Michael Connelly (47 page)

When the black hole of the M-16 came his way, Bosch leveled his gun with both hands, wrists on the cold floor, and fired.
Franklin fired at the same time. His shots went high, and Bosch heard more glass shattering behind him. Bosch fired two more
rounds into the vault. He heard one ping off the steel door. The other caught Franklin in the upper right chest, knocking
him to the floor on his back. But in one quick motion, the injured man rolled and went headfirst through the floor. Bosch
kept his gun on the doorway to the vault, waiting for anybody else. But there was nothing, only the sound of Clarke and Avery,
gagging and moaning on the floor to his left. Bosch stood up but kept the gun trained on the vault. Eleanor climbed into the
room then, her Beretta in hand. In marksman crouches, Bosch and Wish approached the vault from either side of the door. There
was a light control next to the computer keypad on the steel wall right of the door. Bosch hit the switch and the interior
vault was flooded with light. He nodded to her and Wish went in first. Then he followed. It was empty.

Bosch came out and quickly went to Clarke and Avery, who were still tangled on the floor. Avery was saying, “Dear God, Dear
God.” Clarke had both hands clamped to his own throat and was gasping for air, his face turning so red that for one bizarre
moment it looked to Bosch as if he were strangling himself. He was lying across Avery’s midsection and his blood was over
both of them.

“Eleanor,” Bosch shouted. “Get backup and ambulances. Tell SWAT that they’re coming. At least two. Automatic weapons.”

He pulled Clarke off Avery and by grabbing the shoulders of his jacket, dragged him out of the line of fire from the vault.
The IAD detective had taken a round in the lower neck. Blood was seeping from between his fingers and there were small blood-tinted
bubbles at the corners of his mouth. He had blood in his chest cavity. He was shaking and going into shock. He was dying.
Harry turned back to Avery, who had blood on his chest and neck and a brownish-yellow piece of wet sponge on his cheek. A
piece of Lewis’s brain.

“Avery, you hit?”

“Yes, uh …uh, uh, I think …I don’t know,” he managed in a strangled voice.

Bosch knelt next to him and quickly scanned his body and bloody clothes. He wasn’t hit and Harry told him so. Bosch went back
to where the double-glazed window had been and looked down at Lewis on his back on the sidewalk. He was dead. The bullets,
having caught him in a rising arc, had stitched their way up his body. There were entry wounds on his right hip, stomach,
left chest, and left of center of his forehead. He had been dead before he hit the glass. His eyes were open, staring at nothing.

Wish came in from the lobby then.

“Backup on the way,” she said.

Her face was red and she was breathing almost as hard as Avery. She seemed barely in control of the movement of her eyes,
which flitted about the room.

“When backup gets here,” Bosch said, “tell them if they go into the tunnels that there is an officer friendly down there.
I want you to tell your SWAT people that, too.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m going down. I hit one, I don’t know how bad. It was Franklin. Another went down ahead of him. Delgado. But I want the
good guys to know I’m down there. Tell ’em I’m in a suit. The two I chased down there were in black fatigues.”

He opened his gun and took out the three spent cartridges and reloaded with bullets from his pocket. A siren was sounding
in the distance. He heard a sharp pounding and looked through the glass wall and the lobby to see Hanlon pounding the heel
of his gun on the glass front door. From that angle the FBI agent could not see that the glass wall of the vault room had
been shattered. Bosch motioned him to come around.

“Wait a minute,” Wish said. “You can’t do this. Harry, they have automatic weapons. Wait till the backup is here and we come
up with a plan.”

He moved to the vault door, saying, “They already have a head start. I gotta go. Make sure you tell them I’m down there.”

He stepped past her into the vault, hitting the light switch as he went. He looked over the edge of the blast hole. The drop
was about eight feet. There were chunks of broken concrete and rebar at the bottom. He could see blood in the rubble, and
a flashlight.

There was too much light. If they were waiting down there for him he would be a sitting duck. He backed out and around behind
the vault door. He put his shoulder against it and slowly began to push the huge slab of steel closed.

Bosch could hear several sirens approaching now. Looking out into the street he saw an ambulance and two police cars coming
down Wilshire. The unmarked car with Houck in it screeched to a halt in front and he came out with handgun drawn. The door
was halfway closed and finally moving under its own force. Bosch slipped around it and back into the vault. He stood there
over the blast hole as the door slowly closed and the light dimmed. He realized he had poised at such a moment many times
before. It was always at the edge, at the entrance, that the moment was most thrilling and frightening to him. He would be
at his most vulnerable at the moment he dropped into the hole. If Franklin or Delgado was down there waiting for him, they
had him.

“Harry,” he heard Wish call to him, though he couldn’t understand how her voice made it through the now paper-thin opening.
“Harry, be careful. There may be more than two.”

Her voice echoed in the steel room. He looked down into the hole and got his bearings. When he heard the vault door clink
shut and there was only blackness, he jumped.

• • •

As he came down in the rubble Bosch crouched and fired a shot from his Smith & Wesson into the blackness and then hurled himself
flat against the bottom of the tunnel. It was a war trick. Shoot before they shoot you. But nobody was waiting for him. There
was no return fire. No sound, except the faraway sound of running footsteps on the marble floor above and outside the vault.
He realized he should have warned Eleanor, told her the first shot would be his.

He held his lighter out away from his body and snapped it on. Another war trick. Then he picked up the flashlight, turned
it on and looked around. He saw that he had fired his shot into a dead end. The tunnel the thieves had dug to the vault went
the other way. West, not east as they had thought when they looked over the blueprints the night before. That meant they had
not come from the storm line Gearson had guessed they would. Not from Wilshire, but maybe Olympic or Pico to the south, or
Santa Monica to the north. Bosch realized that the DWP man and all the rest of the agents and cops had been skillfully led
astray by Rourke. Nothing would be as they had planned or thought. Harry was on his own. He focused the beam down the tunnel’s
black throat. It sloped down and then up, giving him only about thirty feet of visibility. The tunnel went west. The SWAT
team was waiting to the south and east. They were waiting for nobody.

Holding the flashlight off to the right, away from his body, he began to crawl down the passageway. The tunnel was no taller
than three and a half feet, top to bottom, and maybe three feet wide. He moved slowly, holding his gun in the same hand he
used to crawl with. There was the smell of cordite in the air, and bluish smoke hung in the beam of the flashlight. Purple
Haze, Bosch thought. He felt himself perspiring freely, from the heat and the fear. Every ten feet he stopped to wipe sweat
out of his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. He didn’t take the jacket off because he didn’t want to differ from the description
given to the people who would follow him in. He didn’t want to be killed by friendly fire.

The tunnel alternately curved left and then right for fifty yards, causing Bosch to become confused about his direction. At
one point it dipped below a utility pipeline. And at times he could hear the rumble of traffic, making the tunnel sound like
it was breathing. Every thirty feet burned a candle placed in a notch dug into the tunnel wall. In the sandy, chunky rubble
at the bottom of the tunnel he looked for trip-wires but found a trail of blood.

After a few minutes of slow travel, he turned the flashlight off and sank back on his calves to rest and try to control the
sound of his breathing. But he could not seem to get enough air into his lungs. He closed his eyes for a few moments, and
when he opened them he realized there was a pale light coming from the curve ahead. The light was too steady to be from a
candle. He started moving slowly, keeping the flashlight off. When he made his way around the bend, the tunnel widened. It
was a room. Tall enough to stand in and wide enough to live in, he thought, during the dig.

The light came from a kerosene lantern sitting on top of an Igloo cooler in the corner of the underground room. There were
also two bedrolls and a portable Coleman gas stove. There was a portable chemical toilet. He saw two gas masks and also two
backpacks with food and equipment in them. And there were plastic bags full of trash. It was the camp room, like the one Eleanor
had assumed was used during the dig into the WestLand vault. Bosch looked at all the equipment and thought of Eleanor’s warning
about there possibly being more than two. But she had been wrong. Just two of everything.

The tunnel continued on the other side of the camp room, where there was another three-foot-wide hole. Bosch turned the lantern
flame off so he wouldn’t be backlit and crawled into the passageway. There were no candles in the walls here. He used the
flashlight intermittently, turning it on to get his bearings and then crawling a short distance in the dark. Occasionally,
he stopped, held his breath and listened. But the sound of traffic seemed farther away. And he heard nothing else. About fifty
feet past the camp room the tunnel reached a dead end, but Bosch saw a circular outline on the floor. It was a plywood circle
covered with a layer of dirt. Twenty years earlier he would have called it a rathole. He backed away, crouched down and studied
the circle. He saw no indication it was a trap. In fact, he did not expect one. If the tunnelers had rigged the opening, it
would have been to guard against entry, not exit. The explosives would be on this side of the circle. Nevertheless, he took
his key-chain knife out and carefully ran its edge around the circle, then lifted it up a half inch. He pointed the light
into the crack and saw no wires or attachments to the underside of the plywood. He then flipped it up. There were no shots.
He crawled to the edge of the hole and saw another tunnel below. He dropped his arm and the flashlight through the hole and
flicked on the beam. He swept it around and braced for the inevitable gunfire. Again, none came. He saw that the lower passageway
was perfectly round. It was smooth concrete with black algae and a trickle of water at the bottom of its curve. It was a stormwater
drainage culvert.

He dropped through the hole and immediately lost his footing on the slime and slipped onto his back. He propped himself up
and with the flash-light began looking for a trail in the black slime. There was no blood, but in the algae there were scrape
marks that could have been made with shoes digging for purchase. The trickle of water moved in the same direction as the scrape
marks. Bosch went that way.

By now, he had lost his sense of direction, but he believed that he was heading north. He turned off the beam and moved slowly
for twenty feet before flicking it on again. When he did so, he saw that the trail was confirmed. A smeared handprint of blood
was at about three o’clock on the curved wall of the pipe. Two feet farther and at five o’clock there was another. Franklin
was losing blood and strength quickly, he guessed. He had stopped here to check the wound. He would not be too much farther
ahead.

Slowly, trying to lower the noise of his breathing, Bosch moved forward. The pipe smelled like a wet towel and the air was
damp enough to put a film on his skin. The sound of traffic rumbled from somewhere nearby. There was the sound of sirens.
He felt the pipe was on a gradual downward slope that kept the trickle of water moving. He was going deeper underground. There
were cuts on his knees that bled and stung as he slipped and scraped along the bottom.

After maybe a hundred feet Bosch stopped and put on the beam, still holding it out to the side of his body and ready with
the gun in his other hand. There was more blood on the curving wall ahead. When he switched off the flashlight, he noticed
that the darkness changed farther ahead. There was light with a gray-dawn quality to it. He could tell that the pipeline ended,
or rather, connected with a passageway where there was dim light. He realized then that he could hear water. A lot of water
compared to what was running between his knees. It sounded like there was a river channel up ahead.

He moved slowly and quietly to the edge of the dim light. The pipeline he crouched in was a porthole on the side of a long
hallway. He was in the tributary. Across the floor of the huge hallway, silvery black water moved. It was an underground canal.
Looking at it, Bosch could not tell if the water was three inches or three feet deep.

Squatting at the edge, he first listened for sounds other than lapping water. Hearing nothing, he slowly extended his upper
body forward to look down the hallway. The water was flowing to his left. He first looked that way and could see the dim outline
of the concrete passageway curving gradually to the right. There was shadowy light filtering down at intervals from holes
in the ceiling. He guessed that this light came from drain holes drilled in manholes thirty feet above. This was a main line,
as Ed Gearson would say. Which one it was Bosch didn’t know and no longer cared. There was no blueprint for him to follow,
to tell him what to do.

He turned to look upstream and immediately pulled his head back into his pipe like a turtle. There was a dark form against
the inside wall of the passage. And Bosch had seen two orange eyes glowing in the darkness, looking right at him.