Gearhart bent back over the map as the truck crossed Wilshire and headed south. He was pointing to a small square on the grid. "W-17 intersects the underground stream that starts up in the Hills. It looks like the only secure spot we can tap into."
His companion, a captain, pointed to the map. "We've got these other tributaries-"
"I know," Grand said. "If we don't stop all the cats at W-17, they'll probably continue along the main stream and come out here," he pointed to a square seven blocks away, "at a construction site at the corner of Western and Olympic."
"They can do a lot of damage doubling back from there to the tar pits," the captain pointed out.
"Exactly. So we lure the cats into the garage and pin them down. It should be a skeet shoot."
Captain Mclver nodded. "I'm with you."
"Good," Gearhart said. He turned and glared at Hannah. "You want this story?"
"You know I do." She pulled her microcassette recorder from a back pocket.
"No moneybags to hide behind, no safe and comfortable press conferences where you can push people around."
"That's not me and you damn well know it," Hannah, said.
"I don't know it."
"I'd rather be in the field covering a story," she told him.
"Fine." Gearhart came closer to her.
"I didn't come to Los Angeles for glory or to win allies. I came here to finish what I started. To protect people. I don't want any bleeding-heart bullshit from you. I didn't come here to carry out Jim Grand's agenda. There's no time to get tranquilizer darts. The cats are to me what I am to them: prey. Got that?"
"In quotes," she replied.
Gearhart backed away and Hannah looked into his eyes. They were more intense than she'd ever seen them. As they swung into the entrance to the Wilshire Courtyard office complex, she didn't doubt what he'd said. He was back to save Los Angeles, to do it in a way his old bosses could not. There was nothing wrong with that, but to call it civil service wasn't exactly right. It was also payback.
Still, for now, she'd let him have this his way.
The truck turned down the long, gently sloping ramp into the yellow-lit darkness. The driver stopped to give the night watchman the emergency order that would allow them to do what had to be done. The guard was instructed to let no one else down without first checking with Captain Mclver, and not to bother checking if they were reporters.
Only as they continued down, toward level P3, and one of the officers opened the first of the four equipment chests did Hannah begin to realize that she was in this not with Jim Grand, a man who understood his quarry, but with Malcolm Gearhart, a man who understood firepower.
She wondered if that would be enough.
Chapter Seventy-One
While the Anti-Terrorist team had been driving from the museum, the communications officer in the passenger's seat had used the dashboard computer to access the blueprints for the six-story redbrick office complex. It indicated that the foundation had been poured twenty yards north of a "stable thrust." That was the stationary side of a rift created when the ground to the south had pulled away at some time in the past. Though earthquakes had rent the ground since then, and the foundation had to be patched several times, the integrity of the building itself had been unaffected. However, building records indicated that several large cracks had split from the main fissure. Gearhart told Hannah he hoped they'd be large enough for the men-and the cats-to enter.
True to his word, the sheriff was tolerating, even cooperating with Hannah. She couldn't help but wonder if his changed attitude had to do with wanting his story told at home or the fact that Gearhart perceived her as being tight with Jim Grand. It could be a control thing. Or maybe, she thought, it was something else: vulnerability. Like a knight going into battle, maybe it made him feel better having a lady's colors on his lance.
That plus the tiger's tail, she thought with a flash of disgust. It was funny how both Gearhart and Grand were warriors, yet they were so, so different.
The truck rattled over a large drain grate. Reaching a spot in the corner of the lowest section of the garage, Gearhart and three other officers began unloading MP5s-heavy duty automatics. Meanwhile, the gray-haired Captain Mclver handed his com-officer a portable ultrasound unit. The beam-forming unit, which was used in detecting solid masses like bombs and rifles in luggage, vehicles, or buildings, looked like a large oxygen tank with a metal-detector-style arm attached to the top and a coaxial cable running from the bottom. The cable ran to a small color-TV monitor mounted in one of the equipment chests. The com-officer held the arm in front of him, positioning its flat "hand" a few inches above the concrete and slowly running it back and forth over the ground. Thick lines began to slash across the monitor, rilling it in from top to bottom as it built a picture of the subsurface geology.
After several minutes, he found what looked like a fissure. It started close to the foundation of the building and almost certainly to the main fissure. He concentrated on mapping the small section so they'd know just where to go through the floor.
Once the weapons were unloaded, one of the police officers removed a jackhammer from the locker while two officers plus Gearhart began breaking out the tactical gear they'd need: high-intensity flashlights; "Scott packs," small, self-contained breathing apparatuses with two one-hour bottles of air; a hundred-foot, half-inch nylon life-line which would be strung between the men; heavy electrical gloves in case any underground cables were broken during the ingress; and protective blue "Fritz" hats which were modeled after German army helmets from the 1940s. In the meantime the driver of the truck filled three buckets of tar from a spigot in the side of one of the barrels. Hannah asked the driver what the plan was. He said it was down and dirty: to go as far as possible into the fissure, pour the tar, and wait here for the animals to emerge.
The ultrasound picture was ready in five minutes. It showed a three-foot-wide crack under the floor near the southern wall of the garage. According to the blueprints the concrete was four inches thick. The officer with the jack-hammer began punching through. One of the men explained to Hannah that they needed to make an opening large enough for the biggest man and his equipment to fit through easily. That was not so much for ingress as for a quick retreat if it became necessary.
The sound was so crashing-loud it almost seemed solid. Hannah covered her ears, then stepped well away as a cloud of white dust filled the large garage. It turned the police officers, the side of the truck, and the few cars in the vicinity into ghostly, ashen images.
The living looked dead and the dead had come alive. Hannah was starting to feel a little like Gearhart did back at the beach. She couldn't decide whether to write this story as news or myth.
The officer with the jackhammer slowly circled the spot he was working on, pounding away at the lip. Chunks broke off and fell into the fissure below. Eventually, a jagged hole opened up that was nearly four feet across. When the officer was finished, Gearhart made sure the mouthpiece of his Scott pack was securely in place, men he moved forward. The sheriff lay on his chest at the edge of the hole, shined a flashlight down, and moved it around. The beam created what looked like a white starburst above the hole, its glow illuminating countless particles of dust. A few moments later Gearhart nodded to the two men who were waiting. The sheriff slid into the opening as the officers came over carrying the tar buckets and their automatic weapons.
Small pieces of concrete fell in as Gearhart dropped down. His weapon and belt scratched against the ragged opening. After all the jackhammering, every sound seemed like the treble was turned way up.