“Be about a minute more than we got,” Lynch said.
Lynch hit the ground and rolled to the back of the Buick, watching the floor on that side, looking for legs, looking for the two guys who’d moved in toward the wall. Bernstein wedged himself as far under the front end as he could, watching the right for the other two shooters.
Another burst, from the left this time, glass from the windows dropping on Lynch.
Lynch saw a foot, aimed, fired. Someone screaming in Spanish.
Another burst, the bad guys learning their lesson, somebody on Lynch’s side had laid his gun flat on the floor and pulled the trigger, rounds zipping along the floor, popping noise and then a long, fading hiss from the rear tire on the other side of the car.
“Son of a bitch,” Lynch grunted. One round had skipped up, ripped a bloody line down the outside of his right thigh.
Hardin covered the stairway down to four while Wilson looked through the narrow, wire-meshed window out into the fifth floor of the garage.
“Got a couple cops pinned down by a Crown Vic in the middle lane. A guy named Lynch and another guy.”
“You know them?” Hardin asked.
“Know him a little,” she said. A pause. “We leave, they die.”
Hardin closed his eyes a minute, swallowed, then nodded. They were who they were and they had done what they’d done, but Wilson had been a cop for a decade now, a good one. Hardin knew she couldn’t walk away from this and live with it. Truth be told, neither could he.
“OK,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Wilson nodded, looked back out the window. “Crown Vic is the cops. Got a white sedan on the far side, four shooters, looks like three with subs and a handgun.”
A single shot from the cops’ position, one of the bad guys gave out a yell, hopped into the line of cars across the center aisle, another bad guy following him. The other two moved between the cars on the near side, toward Hardin and Wilson. One of them straightened up, put a burst on the Buick, then a single shot from the cops, more cursing in Spanish, on their side this time. Then a burst from across the aisle.
“We take the two on our side first,” Wilson said.
Hardin nodded.
“Ready?”
He nodded again.
Hardin grabbed the door handle. It would open from Wilson’s side. She stood back a step, her S&W steady, waiting for a line. Hardin pulled the door back slowly, felt a weight pushing it. Al Din’s body fell into the stairwell, shot to hell.
Wilson went through the door, hugging the wall, working for an angle. Hardin came out behind her.
One of the shooters on the far side shouted something in Spanish, turned toward Hardin and Wilson, fired a round that splattered into the concrete wall between them. Hardin knew better than to rush. You got shot, you didn’t get shot, not much you could do about that. But if you kept your shit together, aimed, you’d at least hit what you were shooting at. Nothing fancy, center mass. Hardin fired, drilling the guy just below the solar plexus, dropped him in his tracks.
A guy with an MP5 popped up two cars in front of them, firing wild, the first rounds hitting into the back quarter of a minivan, just right of Wilson, the guy trying to adjust, swinging the gun her way, his finger still locked on the trigger, the glass in the minivan busting out as the bullets tracked toward her. Wilson didn’t even flinch, just aimed and put her first shot into the middle of his face. Two down.
Lynch and Bernstein heard the new shooting on their left. Bernstein saw the shooter on the far side catch a round in the gut and go down.
“Cavalry’s here,” he said.
“But who are they?” answered Lynch.
“You care?”
“Nope.”
Lynch looked ahead under the car. “Can’t pick a target on this side. Let’s light up the other fucker over your way, at least keep him out of the game.”
Bernstein nodded; they both rose, squatting at the hood, firing right. Lynch’s leg tried to buckle on him, so he leaned into the car, keeping the weight on his good side.
The other shooter on Wilson’s side popped up, right along the wall, his short burst just missing her, slamming into the windshield of the minivan. Wilson hit the floor, spun, looking for his legs.
Hardin heard the burst, saw Wilson drop, didn’t know whether she’d been hit or not. Brought both guns to bear on the guy by the wall just as the guy saw Hardin. Hardin put six shots into the guy’s chest just as the guy pulled the trigger on him. The guy dropped, Hardin felt his left arm yank back, lost the pistol in that hand, then felt the burn. Caught at least one round high up, close to the shoulder.
“I’m OK,” Wilson called.
Hardin twisted, looked across the aisle. Should be one more shooter over there. He saw the first guy he’d hit, gut shot guy, rolling toward the aisle, reaching for his weapon. Hardin lined him up and put two in his brain pan, saw the last guy coming out. Hardin fired again, three rounds hitting the target high center mass before the slide locked back. Empty.
Hardin went to reach for his spare magazine with his left hand, but his left arm wasn’t working. Felt more pain then. Hardin dropped the empty pistol from his right, squatted down, picked up the one he’d lost when he got hit. Didn’t know what he had left in that one.
Nobody was shooting, nobody was moving.
Wilson was back up, gun out, swiveling. “That everybody?”
“Yeah.”
She saw his arm. “You OK?”
“Will be,” he said.
From below, they heard sirens, lots of them. Sounded like half the Chicago PD was pulling into the garage.
Behind them, the two cops stood up from behind the Buick, the short one’s left arm hanging, the bigger one hobbling around the front of the car, his right leg bloody.
“You’re Hardin and Wilson, right?” the tall guy said.
Hardin nodded.
Both cops raised their weapons. “Not that we don’t appreciate the help and all,” the tall guy said. “But you’re both under arrest.”
“And we’re really hoping you’ll put the guns down,” the short cop added. “Cause I think you’re better at this shit than we are.”
Hardin, shrugged, set the 9mm down on the roof of the car next to him. Wilson laid her S&W down next to it.
“Which one of you got al Din?” Hardin asked.
“Me,” said the tall guy.
“Then you’re pretty good yourself,” Hardin said.
CHAPTER 92
A couple of units reached five, lights going, sirens going, stopping at angles on either side of the Lexus that blocked the aisle. The cops leapt out, going to guns, but Lynch and Bernstein had moved to the center of the aisle, holding their badges out, and everybody calmed down.
“Radio for some buses,” Lynch yelled to one of the uniforms. “Here and on six.”
“How many?”
“Lots,” Lynch said, “Hold on.”
He yelled over the sirens to Hardin.
“Anybody wounded upstairs?”
“Not unless I’m slipping,” Hardin answered.
“How many?”
“Four.”
“So four on six, at least six here,” Lynch said to the uniform, raising his voice over the commotion. “Gonna need crime scene, ME, fuck it, we’re gonna need everybody.”
Five minutes later, the first two ambulances arrived. The EMTs wanted to transport Hardin and Lynch, but Lynch told them to wait. He was on a gurney they’d pulled out, his right leg out straight, the pants leg cut off halfway up his thigh. One of the techs was cleaning the wound, shooting a local into the leg in a few spots. The back of the gurney was raised so Lynch could sit up. Hardin sat on the bumper of the second unit while a short woman cleaned and bandaged his arm. Another EMT was wrapping Bernstein’s ribs. When one of the techs tried to look at Wilson’s head, she told him to fuck off.