as soon as she said it, she saw the van she recognized as Dehaven’s drive down the ramp off Ocean and into the parking lot. Because it was so early and the lot was largely empty, the van cut across the painted lines of the parking rows, heading directly toward Bosch.

Ballard watched Harry push off the bumper and stand up to meet it.

“Here we go,” Olmstead said.

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.

30

By the time Ballard got to the parking lot, agents were already stringing yellow tape around the shooting scene, using the light poles as the corners of a huge restricted area. People, including many of the roller-hockey players, gathered at the perimeter. Ballard was attempting to lift the tape and walk under when an agent in bad-ass black commando clothes and gear stopped her. She identified herself, but he would not let her into the crime scene without permission from his superiors.

“Then call Olmstead,” she said. “Tell him Ballard wants in.”

While the agent whispered into a wire-thin microphone attached to his earpiece, Ballard massaged her shoulder, which she had landed on hard when she fell out of the van.

“He said he’s coming,” the agent said.

“When?” Ballard demanded.

“Now.”

She saw Olmstead break away from a huddle of agents near the Cherokee and head toward her.

“Why’d you jump out of the van?” he asked.

“I didn’t,” Ballard said.

“What? We got here and you were gone.”

“Whatever. Can you tell this guy to let me in?”

“You don’t want to be here, Renée. This went sideways and the media is going to be all over it. Helicopters, cameras — you don’t want to be on video.”

She knew he was right but she didn’t want to leave.

“Then I want to talk to Bosch. Send him out here.”

“He’s being debriefed.”

“I don’t care. You’ll be talking to him for hours. I just need five minutes to make sure he’s okay.”

“All right, five minutes, then you get away from here.”

He turned to walk back to the scene but then pivoted and returned to the yellow tape. “So far, no badge,” he said. “We checked the body. We still need to go through the van.”

“Fine. Let me know.”

“Will do.”

He walked away and Ballard watched as he was immediately intercepted by another agent holding a clipboard. They started discussing something and Ballard thought he was going to forget to send Bosch to her. But once he signed something on the clipboard, he went directly to the command-post van, opened the back door that Ballard had fallen through, and signaled Bosch out. Once Harry was out of the van, he was pointed to Ballard, and he headed her way.

“Harry, you okay?” Ballard asked as he approached.

“I’m okay,” he said.

“You sure? You don’t have to talk to them right now if you’re—”

“Renée, I’m okay.”

Ballard nodded. “Jesus, that was close.”

“Yeah, well... they were ready for it.”

“How’s your car?”

“It took a few shots, I think. I haven’t really checked.”

“Maybe time to get something new.”

“I just got that after the last one got shot up.”

Ballard looked up at the sound of a helicopter and saw a blue chopper banking over the beach. It said FOX in white letters on the side.

“The media’s already getting here,” she said.

“That’s SkyFox,” Bosch said. “Stu Mundel.”

“You actually know the pilots of the news choppers?”

“I know him. He’s good. I like watching those live freeway chases. Helps me go to sleep at night.”

“Harry Bosch, a man of mystery. Anyway, I shouldn’t be here, so I’m going to go. But will you call me as soon as they cut you loose? Maybe we can meet up.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I’m out,” Bosch said.

He walked up to the yellow tape and reached an arm across to hug her. Ballard was surprised by the move from the usually undemonstrative Harry Bosch but took a step forward and put her arms around him. She patted his back and felt a twinge of pain in her shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Harry,” she said.

“Me too,” he said.

They separated.

“Check your pocket when you get to your car,” Bosch said.

“Uh... okay,” Ballard said.

But she put her hands into the pockets of her jacket without waiting and her right hand closed around what she knew was her badge. She nodded.

“When you bent over him listening for breath,” she said.

Bosch nodded. “He was dead,” he said. “But I knew he had the badge around his neck when he wouldn’t let me touch his chest. I guess it’s lucky for you they didn’t put a bullet through it.”

“Yeah, lucky all right,” Ballard said. “Thanks, Harry.”

He nodded and turned back toward the crime scene. Ballard walked away, keeping her head down as the news helicopter circled above.