Page 107 of Under Cover
It was an audible—and later Garcia would be in awe, because it was a good one, and it worked—and Crosby made it from sniper distance away.
Crosby hit one, and Garcia and Harman rushed in from the waterfront while Pearson and Swan rushed in from the other side of the great bay door. Everybody had their guns out and their targets sighted as Garcia and Pearson called, “SCTF! Everybody on the floor, hands up, laced behind your head!”
There was sudden shock, and the bulk of the people in the warehouse did just what they were told.
In the back of the warehouse, near the inside stairs leading up to the office, a severe-looking woman dressed in a flannel shirt, hoodie, and jeans, stood up, pulling out her own pistol in one hand and badge in the other.
“Marcy Beauchamp,” she said, and Pidgeon was right—shedidpronounce it “Beech-um.” “Harbor Patrol. What are you doing here?”
“Marcy Beauchamp,” Denison said, scampering in from the parking lot with Davies on what felt like greased wheels. “You are under arrest, by order of the SCTF—”
Beauchamp’s expression grew ugly as she registered Denison’s presence and her own badge, and she raised her pistol, ready to fire.
The alarm went off, and a shot came out of nowhere, taking Beauchamp down, dead center mass, and chaos erupted in the warehouse.
CROSBY HADbeen using night vision through the tablet. Given Beauchamp’s lack of signature, he knew she had Kevlar, and given the way she was holding that pistol, he was pretty sure she was aiming at Denison’s face and not her vest.
One shot and she was flat on her back, hopefully still alive, but down for the moment as the warehouse workers all decided to make a run for it.
“That wasn’t thirty seconds,” he said, exclusively for Harding’s ear.
“So it was sixty. Sue me,” Harding muttered.
“How are they?”
“Fucking drugged,” Harding muttered. “Carlyle’s barely breathing.”
Crosby pinged Harman’s earbud. “Harding needs you topside,” he said, scanning the entrance to the warehouse. Marcy Beauchamp had the bad luck of standing front and center, and the stairs she’d been sitting on weren’t too far recessed, so he’d been able to make that shot. Pearson and Swan were back-to-back, Pearson aiming inside the warehouse at the restless workers and Swan aiming toward the loading dock and the workers by the truck. Harman and Garcia were in the same position—moving Harman up to help with Carlyle and Chadwick would leave Garcia naked, and Harman would be walking up the wooden stairs to the second-level office alone as well. Crosby double-checked the environs again, sweeping both visually and with the infrared scope. When he was satisfied, he said, “I’ve got your back.”
“Roger that.” From his vantage point, Crosby watched Harman squeeze Garcia’s shoulder. “Moving,” he called. “Crosby’s got cover.”
Garcia repositioned himself. “Move,” he called back to the warehouse door, gun facing outside while Swan pivoted, joining Pearson, Davies, and Denison to take care of the guys they could trapinthe warehouse.
Harding made it up the stairway, and Crosby called to Harding. “Blodgett’s coming in.” Then he saw something that made his blood run cold.
He hit All Comms and called, “Four assholes coming in from the waterfront, automatic guns out. Find cover!”
“Sure they’re hostile?” Garcia asked, although he was throwing himself back against the wall of the downstairs office, making sure he could still see out the warehouse door. While Crosby watched, a dock worker with a pistol tried to get a bead on the four other agents, and Crosby took him out so Garcia could keep lookout.
When the guy had dropped, probably dead without Kevlar, Crosby used the night vision to assess the landing party.
“No tactical gear,” he said. “Just guns. I’ve got ’em, but I need a light on ’em for one hundred percent clearance.”
Garcia edged around the warehouse door and shone his Maglite toward the dock. The first figure creeping off the skiff caught the beam in his eyes, and even Crosby could hear him swearing. Garcia shouted, “SCTF, drop your weapons!” and suddenly all four guys were pointing their weapons at Garcia. Garcia dodged back behind the door and Crosby picked them off, four sharp reports, one after the other, and four bodies dropped to the ground before they could get off a shot.
“Nice work,” Garcia muttered and turned his attention back to the firefight/knife melee going on inside the warehouse. With an aim and a shot, he took out a guy lunging at Pearson, and she turned in time to watch him drop, giving a salute with her knife before squatting to secure the two men kneeling at her feet.
The fighting, though bloody, was also quick and contained. Crosby had to trust his people to take care of themselves. While he could see—and get a shot in—part of the bay, when there was that much movement and violence, his people were better off fighting close quarters.
“Garcia, report,” he said crisply into the comms while scanning the surrounding area for more men.
“Getting secure,” Garcia’s voice was breathless, and Crosby could see him running to the others to assist in takedowns and securing hands, feet, and weapons. “Hey, there’s a lot of fuckin’ people here. Has anybody thought of calling for reinforcements?”
Crosby let out a harsh breath. “Gimme a sec. Details.” Then he tagged Harding. “Chief, should we, I dunno, tag the DEA and the FBI to maybe jail all the scumbags and house the drugs?”
“There’s a thought,” Harding said, making it sound like he hadn’t had perfectly legitimate reasons for not going through other resources. But they had a warehouse full of illegal drugs and hired muscle, as well as one of the ringleaders in custody, and all of it together made this more than an independent-department investigation. Along with the recordings they’d made from Crosby’s bugs, as well as Crosby’s own testimony and reports, the warehouse, Carlyle and Chadwick’s imprisonment, Pidgeon Smalls in custody, and Marcy Beauchamp’s very presence all worked to support their case that the Sons of the Blood not only existed but had been funded from within upper levels of the police department.
If nothing else, it was a drug bust of massive proportions, and SCTF was not equipped to handle it.