CHAPTER 20.
Harvey felt LG's hand on his shoulder along with a nudge, a signal she was ready to go. He cracked the door a few inches and peered inside.
A bright stairwell greeted him. No surprises there.
Once inside, he put her on hold and listened for sound.
Nothing.
He looked up the narrow gap between the rails to verify the stairwell went up to the third floor. It did.
"We're moving. Stop at the landing and cover my advance to the second floor."
She started up.
"Stop!" Harvey whispered.
LG froze in place.
"Your footsteps."
"Shit," she said. "Sorry."
"It's okay." He smiled and gave her a nod to continue. He wouldn't beat her up over it. It had been years since LG had conducted this kind of op. Her steps hadn't been overly loud, but in the absolute silence of this stairwell, they were definitely detectable. It was a mistake she wouldn't make again.
On the second floor, they found a dimly lit hallway that ran the entire length of the building.
Barring some secret hiding spot, the entire second floor looked vacant. All of the offices lining the hallway were unlocked and none of the "offices" held more than superficial furniture. No computers, personal pictures, or anything else indicating these spaces were being used, or ever had been.
Clearly, Cantrell had it right. This entire building was nothing more than a money-laundering mechanism. A sweet setup, really. Harvey wondered how many buildings like this Cornejo owned.
Halfway down the hall, they located a break room.
Several cups of coffee sat on one of the small round tables. He felt one.
"Warm?" she asked.
He nodded.
An open pizza box, paper plates, and napkins lay on the counter next to the sink.
Since Delta Lead hadn't reported seeing anyone but the briefcase crew enter the building, the gunmen who'd stormed out of the stairwell had been here first, which meant they were probably personal security. He had to wonder what kind of activity needed that level of firepower. A simple poker game? The man they'd questioned said they'd all brought cash. Perhaps that was reason enough.
There was no sign of a card game on this floor, so it had to be upstairs. He gave Delta Lead an update and said they were ascending to the third floor.
Nathan didn't see any headlight intrusion, but a vehicle definitely raced toward the crossing.
Who'd be speeding through this neighborhood with their headlights off?
Knowing it might cost him his prey but save his life, he made a split-second decision to end his pursuit and find cover. The problem was, there wasn't anything available except a power pole supporting the overhead electric line for the trains.
He sprinted to its metal form.
Good thing he did.
A white lowrider stopped in the middle of the railroad tracks directly in front of him. Its windows tinted black, it looked like a gangbanger's ride. The only thing missing was obnoxious, thumping music.
Four armed men scrambled out of the far side and used it for cover. He wasn't sure, but it looked like they carried compact Kalashnikovs. If this metal pole didn't stop bullets, this could be a very short fight.
With no other place to go, he'd have to engage.
Using the side of the pole to steady his aim, he painted the laser on the biggest gunman, and squeezed off a round.
The man's head jerked from the impact.
The remaining men dropped out of sight as he fired three shots through the lowrider's windows.
He'd lost sight of Bustamonte, who'd either kept running down the tracks or joined his friends at the car.
It hit him suddenly, like an open-handed slap. Bustamonte hadn't been fumbling with a gun; he'd been making calls. To make matters worse, the man clearly had been baiting him-likely the whole time-buying time for these guys to arrive at this exact location.
As pissed off as he was, he couldn't let his temper get the best of him.
He adjusted his aim lower and pounded the vehicle's doors, hoping to nail at least one more gunman. He fired the last five rounds of the magazine underneath the chassis.
In ideal conditions, with a magazine pocket on a holster, Nathan could reload his weapon inside of two seconds. But having to grab loose magazines from his waist pack added costly seconds to the process.
And the result was hellish.
At the same time he saw their flash suppressors ignite, a staccato roar of automatic fire reverberated off every hard surface within half a mile.
Completely pinned, Nathan tried to make his massive six-foot-five-inch hulk skinnier.
It didn't work.
Despite being seasoned in combat, he found the hail of lead stretching his ability to remain calm. He was reminded of a scene in True Lies, in which Tom Arnold had used a streetlight to hide from automatic gunfire. Fortunately, this pole was considerably wider.
Amid the racket of rifle fire, deformed slugs screamed and howled as they ricocheted off the gravel.
Some of the bullets found the metal pole.
The moment of truth arrived.
The post vibrated from the impacts.
But no holes appeared.
He thanked the city of Santa Monica, ejected the empty magazine, and inserted a full one.
The roar of automatic fire ended, only to begin again.
If the cops weren't already on the way, they soon would be and Nathan couldn't be here when they arrived.
The mayhem continued as one gunman fired while the others reloaded.
The longer this went on, the more likely Bustamonte would escape and one of those AK rounds would find his flesh.
All he needed was a short break to return fire on the lowrider.
In situations like this, Nathan's mind didn't flash with childhood memories, reflect on regrets, or seek solace in self-pity: it shifted into high gear and analyzed every available option.
Ignoring the vibrating steel and the tortured gravel erupting all around him, he recognized an opportunity.
A control box sat ahead and to his right. He'd seen it when he'd ducked behind this power pole.
If he moved straight back by ten feet or so, he might have a chance.
The move would be risky. These guys seemed to have an unlimited supply of ammo. They'd switched to shorter bursts, but the barrage remained nonstop.
The decision made, he eased back from the pole.
The sensation of backing away from such a narrow source of protection felt insane.
Bullets continued to whiz past on either side of him.
Fighting every instinct he had, he kept stepping backward.
Crap! Something sliced his shin. A chunk of granite or a copper jacket fragment, not a bullet. The force of the impact hadn't been severe, but it was going to leak.
He put it out of mind and concentrated on moving in a straight line. An inch of lateral movement would be disastrous.
He hated having his eyes exposed, but there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't wear protective goggles and use the NV at the same time.
A little farther . . .
There.
The control box came into his line of sight and the angle looked pretty damned close.
He painted the face of the cabinet with his laser and fired three controlled shots.
The barrage from the white lowrider ended.
It worked!
His slugs had ricocheted off the cabinet and struck the car, forcing the gunmen to duck for cover.
Wasting no time, Nathan charged forward to the pole again and used its form to steady his pistol. He took careful aim at an exposed pair of feet.
The bullet found its target and the man fell, exposing his entire body under the vehicle. Nathan wasted no time sending two more bullets under the lowrider.
Now wasn't the time to show clemency.
He initiated another continuous barrage, firing a bullet every second, punching a dozen more holes in the lowrider. With a little luck, maybe he could get one of them to- Run.
Just like that guy.
One of them bolted for the safety of the building to the north.
Based on the man's size and clothing, Nathan felt confident it wasn't Bustamonte.
He used the brief lull in the action to reload his handgun.
And brief it was.
The man who'd fled the vehicle reappeared at the corner of the building and opened fire with his AK.
All of the bullets missed high, a common mistake with Kalashnikovs. When the barrage went silent, he painted the man's face and pulled the trigger.
The guy performed a flawless face-plant onto the concrete.
By Nathan's count, that left one man-not including Bustamonte-still crouched behind the vehicle.
He needed an alternative to hiding behind this pole.
Once a Marine, always a Marine, he thought. Here goes. He stepped out from his cover and charged the lowrider, firing as he ran.
His aggression took the last gangbanger by surprise.
The guy left the cover of the lowrider and sprinted in the opposite direction from his fallen comrade.
Nathan stopped, took a knee, and steadied his aim. He only had time for a single shot.
In desperation, the man discharged his AK with one hand as he fled, but none of his rounds came close.
Nathan dropped him with a precisely fired round. The bullet must've severed his spinal cord because the gunman's legs quit working, but not his upper half. He tried to reload his AK, but fumbled with the magazine.
Nathan squinted, and sent a bullet into the man's head.
The next thing he heard were deep, throaty booms of a large-caliber handgun.