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“No,” Fuller said, and then he explained what he wanted to do.
I considered it, decided once again that Captain Fuller was good at his job, and admitted, “That could work.”
“It could,” Bree said. “Your move, Captain.”
Three minutes later, on Fuller’s command, two flash-bang grenades went off behind the row house where Le and his fellow gangbangers were holed up.
I had my binoculars trained on the windows across the street and saw movement inside, figures running to investigate the explosions. Then Bree threw up the window sash, and we stuck our service weapons out the window.
“Go,” Fuller said, and he yanked open the front door to the old lady’s home.
Kiniry and Remer bolted across the porch, leaped off the stairs, and landed beside Lincoln. O’Donnell let go of his partner.
The SWAT guys got their hands under Lincoln and came up fast. O’Donnell jumped up, his gun, like ours, aimed at the row house as he backed up, covering Kiniry, Remer, and Lincoln.
They got Lincoln inside, and O’Donnell was almost there when Le or one of his men opened up with an automatic weapon. Bullets blew out the windows of the Explorer and pinged and cracked off the cement stairs while Sampson, Bree, and I emptied our weapons at the house.
O’Donnell sprinted and dove inside. Fuller slammed shut the heavy oak door as bullets strafed the side of the house and then stopped.
“Fuck!” O’Donnell screamed, crawling and clutching at his shoe. “He shot me through the foot!”
“Get this man medical attention!” Bree yelled back into the house.
Two EMTs came running from the kitchen.
While they started to work, I reloaded. Over our headsets, a voice said, “Cap, this is Maxwell.”
“Go, Maxwell,” Fuller said.
“I’ve got the shooter. Full chest exposed.”
“Identity?”
“Unclear, but subject is armed with an AK.”
“Take him,” Fuller said without a moment’s hesitation.
“What? Wait!” Bree said.
There was a rifle crack overhead, followed by a death scream across the street.
“Slow down, Captain!” I shouted.
“You’re not giving them any options!” Bree said.
“Options?” Fuller looked at us like we were addled. “That shooter, Le or not, just tried to kill four—count them, four—of my fellow officers. In my mind, that makes that person a potential cop killer with active intent, so I ordered him shot. End of story.”
Bree started to argue but her phone buzzed. Angry, she looked at the screen, rocked her head back, and said, “Oh Jesus.”
“What?”
“It’s Michele Bui. She says we just shot and killed one of the female hostages.”
Chapter
42
Fuller didn’t hear. He was barking orders into his radio while EMTs rolled a morphine-happy Detective O’Donnell through the kitchen toward the back door. The siren of the ambulance bearing Lincoln was already wailing away.
