Hannah walked closer to the hole as the buckets were handed down to Gearhart Her shoes squeaked and her eyes were misty from the dust. She drew her lapel over her mouth to serve as a filter.
The second police officer went down, and then the third. The remaining three men removed their own MP5s from the equipment locker. They also wore service revolvers. They moved behind the truck and waited.
Hannah joined them. Only then did it hit her: The men had gone down to draw the tigers here, to this place.
She had faith in Gearhart; he'd killed a small group of the animals before. But she'd also seen what the tigers could do. And as she stood there waiting, listening to the men make their way through the fissure, she couldn't help but wonder if she'd be around to write her story in any form.
Chapter Seventy-Two
Gearhart was leading the way with the flashlight in his left hand and the MPS in his right The other two officers were carrying a bucket of tar each and their weapons. The smell of the tar was strong here. He'd be very surprised if the tigers didn't pick it up.
The fissure was low and extremely narrow. Gearhart had to walk sideways with his head bent almost into his chest, the MPS pointing ahead but riding on his hip. Gearhart hadn't anticipated that the air inside would be so cloudy with dust from the jackhammer, his movements were stop-and-start rather than fluid as rocks poked him on all sides. It was awkward for him, and claustrophobic. He was accustomed to open spaces. After moving several yards into the fissure, the sheriff felt the temperature drop. They must have just passed from under the office building. Gearhart still couldn't hear the water but the air felt thick as well as cool on the exposed skin of his face and neck.
Finally, the air cleared. The sheriff could see the tunnel ahead curving in a gentle S-shape, first to the right and then to the left The walls were rough, covered with short spike-like rocks, and the passageway was wider at the top than at the bottom. In some places it felt as if there was no bottom, really, just a wedge where the walls came together. The fissure reminded Gearhart of a muffin someone had fork-split but hadn't pulled apart.
The three men walked for several minutes without seeing or hearing anything other than rock and their own footsteps. Then, suddenly, the fissure ended as the walls came together in a V-shaped dead end. Gearhart shined the light around the wall. There was no way up, down, or to the sides.
Shit.
Gearhart motioned for the men to go back. Rather than trying to turn with the guns and buckets, the men decided to simply sidle back. Suddenly, the officer on the outside stopped. He listened for a moment, then put the bucket down and removed his mouthpiece.
"I heard something," he said quietly.
Gearhart slipped out his own mouthpiece and let it hang under his chin. "Don't move," he said to the others.
There was definitely movement behind them. Scratching sounds, like fingernails on a screen door.
How? Gearhart wondered. The only way in was through the garage. And if the cats had somehow come in that way they would have heard shouts, gunfire, something.
And then Gearhart realized what must have happened. There may have been an opening near the hole itself, one that they'd missed because it was hidden by dust One that the ultrasound hadn't read because it was outside the building. Or maybe the damn cats were clawing through the wall. Grand had said the bastards were smart The sheriff felt like he did whenever a Hanoi Two-Fuck had been triggered: as if there was nothing to do but wait.
There was no way out and, worse, they had the tar. The cats had to smell it Because of the way the officers were positioned-one man behind the other-only the outermost officer would be able to fire. If the first tiger didn't go down right away, it could still get one or more of them. Then the others would be able to finish them off.
To hell with this, Gearhart decided.
"Captain!"
"Sheriff?" came the distant reply.
"We're backed into a dead end and the cats are near the opening!" Gearhart shouted.
"Fuck!" Mclver shouted. "Sit tight! We'r-
Mclver fell silent.
"Captain!" Gearhart yelled.
"Something's going on," Mclver shouted down.
Gearhart listened as the scratching came closer. The two officers looked back at him. He wished he could switch places with them, take point. But there wasn't enough room to get around them. He pulled off his gloves. He wanted to feel the metal of the weapon, the gentle kick, if he had to use it.
And then Gearhart heard something he wasn't expecting.
Gunfire. In the garage.
Chapter Seventy-Three
A crowd of nearly twenty reporters had run after the LAPD truck. The group was cut off by police and forced away from Wilshire. None of the reporters believed the police when they said they had no idea what the Anti-Terrorist unit was doing in the garage. The situation did not improve when the small National Guard convoy from the Hollywood Hills rolled down Curson.
Of all the press people only the Wall managed to get to the Wilshire Courtyard. He had crossed Curson after the police truck left and hid behind the pedestaled bust of Miracle Mile founder and developer A. W. Ross. While he was there, the Wall phoned Grand and told him exactly where Hannah had gone. Then, as the police were busy moving everyone else back to the museum entrance, the Wall was able to sneak across Wilshire.
The photographer went to the garage entrance. There was a security camera on the left, right beside the electrical closet. As the Wall walked down the ramp to the guard gate in the center of the two-lane road, the security officer stepped out to stop him.
"I'm going to lose my job if I don't get down there," the Wall lied.
"So will I, if you do," the security officer told him.
Just then the National Guard vehicles arrived. The four Jeeps swung through the entranceway and down to the gate.
Mindar was sitting in the back of the first Jeep with Grand. "Open up!" he yelled, rising in the seat. The other Jeeps lined up behind the officer's vehicle, their engines growling.
"Lieutenant, the police captain told me-"
"Now," Mindar said.
The guard ducked back into the booth to raise the black-and-white-striped bar. As he did, Grand yelled over to the Wall.
"There was an electrical closet back at the entrance," Grand said.
"I saw it-"
"Get in there and crank up the emergency lights," Grand said. "Do anything you can to make it bright down there."
"Will do," he said.
As the photographer relayed Grand's instructions to the guard, the convoy charged down the ramp.
Grand was no longer feeling disconnected. He could feel the cats, the sense of danger, the impending confrontation. In the midst of it all, he could also feel Hannah. There was nothing mystical about that. She was brave, she was impetuous, and she was someone he cared about very much. His jaw was locked, his fists were hard, and the muscles of his arm were coiled tight. The Jeep couldn't get down the ramp fast enough.
As the convoy approached P3, they were greeted by a thin fog of dust. When Grand saw Hannah and the other officers crouching behind the flatbed truck, he leaped from the still-moving Jeep and ran over.
"Jim!" Hannah cried in a loud whisper.
He crouched behind her as one of the policemen, a captain, was telling whoever was in the hole to sit tight.
"What's happening?" Grand asked Hannah.
"We think the tigers came in through a side cavern and they may have Gearhart and two men pinned."
Grand didn't wait to hear more. Still squatting, he stepped around Hannah. "Captain, let me have your pistol."