True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(57)
The media wall showed a drone’s-eye view of Ronnie’s house and the Ford station wagon parked in the motor court. A separate video window opened up on the wall, showing the layout of the house and two red pulses upstairs. Those were good signs.
Victoria spoke up, sharing information from her computer screen. “The drone is getting positive RFID hits on Ludlow’s driver’s license, French’s driver’s license, and the Target purchases. We also have two heat signatures upstairs.”
It was almost certain that Ludlow and French were in the house. But the third man, the actor, could be anywhere. Cross frowned. There would still be a Rogue Element left after Ludlow and French were finally off the field. This was the fuckup that never stopped giving.
“We’ve hacked into the house’s surveillance camera system through a back door in their ancient router,” Seth said. “We’ve disabled the alarms and we’ve recorded the last sixty seconds of footage of the grounds. We are rerunning it in a loop in case anyone inside the house is watching the monitors. They won’t see what’s coming.”
Cross turned to Victoria. “ETA?”
“Five minutes,” she said.
CHAPTER FORTY
The first thing that Margo did when she and Ian walked into the bedroom was turn on the TV to the local news. The lead story was live coverage of a high-speed police chase on the westbound Ventura Freeway, which was less than a block north of Ronnie’s house and ran parallel to the boulevard.
They stood in front of the TV set and stared at the video from the Channel 2 news chopper. It showed Ronnie’s bright green Crown Vic illuminated by a spotlight from an LAPD helicopter and being pursued by four CHP patrol cars.
“At least the green paint job makes the car easy to spot from the air,” Margo said, taking out her cell phone and beginning to dial.
“I’m glad you’re seeing the positive side of things.” Ian said and went to the next room. He also had a call to make and he didn’t want to hear the TV.
Ronnie’s house backed up against a lightly wooded hillside that was owned by the county. A private road led up the hill to an eight-million-gallon water tank, the gravel lot around it the romantic spot where hundreds, if not thousands, of teenagers over the last forty years had drunk their first beer, inhaled their first joint, and lost their virginity, making it worthy by Los Angeles standards of historic preservation and a brass plaque. Like actresses, anything over forty that was still standing in Los Angeles was considered ancient.
A Blackthorn van rolled up the county road with its lights off and parked above Ronnie’s property. The three killers got out, rifles drawn, and moved methodically down the hillside, wary of any hidden threats.
At the same time, the other Blackthorn van arrived in front of the house. Thane and two of his men spilled out, climbed on top of the van, and from there they easily scaled Ronnie’s wall and dropped down silently on the other side.
Thane and his men advanced on the house, ready to engage the enemy, at the same time the other team closed in from the rear.
The attention of every operative in the Blackthorn situation room was on the media wall, which was split into thirds. The first third showed the point of view from Thane’s camera helmet as he led his team toward the house. The second showed the drone’s night-vision-camera view of the property and the six men who were approaching the house from the front and the rear. The last third showed the drone’s heat-sensor display of the property, tracking the six men closing in on the house, and the two people in bedrooms on the second floor.
“Any activity in the neighborhood?” Cross asked. “Any calls to the police?”
“All quiet,” Seth said. “And even if there were, the police are occupied with a pursuit on the Ventura Freeway.”
“A police pursuit is daily news in Los Angeles, like the weather or sports,” Victoria said.
“Thank you, O.J.,” Seth said.
Cross nodded to himself, pleased. Finally, luck was on their side.
Ronnie’s car was bathed in the police chopper’s spotlight as he weaved through the moderate freeway traffic toward the White Oak exit. The news chopper’s cameraman kindly gave Margo a wide-angle view of what lay ahead for Ronnie. She could see two lines of cars stacked up at the White Oak exit because of a red light at the bottom of the off-ramp.
“Don’t use the White Oak exit,” Margo warned Ronnie on the phone. “There’s a backup and you’ll get pinned. The next exit at Reseda looks clear.”
She could hear an action-adventure, percussion-heavy, instrumental version of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” playing on his car stereo.
“Gotcha,” Ronnie said as he passed the White Oak off-ramp. “But I have a better idea, Hollywood.”
“Don’t call me that,” she said. “This is not a TV show.”
But that wasn’t entirely true. She was watching him on TV and as she spoke he made a sharp U-turn on the freeway and headed down the White Oak on-ramp. It was an insane car-chase stunt worthy of prime time.
Ronnie charged down the shoulder, narrowly avoiding collisions with oncoming cars and scraping the wall along the edge of the embankment, then made a hard right southbound onto White Oak, nearly clipping a bus making the turn onto the on-ramp.