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He said loudly, “Olsen, lie facedown on the floor. Barbie, interlace your fingers behind your head and do not move, understand me?”
Olsen wasn’t buying it. He said to Barbie, “Who is this guy?”
“He’s in computers. I don’t remember his last name. His first name’s Chris.”
Olsen made a move toward Barbie, casual-like, but this was no good. Scotty dropped the light, put his gun squarely on Olsen, and held it with both hands.
“I said get down, Olsen. Do it quick or I will fire and I won’t miss.”
Olsen dropped the needle and kit, leaned forward with his hands out in front of him as though he were going to kneel. But it was a feint. He snatched Barbie from behind, held her in front of him like a shield. She let out a surprise squeal.
“Feel like taking a shot now, cowboy?” Olsen jeered. “Put down your gun and let’s talk. This is a big pie. It can be sliced three ways and everyone will be happy.”
A lot happened in the next few seconds.
Scotty lowered the barrel of his gun and squeezed the trigger; the bullet struck Olsen’s foot. Olsen screamed, and Barbie spun away from him. Scotty fired again and Olsen dropped to the ground, grabbed his knee, and howled even louder, “You killed me. You fucking killed me.”
Scotty said, “You, Barbie. Down on the floor. Don’t make me shoot you. I will do it.”
Holding the gun with his right hand, Scotty pulled his iPhone out of his shirt pocket, typed in 911, but before he could press Call, there was a commotion behind him.
He turned to see Bryce Cooper shrug off the bedding, hoist himself out of bed with a gun in his hand; must’ve been under his pillow. Bryce stumbled toward Barbie.
“Baby,” he called out. “Come to me, baby girl.” He turned to Scotty and sai
d, “I’m Bryce and you’re a dead man.”
Cooper’s gun looked like an H&R .32 long-barrel revolver. Scotty couldn’t see if the safety was off. He knew that the guy was loopy from sleeping pills but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pull a trigger.
Scotty fired at the man’s hand, and the gun jumped into the air, landed on the carpet near Olsen. Olsen reached for the gun, then screamed as his fingers were flattened under Scotty’s foot.
Scotty scooped up Cooper’s gun and stuck it into the waistband of his jeans, and for the moment, the situation stabilized.
Scotty pressed the Call button on his phone, said to the 911 operator, “I need the police and a bus. Man down with two gunshot wounds. Yes, he’s breathing.”
He gave the dispatcher the pertinent details, then leaned against the inside of the bedroom door, kept his gun ready, and watched the show.
Chapter 110
I WAS PULLING out of our underground lot when Justine darted out of the elevator, ran in front of my car, and slapped the hood.
“Jack. Wait.”
I opened my door and got out. “Christ, I could have hit you.”
“Mo-bot just got a call from a hospital in Las Vegas. Val’s been in some kind of accident. I don’t know what, Jack. Was she working on something for us?”
“Get in. Hurry.”
Justine was pale as she worked the phone, cajoling, pleading, arguing, but all she got from the hospital was that Valerie Kenney was in the ICU.
I wove around clotted traffic, passed in no-passing lanes as if I had flashers and sirens, was close to panic as I sped toward Santa Monica Airport, all the while wondering what had happened to Val, whipping myself for letting her take on an undercover job before she was ready.
Please God, let her survive.
Mercifully, we didn’t get pulled over, and when we got to Santa Monica AP, my plane was waiting for me on the tarmac, gassed up and ready to go. Justine’s legs were shaking as I helped her into the copilot’s seat. Justine is afraid of heights—and of flights in small planes. I thought she might be sick before we got into the air.
I climbed into my seat and reassured her over the roar of the engine.
