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"Why didn't he kill 'em?" Dellray wondered.
"Probably didn't want to fire his gun," Sachs said. "Draw too much attention." She added bitterly, "It would've been i
nconvenient."
As more emergency vehicles pulled up she asked Dellray, "Who was it? Who fired the shot that spooked him?"
"Dunno yet. But I'ma look this one over with a fuckin' magnifyin' glass."
But he didn't need to look too far, as it turned out. Two uniformed officers walked up to the FBI agent and conferred with him. The agent's face compressed into a frown. Dellray looked up and strode over to the guilty party.
It was Alan Coe.
"What in th'living hell happened?" Dellray barked.
Defensive but defiant, the red-haired agent looked back into the FBI agent's eyes. "I had to fire. The Ghost was going to shoot the decoys, didn't you see?"
"No, I did not. His weapon was at his side."
"Not from my angle."
"Crap on your angle," Dellray snapped. "It was at. His. Side."
"I'm getting sick of you lecturing me, Dellray. It was a fucking judgment call. If you had everybody in position we still could've collared him."
"We set it up to take him down on the sidewalk, without innocents around, not in the middle of a crowded street." Dellray shook his head. "Thirty li'l tiny seconds and he woulda been tied up like a Christmas package." Then the tall agent nodded at the big .45 Glock on Coe's hip. "An' even if he was moving on somebody, how the hell couldja miss with a piece like that from fifty feet? Even I coulda hit him and I don't fire my pissy weapon but once a year. Fuck."
Coe's defiance slipped and he said contritely, "I thought it was the right thing to do under the circumstances. I was worried about saving some lives."
Dellray plucked the unsmoked cigarette from behind his ear, looking like he was about to light it up. "This's gone way far enough. From now on INS is advisory only. No enforcement, no tactical."
"You can't do that," Coe said, an ominous look in his eyes.
" 'Cording to the Executive Order I can, son. I'm going downtown and doing what I gotta to put that in place." He stormed off. Coe muttered something Sachs didn't catch.
She watched Dellray climb into his car, slam the door and speed off. She turned back to Coe. "Did anybody get the children?"
"Children?" the agent asked, absently. "You mean, the Wus' kids? I don't know."
Their parents were frantic that the children be brought to them at the hospital as soon as possible.
"I told downtown about 'em," Coe said dismissively, meaning, she supposed, the INS. "I guess they're sending somebody to take custody. That's procedure."
"Well, I'm not thinking about procedure," she snapped. "There're two children alone in there and they just heard a shoot-out in front of their apartment. Wouldn't you think they'd be a little scared?"
Coe had had enough reprimands for one day. Silently he turned and walked back to his car without a word, pulling out his cell phone as he left. He too drove off angrily, his phone pressed against his ear.
Sachs then called Rhyme and gave him the bad news.
"What happened?" Rhyme asked, even angrier than Dellray.
"One of our people fired before we were in position. The street wasn't sealed and the Ghost shot his way out . . . . Rhyme, it was Alan who fired the shot."
"Coe?"
"Right."
"Oh, no."
