Page 70 of Return of the Spider

A young male voice said, “We need to leave, Patrice. Back door. Cops are coming.”

“Cops are here!” Sampson roared, stepping out to face Prince and the younger man, who were a good twenty yards away. They stood on either side of Officer Donovan, who was in a chair by a desk, still blindfolded, her wrists tied behind her. “Drop your weapons! Now!”

Both men were armed with pistols. Prince let his go. It clattered onto the floor.

When the second guy dropped his gun, John moved forward with me right behind him. “Step away from her and get down on your bellies,” he told them.

They complied. The sirens outside were close now and the shooting was dying down.

Sampson and I were almost to Donovan and the crisis was almost over when Rodolpho appeared from the shadows at our five o’clock with an automatic weapon aimed at our heads.

“Drop your guns!” he shouted. “Or Valentine kills you now!”

CHAPTER

57

Valentine rodolpho had us.

We had no choice but to set the shotguns down on the concrete floor. He limped around in front of us, slowly waving the barrel of his weapon in our faces.

“We should kill them and go out the back door,” Rodolpho said to his cousin. “All three of them, Patrice.”

I spoke to Prince. “Kill three cops? I’m sorry, but any way you look at that, it is a bad, bad, bad idea.”

“Three cops gets you a one-way ticket to the gas chamber,” Sampson said.

“They’re right, Patrice!” Donovan said.

Outside, sirens were drowning out the sporadic shooting. The head of LMC 51 turned his head a split second before four quick,brilliant flashes and flat cracks came from somewhere deep in the stacks.

The first round hit Rodolpho, shattering his right wrist. He let go of his AR and spun around as it clattered to the floor, grabbing wildly at his wrist and screaming.

The second shot caught the Haitian gangbanger guarding Nancy Donovan between the eyes. He crumpled.

Prince almost got his own pistol up before the third round hit him in the front of his thigh. He howled and grabbed for his leg, then went down hard.

The fourth and last round hit Rodolpho in the buttocks and he fell over, screaming gibberish.

“What’s happening?” blindfolded Officer Donovan yelled as Sampson started to reach for his shotgun and Prince tried to raise his pistol.

The buff dude in the body armor and black hood stepped into the space, shouldering an automatic rifle.

“Toss the gun, Prince!” he shouted. “And don’t do it, Detective. I do not miss.”

Prince slid the gun away. Sampson straightened up, raised his arms.

Outside, the shooting had all but stopped, but the symphony of sirens and bullhorns was building.

“You’re surrounded,” I said to the hooded man.

“That’s fine,” he said, his attention sweeping from me to Valentine, who was panting and heaving with pain, and then to Prince, who had taken off his belt and was shaking as he tried to wrap it around his upper thigh.

“Stop,” the gunman said.

“I bleed. I feel it.”

“Why would I care?” the man said.