“Let’s go to an art show,” she said and hit the gas.
Nikki felt her diaphragm cinch when she turned the corner and sped up the block. Long ago she had learned that you could calm-?talk your brain all you want, your adrenal glands pretty much had charge of the control panel. One conscious deep breath compensated for the shallow ones she had been taking, and after she took it, Nikki found that sweet spot between nerves and focus.
Ahead, a formation of cop cars rolled down the street toward her, Marr’s pincer movement in action. Coming up fast on her right, the auto body shop. Its nearest rolling garage door was still wide open. Heat braked and cranked the wheel. The Crown Vic took a hard bounce on the steep slope of the driveway and was still rocking on its suspension when she roared into the middle of the garage and screeched to a stop. The flashing of her gum ball reflected on the startled faces of the handful of men in the shop.
Nikki had already done her count by the time she was yanking the door handle. “Clock five,” she said.
“Roger five,” answered Roach in tandem.
“Police, nobody move, hands where I can see them,” she shouted, coming around her car door. She heard the backup arriving behind her but didn’t turn.
On her right, two laborers in dusty coveralls and white painter’s masks dropped the belt sanders they were using on an old LeBaron and raised their hands. Across the garage to her left, at a patio table just outside the storage room, three men rose from a card game. They looked anything but submissive.
“Watch the card players,” she said low to Roach. Then loudly, to the group, “I said hands. Now.”
It was as if her “Now” were a starting pistol. All three men scattered in different directions. In her periphery, Heat could see uniforms already patting down the two sanders. Free of that pair, she started off toward the biker dude who was running along the wall toward the front office. As she took off after him, Nikki called out, “Ochoa,” and pointed to the one breaking for the exit to the rear yard.
“On the green shirt,” said Raley, chasing the man booking it for the side door. By the time Raley finished his sentence, the guy had pulled the side door open. Heat was past the point where she could see it, but she heard a ragged chorus of “Police, freeze!” from the uniforms in Marr’s flank group who were waiting in the alley.
The biker she was chasing was all muscle and beer gut. Fast as Nikki was, he had the clear path; she had to dodge rolling tool lockers and a crushed fender. Ten feet from the office his swaying gray ponytail was the last thing she saw before the door slammed. She tried the knob but it wouldn’t turn. She heard a deadbolt thrown.
“Stand aside, Detective.” Marr, cool as can be, was behind her with two uniforms in helmets and goggles holding a battering ram.
The detective slid out of their way and the two cops swung the head of the Stinger into the lock. The ram hit with the shudder of a small explosion and the door popped wide.
“Cover,” said Heat. She started into the office with her piece drawn. Two gunshots cracked the air in the small room and a bullet embedded low in the door frame opposite her. She rotated out again, putting her back prone against the brick wall.
“You hit?” asked Marr. She shook no and closed her eyes to study her eidetic image of that brief instant. Muzzle flashes from high up. Window along the wall. But biker dude was standing on the desk. Reaching up high with his other arm. Dark square in the ceiling above him.