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He sidestepped right, off of the pavement and into the shadows behind some trees. Shev followed and stood behind him.
Down the hill, the van was stopped on the side of the road and blocked in by cop cars, one in front and one behind, with red flashing lights.
Vad was pulled out onto the pavement, feet spread, and hands on the hood. Two of the cops were frisking him. The van doors were splayed, and two other officers searched the inside. They found the bags from Ralphs, all the receipts, paint guns, machetes, Glocks, a gram of cocaine, and duct tape.
“What a night,” Boris mumbled, and turned on his heel, heading back up the hill, into the mist, and straight into the headlights of Moy and McKay.
Moy and McKay had taken their time outside the gate at Dr. Parks’s house, finishing up the “loud noise” report. McKay hit the brakes and screeched to a stop, as Boris and Shev bolted into the brush.
“Aw, man,” McKay said, as they both swung out of their seats to give chase. “Here we go.” He pulled out his radio: “George-32, foot pursuit, foot pursuit, George-32!” He called to the Russians. “Hey! Hey!”
Boris ran through the twisted sagebrush, pulled out his Glock, turned, and opened fire:Pop! Pop!
“Shots fired! Shots fired!” Moy yelled, gaining on him, ten feet behind. He drew his gun and returned fire.
“Any units!” McKay yelled. “Two white males on foot! On foot! We’re in the woods!”
Shev and Boris parted ways. Boris veered right uphill, and Shev veered left downhill, through the bramble. His boot caught a snare, and he pitched forward and fell.
“Stay on the ground! Stay on the ground!” McKay yelled as he caught up.
“Do you have a gun? Do you have a gun!”
“No, no!” Shev said, as McKay pulled a Taser and hit him hard with it under his ribs. Shev cried out, feeling the sting of searing pain and a wave of hot cramping that spread through his torso and down all four limbs.
“What’re you running for? Give me your hands!” McKay said, and knelt at his side. “Give me your hands! I need your hands! My cuffs are out!” He grabbed Shev’s wrists, slapped them in cuffs, and held them there. “William-355,” he said. “We need an am for a man who’s been tased.” He turned to Shev. “Why, kid? Why did you run?”
“To get away…” Shev murmured.
McKay shook his head. Maybe his was a dumb question. “Yeah, that makes sense.” Then he sighed. “Just relax. Ambulance coming…” He looked at the treetops and looked back down. “Did you try to hit a house tonight? Up the street? Did you hit a house?”
Weaving through the eucalyptus, Moy gained on Boris, and Boris reached back and fired again.Pop! Pop!
Moy returned, and a bullet pierced Boris in the bottom of his left buttock. He seized and yelled—he hated pain—and his left knee buckled into the dewy cold leaves and underbrush. He was out of ammo.
Moy closed in, aiming, two-handed, and yelled, “Man down! Man! Down!”
CHAPTER 25
FOR THE NEXT two hours, the three women talked until the sun rose while Nikolai slept in one of the bedrooms. Masha confirmed they were there illegally and had overstayed their visas; and Sophie explained she’d fled her husband, Andre, in Uglich, north of Moscow in western Russia.
“Where Ivan the Terrible’s son got his throat slit,” Masha added.
The doctor frowned, and Sophie continued, explaining she’d hidden in Brooklyn with friends, but then Andre found her and forced them back into his family. Then, thank God, he got into trouble.
“ICE,” she said, “marked him for deportation. Once he’s released from prison in New York, he goes back. In about two months.”
But she was worried he’d find a way—that he’d stay stateside and track her down. She only needed a place to hide for a few weeks more, enough time to save a little more cash and buy a used van. She and her son would live in the van and use it to drive out of California. To disappear. She left out the part about Andre’s friends and how their orders were to kill both Ivan and Nikolai on Andre’s behalf.
At five in the morning, the doctor decided she’d let them stay for a few more weeks. All was settled until late that morning, when Moy and McKay called from the West LA Community Station.
The food detritus had matched the receipts in Boris’s bags, and broken bramble and tracks in the hillside matched the men’s boots. The doctor called Masha into the kitchen, and Sophie, too. The doctor was scared.
“You think it was us?” Masha said. “You think it was me, don’t you? Do you?”
The doctor had never seen her like this, on the defense in such a manner. She was deeply hungover, eyes at half mast, and staring daggers. A switch had flipped.
“Masha,” said Sophie, trying to calm her cousin down.
