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  "You like playing it tough, don't you?"

  Matt was in fact playing. If he appeared too eager to complete the deal, Himmler might suspect the eagerness as the sign of an inexperienced undercover cop. Matt needed to play, at least a little. He really didn't suspect Himmler of trying to steal a flash roll of $4,000. Although $4,000 to a tweeker was big money, even Himmler was smart enough to understand the concept of deferred gratification. He could rip Matt for a lot more after a few successful smaller transactions. The fact remained, Himmler was a capable manufacturer of crystal methamphetamine. Matt was convinced his new friend in the passenger seat had the drugs so maybe it was time to move the deal along. It was getting late, and he knew his team was hoping to get home before the early morning commuter rush.

  "The first time's the hardest," said Matt. "Once this one goes down, we'll laugh about how we both played hardball tonight, and soon we'll be sending everything UPS with an automatic withdrawal from my checking account."

  Himmler offered a calming laugh and started to reach inside his tattered blue sweatshirt zipped halfway.

  Matt tensed, suspecting Himmler might be going for a weapon. The undercover agent prepared to attack, carefully watching Himmler's hands.

  "I've got what you . . ."

  He froze in midsentence as a black-and-white LAPD patrol unit entered the parking lot.

  "Cops, man!" shouted a paranoid Himmler who sprang from the passenger seat and began running toward the northwest corner of the parking lot.

  It was a stupid move only a longtime addict, suffering from delusions, would make.

  "Wait!" shouted Matt.

  But Himmler was out of the truck and on foot before Matt could reassure him. Tonight's transaction just became a live-action video game!

  Ironically, the patrol unit missed the entire episode and drove out of the lot, completing its nightly routine cruise around the parking lots of every bar on its beat.

  "We got a rabbit. Northwest corner. I'm gonna try to catch him," said Matt, hoping the transmitter was working and Dwayne understood what was happening.

  Matt jumped from the cab and pursued.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Matt watched Himmler race into the darkness, the fog partially obscuring the twice-convicted felon. High on meth, his rail-thin legs pumped overtime getting him to the far end of the parking lot in near record time. He reached the six-foot block wall and scaled it like a recruit fresh from boot camp. Within seconds he was over the top and heading down an alley with no other goal than to elude the cops whom he assumed to be following close behind.

  Matt almost admired the burst of energy the methamphetamines gave the addicted drug dealer. Matt was forced to summon strength from the long hours of conditioning, balanced diet, and clean living just to maintain the pace. Matt's pursuit may not have been wise, and he questioned whether he should call it off. He had no way of communicating with anyone on the surveillance team. Himmler could have a gun and might just think Matt was a pursuing cop. Of course, he was, but it made sense for Matt to join Himmler in fleeing the perceived police assault. Matt knew Himmler was "holding." Maybe if Matt could also appear to be evading the cops, Himmler would welcome a coconspirator in the race to freedom, and they could consummate the drug transaction in other than the comfort of the pickup.

  Matt scaled the wall, and as he was coming down the other side, he caught a glimpse of Himmler fleeing down the trash-strewn alley. Filth covered almost every inch of the cratered blacktop. Potholes were as plentiful as a bombed-out street in Baghdad. Debris was blowing from the winds bringing in a cold front from Alaska, and rats claimed possession of the immediate neighborhood.

  Himmler hit a hole, and a cacophony of vulgarity spewed loudly into the night air. He hit the ground hard and tumbled in the garbage. Unable to get up, he was crawling for cover when Matt caught up.

  "Man, I hit a hole. I think I busted my leg. It hurts man," cried Himmler.

  "Let me help you. Why'd you take off?"

  "The cops, man. I'm not stickin' around when uncle makes the scene," said a winded Himmler who was obviously in pain.

  Matt helped Himmler to his feet. He took Bobby's arm and placed it around his shoulder, serving as support so Himmler could limp to the rear entrance of an abandoned building. The smell of stale urine greeted them. The two men sat on the stoop, a street light a hundred feet at the end of the alley providing illumination. Matt rattled the door pretending to turn the knob. "It's locked. Let me take a look at that ankle," intent on limiting another escape attempt knowing the shoe provided at least some support to the injured ankle.

  Matt removed Himmler's shoe and pulled down a filthy white sweat sock with more holes than Swiss cheese.

  "Big time dope dealer like you ought to be able to afford some new socks. Put something new on your feet before you put something up your nose," said Matt.

  Himmler winced, "Is it broken?"

  "Yeah, it's broken. The toes are supposed to point the same direction as the knee cap," said Matt. "The bone didn't break the skin, but I'm guessing you broke it in a couple of places."

  Himmler moaned as if the mere diagnosis by an amateur physician brought more pain.

  "Probably need to get some ice on it as soon as we can until we can get you to a doctor. But I'm not sure the Popsicle man is coming around here anytime soon."

  "Those cops spoiled everything," Himmler moaned.

  "That crystal is making you paranoid. Those boys in blue were on routine patrol, just cruising the lot. You bounced too soon," said Matt.

  "You can't be too careful when you're holding product. I had to protect my investment."

  "Well then let's get back to business. You got my stuff?" asked Matt.

  "Yeah, it's right here, but I'm not sure this is the time or the place. My ankle's busted. You said so yourself."

  Matt pulled out a wad of bills totaling $4,000 and watched Himmler's eyes. What had previously been darting back and forth were now focused on the undercover agent's flash.

  "If I wheel you into the ER, it's gonna look better with a pocketful of hundreds than a bagful of a controlled substance guaranteeing a government-imposed vacation. Those hospitals have reporting requirements," said Matt.

  Himmler reached into his sweatshirt and pulled out a large clear-plastic Ziploc bag. Even in the dim light Matt could see the contents—five ounces of a white crystalline substance, known variously on the street as meth, speed, ice, crystal. Bobby Himmler, criminal genius, just violated Title 21 of the US Code, Section 841, possession with intent to distribute. In law enforcement circles, he was now "bought and paid for."

  Matt grabbed the bag and began to examine it. "Looks good, my friend."

  Before Himmler could respond, Matt heard the faint sound of familiar voices as Dwayne and Steve made their way up the alley.

  "Somebody's coming. Get me out of here," cried a panicked Himmler. He started to rise, seeking Matt's help in finding a safe refuge.

  Matt shoved the handicapped tweeker back onto the step. "Relax. The run's over."

  "What?"

  "Dwayne, Steve, we're over here," shouted Matt. Matt turned long enough to see Dwayne and Steve running toward him with their guns drawn. In that brief instant Himmler reached further inside his sweatshirt and pulled from beneath the tattered clothing a screwdriver with an eight-inch blade.

  When Matt glanced back at his capture, he spied the reflection off what little light the alley offered. Instantly Matt knew it was a potential weapon, and before Himmler could react, Matt lifted his right leg and did a sweeping kick, knocking the tool from Himmler's hand. When Matt's leg landed, he twisted at the waist and followed with a powerful left hook to Himmler's chin.

  Dwayne and Steve arrived on the scene in time to see a collapsed Himmler lying in a limp pile. Matt was rubbing his left hand at
tempting to ward off the pain, hoping he hadn't broken his hand again.

  "Why do I always go to the face? I know better," said Matt.

  "You okay?" asked Dwayne.

  "Yeah," said Matt handing Dwayne the bag of crystal meth. "Didn't exactly go as planned, but it ended the way we hoped, one in custody. This looks pretty good to the naked eye. I'm sure the lab rats will confirm it's the real thing."

  The wind whipped up again, and trash began to blow everywhere. Bending over to grab the limp Himmler, Matt said, "Help me get this piece of garbage out of here before we drive down property values."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The emergency room was buzzing with excitement on what should have been a quiet weeknight. Police vehicles flooded the parking lot of the hospital which was permanently half-finished. The Valley medical facility seemed always to be in some type of building project mode. Construction equipment forced most visitors to park at the far end of the lot. Matt and Dwayne maneuvered around the orange cones and construction tape and arrived just as the ambulance pulled into the driveway. The two quickly exited their car. They could hear the loud cries of anguish from inside the ambulance. When the paramedic opened the rear door, Steve Barnett exited first.

  "He's been whining ever since he woke up. What a baby, claiming police brutality, wants to sue everyone from the president on down," said Steve. "Of course, when the paramedic turned his head, I guess the fact I cracked his ankle with a clipboard may have enhanced his chances of prevailing in the lawsuit, but you gotta have witnesses to win in court, and I'm not talking."

  The two paramedics pulled the gurney from the back of the ambulance, and the folding legs automatically opened. Himmler's left hand was handcuffed to the gurney, and ice packs surrounded the ankle.

  As the paramedics wheeled the detained drug dealer past Matt and Dwayne, Himmler spotted Matt. "That was entrapment. You'll never make this stick and I'll have your badge. You had no reason to kick me or hit me. You broke my ankle. You're nothing but savages, all of you. I will own you by the time this is over."

  Himmler's whine was almost a blubbering cry.

  "Nice try, slick," said Matt. "But I was wired and not on homemade meth. It's all recorded, Bobby, so you might want to re-think your defense."

  Himmler screamed obscenities. Dwayne, Steve, and Matt laughed at the blue-streak tirade, "The machine's still running, Bobby. Want to say anything else for the benefit of the jury?"

  The automatic double doors opened as the paramedics moved the gurney into the emergency room.

  Steve got serious. "You turned off the machine, right? I mean you just didn't record what I told you about whacking his ankle with a clipboard?"

  "No, it's off. Wait let me check." Matt reached inside his shirt acting as if he were checking the machine. "Oh, no. I forgot to turn it off."

  "Matt, no, please tell me you're kidding. Hey, I was just teasing about hitting his ankle. Really I was just teasing. I meant it as a joke. It was all for show. I would never taunt or injure a prisoner. You know me better than that. I put the highest priority on the rights of the prisoner."

  Matt looked serious then broke into a smile. "It was off in the alley after you guys cuffed him."

  Steve sighed heavily.

  "So did you really crack him on the ankle?"

  "Of course."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Once inside the ER, the uniformed law enforcement presence was obvious. Four police officers and two detectives were speaking to a doctor.

  "Hate to see this place on a weekend. Seems like a lot of cops for a weeknight," said Matt to Dwayne, who agreed with Matt's observation. "You might want to badge them and check it out. We don't need an incident here if we just happen to have people from rival biker gangs showing up in the ER."

  When Matt peered to his left, he saw a familiar face sitting in the waiting room of the main lobby. Philip Mitchell had his eyes closed with his face tilted toward heaven as if in prayer. Matt tapped Dwayne on the arm and pointed toward Flip, as he was called in the office. Flip Mitchell worked in the Special Operations Group, known in the FBI as SOG, the surveillance squad. He was team leader of a six-man unit, given the radio designation the "sixties."

  "Flip, what's going on? What brings you here in the middle of the night?" asked Matt.

  Flip opened his eyes and looked toward the voice. He stared for a few seconds, trying to come to grips with the situation. When he realized Matt Hogan called his name, he stood up and walked over to Matt and Dwayne.

  "It's Lydia. She was shot tonight when her car broke down on Mulholland. The attackers killed a minister she works with. They rushed her into surgery. She's in the recovery room now. She hasn't regained consciousness so we don't have the real story yet."

  Matt grabbed Flip and gave him a hug. He didn't say another word, but Flip knew the sincerity of a man who confronted death and evil.

  Matt and Dwayne spoke several minutes with Flip before heading to the detectives to see if they could garner more information. The detectives could add little to what Flip told them and were waiting for Lydia to recover. They were hopeful once she awakened she could answer the many questions surrounding the deadly attack.

  Matt and Dwayne made a series of phone calls to various FBI personnel. When they returned, Flip was gone from the waiting room and the two set out to find him. After a few minutes of inquiring with various hospital staff, they identified Lydia's room in the intensive care unit. They badged their way past the normal roadblocks to ICU and entered the room quietly.

  Flip sat by her side, holding her hand, offering prayers for her recovery. The light from the hallway and the medical equipment hooked up to Lydia monitoring her condition provided the only illumination in the room. The steady hum of one machine and the intermittent beep of another provided the only noise.

  Flip looked up and offered a weak smile. He stood and the three walked out to the hallway.

  "The doctors say she should fully recover. Both rounds missed vital organs. Apparently the blood from a blow to the face fooled the attackers into believing she would bleed out if the two shots hadn't already killed her. The doctors said it was a miracle she survived. One round bounced around inside but never severed anything important. The other round grazed her scalp."

  There was little Matt and Dwayne could say but platitudes and promises. What they could offer was support. Flip was FBI. He was family and by extension so was his wife. They would wait as long as needed.

  "Thanks. I really appreciate your concern, but I've got it covered. Just find out who did this," said Flip, a deepening edge to his voice.

  "We'll do everything we can. I promise you that," said Matt.

  "I'll liaison with LAPD and keep you informed of their progress. Danny Garcia can keep us updated," said Dwayne.

  "I don't want liaison," said Flip flushed with anger. "I want results!"

  "I understand what you're saying, but LAPD Homicide is as good as it gets. Let them do their job. We'll offer whatever assistance we can, but we don't want to interfere," said Dwayne.

  "Interfere!" shouted Flip. "This is my wife we're talking about not some hooker working the bus station on 7th. Matt, what if this was Caitlin? Would you leave this in the hands of the detectives who gave us OJ?"

  "Flip, we're going to do everything we can. Trust me," said Matt.

  A nurse approached from her station. "If you can't keep your voices down, I'm going to have to ask all of you to leave."

  "We're sorry," said Matt as the three returned to the room. The nurse followed to check vitals.

  Just as they entered, Lydia stirred. She opened her eyes and started to speak, but Flip spoke first.

  "Honey, it's okay. Don't say a word. The doctors say you are going to be fine."

  "How's Ben?"

  Flip didn't say anything.r />
  The nurse intervened, "Mrs. Mitchell, you really need your rest. You've been through a lot."

  "How's Ben?"

  Flip just looked at her.

  "Oh God, no! Flip, please tell me he's going to be okay."

  Flip shook his head and looked away from his wife. In a whisper he said, "He didn't make it."

  Tears flowed from her eyes. There was silence for a prolonged moment. Still in pain, she said slowly, "The Mustang broke down, and Ben stopped to help. It was three men. They dumped something a hundred yards or so from our cars. Then they spotted us and attacked. Flip, it was horrible."

  "Honey, please not now. We can talk about this in the morning. You really need to rest."

  The nurse intervened, "Mrs. Mitchell, I'm sorry. You need to rest. You have a long recovery ahead, and this isn't going to help."

  The nurse pulled two syringes from the tray she was holding. She injected fentanyl and a sedative in the IV line. "This will help with the pain and allow you to relax. I think it best you two leave. She really needs her rest."

  Dwayne welcomed the opportunity to escape. "We're sorry. Flip, we'll leave you alone. We'll get back to you as soon as we can."

  Dwayne turned and walked out. Flip grabbed Matt by the arm just as Matt moved. "Don't let me down."

  "Flip, you've got my word."

  "Thanks."

  Matt nodded with a reassuring look as he left the room.

  MATT AND DWAYNE QUICKLY returned to the detectives still standing in the hallway outside the Emergency Room waiting area and told them of Lydia's observations.

  The homicide detectives raced out of the building to their unmarked unit. Once they cleared the hospital grounds, the detectives went "code three," lights and siren. Dwayne and Matt trailed the detectives to the Mulholland location.