“Nicholas is already in the garage following the guy to see where he parks. I’m going in now.”
Her text dinged.
B3
Zachery laughed. “Why am I not surprised? Keep in touch. And Michaela? No more shootings.”
Crap, so he knew about Brooklyn and Mr. Wounded Knee. Mike punched off and started running.
Their black Suburban was all the way down on the third level. The elevator was her best bet. She waved her creds by the young guy at the front desk again and kept running.
He stepped from behind the desk this time, alarm on his face. “Hey, is everything okay?”
She whirled around. “Can you shut down the garage door, so no one can get in or out?”
“I can, but I don’t think the management company would be happy—”
“Do it. Do it now. We have more agents on the way. Tell them there are agents on level B-three, looking to talk to a suspect in a black Suburban.”
The elevator took only three seconds to rumble to the basement garage. She prayed it wouldn’t alert the Suburban driver.
43
KING TO F1
Nicholas leaned against the gray concrete wall. The ramp down into the basement was circular; he’d jogged behind the Suburban, careful to stay out of sight.
The driver hadn’t seen him, another bit of good luck. The big SUV went to the very back row, the farthest from the elevator. It gave Nicholas time to get down to the third floor and take up a defensive position. Mike had been only half joking when she’d made the earlier crack about the other garage shootout. That had been a close one.
Nicholas didn’t want a repeat performance. This time it was the Suburban guy who would be taken by surprise, not them.
He pulled his Glock out of the clip at his waist, heard the elevator ding a soft single note—good, no way would their Suburban guy hear it.
And out came Mike, bent at the knees, looking, looking, hand on the snap of her holster. He laid a finger to his lips when she saw him, and gestured for her to come to him. He pulled her behind a blue MINI Cooper. Not much in the way of protection, but at least it was parked next to a wall space, completely away from the line of sight to the Suburban. He hoped whoever was in the Suburban didn’t have bat ears and hear the elevator ding.
He whispered against her temple, “He parked back there. No sign of anyone yet. And no talking, so he’s probably alone.”
Mike whispered back, “Backup’s on the way. Since this is the only way out, he’ll have to pass us to get onto the elevator or walk back up. If the doorman did what I told him to, the garage door is now closed. Your call, Nicholas, wait here or storm the trenches.”
“Let’s wait, let him come to us.” But no one came. After twenty very slow seconds there was still no movement.
Mike whispered, “What could he be doing? Fixing his hair? A bit of makeup? Nicholas, I can’t stand it any longer. Let’s go see what he’s up to.”
Music to his ears. Nicholas grinned like a bandit. “Let’s do it. Careful, Mike.” They started down the row of cars, one at a time. Still, they heard nothing from the end of the row. What was he doing?
When they were two cars away, they heard a door open. Mike, in front, stopped, raised a fist. Nicholas closed in behind her.
They heard whistling, then the back lid of the Suburban opened with a clunk.
Nicholas held up three fingers. Three. Two. One.
They came in hard and fast, one on each side. Nicholas shouted, his voice echoing hard and low off the walls, “Stop, right there. FBI. Hands where I can see them.”
The man’s hands shot up. “Hey, hey, relax.”
Mike was looking in the back of the truck.
“Holy crap! Nicholas, he has an arsenal in here—weapons, grenades, radios. All right, buddy, what are you planning, some sort of siege?”
“Listen, let me explain—”