True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(56)
Beverly Hills, California. July 21. 7:45 p.m. Pacific Standard Time.
Blackthorn occupied a sleek, eight-story monolith of black glass a few blocks west of Rodeo Drive. A ten-pound surveillance drone camouflaged to blend in with the sky lifted off from the top of the building. The drone had four helicopter-like propellers branching off from a central hub that held multiple high-definition cameras, an RFID scanner, and heat sensors. It circled once over the adjacent buildings, where Blackthorn snipers were keeping watch on the rooftops in case Ludlow attacked, and then it streaked out to the San Fernando Valley, the killing field.
Ronnie walked into the restroom of the Chevron station on Van Nuys Boulevard but twenty minutes later it was Detective Charlie Vine who walked out. He wore a cheap suit and had a badge clipped to his belt. His hair was vibrant green and matched the color of his Crown Vic. He got into the car and sped off, the theme from Hollywood & the Vine blasting from his stereo.
Ooooh you heard about that cop Vine
A plant who can’t stand crime
You get caught, you’re gonna do time . . .
Honey, honey yeah . . .
In the basement armory of Blackthorn’s Beverly Hills office, Doric Thane and five other men suited up in their black tactical gear and prepared for battle. They wore ballistic helmets with cameras, night-vision goggles, armored vests, kneepads, and duty belts loaded with stun grenades, pepper spray, doorstops, flashlights, and extra magazines and rounds of ammunition. They were armed with knives, Sig Sauer P226 semiautomatic pistols, and Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifles with suppressors and mounted lights.
Doric Thane thought that killing by laptop, with a cocktail in your hand, was a lot easier on the lower back than carrying all of this but it wasn’t nearly as much fun.
A flat-screen TV on the wall displayed pictures of their three targets: Ian Ludlow, Margo French, and Ronald Mancuso. Wilton Cross’ voice came through on the speaker, giving them their marching orders.
“This is a stealth operation, swift and quiet. The targets are well trained and heavily armed. They have already killed three of our agents, shot down one of our helicopters, and bombed our Las Vegas offices. Don’t underestimate them. Kill them on sight. Leave no witnesses.”
“Roger that,” Thane said.
He led the men out of the armory and into the underground garage, where they split up, got into the two waiting black panel vans, and raced out of the building.
Some clichés are true. Cops really do love doughnuts and coffee. That’s especially true for California Highway Patrol officers. That’s because doughnut shops offer a cheap, quick fix of sugar and caffeine, they’re open all hours, and they can usually be found within two blocks of any freeway off-ramp in Los Angeles County.
Rolley’s Donuts, where CHP officers Brubeck and Flotz were taking a break, was a good example. It was one block south of the Coldwater Canyon off-ramp of the 101 freeway and there was almost always a police car parked in the lot. This time it was their black-and-white CHP Ford Explorer.
Flotz held his glazed old-fashioned doughnut in front of his face and pondered its beauty and complexity. “Doughnuts are an American delicacy.”
“You bet. Right up there with fried chicken and barbecue ribs.” Brubeck slurped some of his coffee. He and his partner were both in their midthirties, as pale as vampires from working nights, and one belt-buckle notch away from having to buy wider pants.
They sat at a window table along the street. They weren’t paying attention to the parking lot or the alley behind it. Neither one of them noticed the green Crown Vic that pulled up behind the dumpsters. If they had, they probably would have mistaken it for a cop driving a plain wrap, coming in for a break.
“So why is it that Koreans make the best doughnuts?” Flotz gestured to the Korean woman who sat on a stool behind the counter, reading a Korean-language newspaper.
“The doughnuts in this place have been terrific for forty-seven years,” Brubeck said, “long before Fat Rolley retired and sold the place to Ho Chi Minh.”
“That’s Vietnamese. I’m talking about Koreans.”
“My point is that the Koreans, the Vietnamese, and other Asians bought up all the old mom-and-pop doughnut shops and the recipes came with the deal,” Brubeck said. “What they’re good at is following recipes.”
Flotz took a bite and savored it. “I bet if an American bought the place, the doughnuts would taste like shit—that’s my point.”
The Crown Vic slammed into the trash bin, the sound of the crash immediately getting the attention of the two cops. They turned around just as the Crown Vic bulldozed the bin right into the driver’s side of their Explorer, T-boning it.
“What the fuck?” Brubeck said.
The Crown Vic backed up, tires squealing, and then charged forward again, plowing into the bin and pushing the Explorer through the plate-glass window of the doughnut shop.
Brubeck and Flotz ducked for cover from the flying glass. They drew their weapons and stood up to see a man with green hair in the driver’s seat of the Crown Vic, waving at them as he sped into traffic on Coldwater Canyon. Both cops took aim but neither could get a clear shot without hitting other passing cars. The Crown Vic fishtailed as it made a sharp turn south toward Ventura Boulevard.
Flotz grabbed the radio clipped on his shoulder and called in the cavalry.