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“Hey, over here, Bosch,” he said. “Tell me about the missiles.”
“You already know,” Bosch said. “You killed four people with them today, and the FBI knows it was you. They’re out looking for you right now. No matter what happens here, you can’t go home.”
“Bullshit,” Novak said.
“Maybe,” Bosch said. “You don’t believe me, ask Zed.”
Novak looked sharply at Zed.
“He thinks you’re an informant, Zed,” Bosch said. “I heard him in the van. He’s going to shoot me and then he’s going to shoot you. No loose ends.”
Before Novak could respond, Zed threw himself shoulder-first into Novak’s midsection and took him to the ground. They grappled for control of the gun. Bosch turned and ran through the kitchen and out the door to the delivery area.
He kept running and made it to the Jeep, but it was locked. He checked the van, and it was unlocked, but there were no keys in the ignition. He ran to the gate, heard yelling from behind, and turned to see Zed coming out of the building.
Bosch pushed open the gate just as Zed reached him.
“Wait!” Zed yelled. “Help me!”
Bosch didn’t hesitate.
“This way,” he told him. “To the river.”
They exited the MacLaren compound on Gilman, and Bosch ran north into the darkness, following the path he had taken so many years before. But he was moving too slowly for Zed, who passed him like he was standing still.
“Next street, go right!” Bosch yelled. “Hide down in the riverbed.”
Zed ran under a streetlight and made the turn. Bosch heard a gunshot from behind him, and a bullet cut through the night air over his head. He glanced back and saw Slow aiming at him from the gate. Bosch jerked to the right and cut across the lawn of the house on the corner. A second shot was fired but missed its target by enough that Bosch didn’t even hear the whiz of the bullet. He was out of breath and his legs felt like lead weights, but he kept going. As he made the turn toward the river, he looked back again and saw that Slow was running after him. He was younger, faster, and it would take him only seconds to catch up.
Bosch knew he likely wouldn’t make it to the river, and if he did, Slow would overtake him there. So instead, he made another cut and ducked into a carport attached to a small ranch house one down from the corner. There was a pickup truck parked there, and Bosch scrambled behind it, his chest heaving as he gulped in air. He held a hand over his mouth to keep silent and looked around for anything he could use as a weapon.
He heard Slow’s steps go by the driveway and knew it would be only a few moments before he realized Bosch was somewhere behind him and doubled back.
As Bosch crouched and moved down the side of the truck to see if he could glimpse his pursuer, a side door to the house opened and a woman stood there looking out, drawn by the sound of gunfire.
She saw Bosch and raised her arm. She was holding a gun.
Bosch put his palms up and whispered, “I’m unarmed. Go back inside and lock the door. There’s another man with a gun.”
The woman, a young Latina, had tattoos on the hand that was holding the gun.
“Where is he?” she said.
“In the street,” Bosch said. “Go back inside.”
Just then, they heard another gunshot that sounded like it was down near the river. Slow must have closed in on Zed.
“Go!” Bosch said, not bothering to whisper the order.
She stepped back into the house and started to pull the door closed.
“Wait,” Bosch said.
She held the door and looked at him.
“Give me the gun,” he said.
She hesitated.
