“This is it,” said Chi. “Ten Thirty-Five Stockton. Low-rent joint with a dry cleaner downstairs. Now, the tenant of the presumed crappy apartment is Henry Yee. Two small-time drug busts. He works in the noodle shop over here. Corner of Jackson. He’s subletting his place to these guys, sleeps at the restaurant.
“Now, rumor has it that these men are here on some kind of government business. They’re not into drugs or—”
I stopped him. “Wait. What government?”
“Chinese, I’m guessing, but no one knows,” Chi said. “My CI called last night because last week, he sees these men unloading long, heavy boxes from a black or blue SUV. He didn’t think much of it until last night.
“According to my snitch, around eight p.m. last night, one of those slick Chinese guys parks his SUV on Stockton near the corner of Jackson. The car’s got two busted headlights. And now my snitch is thinking back on those heavy loads that were taken out of the SUV last week and wonders if that stuff wasn’t artillery. My guy’s a junkie, but he’s not stupid. I tend to believe him.”
I said, “Some kind of dark vehicle smashed my front end last night. And then I backed hard into the vehicle behind me. This SUV you’re telling us about had to be one of those cars.”
Brady called Jacobi, who came downstairs and joined us. An hour later, we had a plan.
CHAPTER 67
BY FOUR-THIRTY that afternoon, three teams from Homicide and our SWAT unit were deployed discreetly around Stockton and Jackson, a neighborhood known for its traditional Chinese shops and also for its drug, gambling, and gang activity.
I took it all in from where Conklin and I waited in our parked car on Stockton.
Our focus was on a three-story beige stucco apartment building across the street from us in the middle of the block. Next to the dry cleaner Chi had referred to was a gray-painted door that led to the apartments upstairs.
SWAT SUVs bracketed the apartment building and covered the open stores, their bins of merchandise spilling out to the sidewalks teeming with shoppers and passersby. Traffic stopped and started at the intersections, delivery trucks double-parked, a school bus dropped off children, and laughing tourists came out of a restaurant.
I kept scanning the street.
I could see Lemke and Samuels of our squad, parked at the corner of Washington. Michaels and Wang, also in Homicide, were in their car at the Jackson end of Stockton, watching the noodle shop where the waiter worked.
Brady was across the street from us, leaning against the wall of a ginseng company, reading a paper.
Chi and McNeil were in plain clothes, examining the produce in the corner market across from us, when a blue BMW SUV with a long gash on one side double-parked fifty yards up the block from the apartment house with the gray-painted door.
Brady flicked his eyes toward us.
Conklin and I got out of our car and crossed the street through traffic as Chi and McNeil walked up behind the two Asian men who were heading toward the apartment building.
I was too far from Chi to hear his voice, but I knew he was introducing himself, saying he had a few questions and he’d like to see identification.
The taller of the two men smoothly pulled a gun from his waistband and got off three shots while the other man opened the door to the building. Chi grabbed at his neck and went down.
McNeil dropped behind two cars at the curb and fired on both men, who disappeared through the doorway. SWAT swarmed out of their vehicles in full tactical gear— helmets, shields, armor, and M-16s. That was when automatic gunfire sprayed down on the street from the apartments above.
In the space of a few seconds, an everyday street market scene had turned upside down into panic and utter chaos. Pedestrians shrieked and ran for cover as Brady and McNeil dragged Chi out of harm’s way.
Conklin and I kept moving, throwing open the gray door, running toward the stairs. A trail of blood drops spattered the treads leading up.
I called Wang and told him to pick up Henry Yee, the waiter who lived in the top-floor apartment. Seconds later, SWAT entered the building. The ten of us thundered up the stairs.
CHAPTER 68
CONKLIN AND I were wearing Kevlar under our jackets and had our Glocks in hand. This wasn’t much protection, but I was so pumped on adrenaline, I didn’t care.
When the top-floor hallway was packed with the SWAT force, the commander gave me a nod. Conklin and I took positions on either side of the apartment door.
I knocked and announced, screaming, “Police! Drop your weapons and come out.”
There was no answer, no sound but the pounding of my heart. We stepped aside and SWAT battered the door open and tossed two stun grenades into the room before closing the door again.
A deafening concussion knocked plaster off the ceiling, and a dozen heartbeats later, SWAT stormed the premises. I heard shouts. Automatic rifles chattered in long bursts, and then there was the sound of heavy boots as our team walked the rooms, opened doors, shouted “Clear.”
When the commander said we could do so, Conklin and I entered the small apartment.