Even Bishop never saw them coming—but suddenly there they were. Two helmeted men in black armor at the office door, one leveling an HK, the other handpumping a round into the chamber of a Super 90 12-gauge. Two more with CAR-15 assault rifles were at the far door, closing in. And from up the dark aisles came even more of them, stalking out of the shadows like killer phantoms. Red target lights lanced out and pegged the outlaws’ chests. The bay fluorescents flickered on above to reveal the snipers on the locker tops: three men kneeling up there, each training a Remington on the group below.
Finally, Inspector Ketchum strolled in from the office. He stepped casually between the two cops flanking the door. The wiry black man seemed small next to the others in their helmets and bulky Kevlar vests. He himself wore only a suit, it seemed, and a trenchcoat against the night mist—and of course his usual scowl of disdain for all mankind, particularly these dickheads.
“You’re fucked, boys, lay ’em down,” he rasped softly.
Shorty, with a guttural noise of rage, clenched his teeth and tensed to move, his shotgun stiffening. There was a whispered spit of air, a wet impact. Shorty’s shaved head exploded, sending a spindrift of blood over the face of Charlie nearby. Shorty, already dead, tilted back, then crumpled down. He made barely a sound in falling. Nothing, in fact, had been louder so far than Ketchum’s quiet rasp.
Charlie, his features sprayed with red, gaped, trembled. Piss darkened his jeans, pattered onto his boots. He let his semi slip from his lowered hand. It clattered weakly on the cement floor.
Steve raised his arms. The duffel bag fell off his shoulder. The Glock tumbled out of his limp fingers. It spun down, bounced off the cement end over end, and lay still.
All this seemed to happen in a single moment, and in that moment Bishop noticed something. The red target dot had gone out on Cobra’s chest. Steve, with his raised hands, was in front of him. He had blocked the sniper’s shot.
Cobra must’ve seen it, too, must’ve seen the way Steve was placed and how it shielded him. He shifted, just a little, but enough to move the duffel bag and hide his expression from Ketchum. Bishop’s glance went down. He saw Cobra’s hand begin to tighten on his .45.
Bishop dumped his duffel bag, raised his pistol to the side of the outlaw’s head.
“I’ll kill you, Co,” he said evenly. “Try it and I’ll kill you.”
Cobra turned to him—turned and looked, first into the barrel of the .38, then past the barrel into Bishop’s eyes. There was no surprise in that look. It was clear that in that instant he realized everything, the whole story, but in some part of his mind he must’ve already known, because there was nothing like surprise. He merely straightened where he stood, went taut with the betrayal. Thrummed with the force of his hatred. And he smiled, his craggy features arrowing upward.
“You’re dead,” he said.
Bishop answered by lifting his chin a little—as much as to say just drop the gun. And Cobra did drop it. Slung it away like an empty cigarette pack so that it hit the floor flat and spun across it to the feet of an oncoming rifleman. Cobra shrugged off his duffel bag, too. It dropped heavily with all its millions. But the outlaw never took his gaze away from Bishop—not his gaze or his hatred or his smile. He just nodded and went on smiling—as much as to say yes, yes, now he knew, and he was not surprised.
The cops, at the same time, were closing in, a tightening semicircle of gun barrels and unwavering stares. They were shouting.
“Hit the dirt, scumbags!”
“Down, down, down!”
And now they attacked.
One grabbed Charlie, knocked his legs out from under him with a sweeping kick.
“Get your fucking balls to the cement!”
And two grabbed Steve and slung him to the floor, screaming.
“Hit the fucking dirt!”
“Get down!”
The outlaws were forced to their bellies under a swarm of armored men. Their hands were wrenched behind them; their wrists were cuffed. Ketchum stood watching quietly, his hands in his pockets.
And at some point during all the chaos, someone made a mistake.
He was a big cop named Rittenbacher. While the other cops were going for the other bikers, he went for Cobra. He had an HK MP5 submachine gun trained on Cobra’s head. His voice was an animal snarl from under his helmet visor.
“On your dick, you piece of shit, or I’ll bust a cap in your fucking brain!”
Hands in the air, Cobra took a step back. To reach him, Rittenbacher pushed in front of Bishop, coming between Cobra and Bishop’s gun, cutting off Bishop’s shot. Holding his weapon in his right hand, he reached out and grabbed Cobra with his left. But by then Cobra had turned, had maneuvered himself so that now Rittenbacher had to step in front of him, which blocked the beads of the snipers, too.
Bishop saw what was happening. He shouted, “Blade!”
But it just went sour too fast.
Cobra’s right hand flashed down, flashed up—and now he had the long bayonet in it. He whipped the point of it into Rittenbacher’s side, into his heart and out, that quick. Rittenbacher stiffened. His eyes went wide. Any noise he made was lost in all the shouting.
In a single movement, Cobra grabbed Rittenbacher’s HK and shoved the big cop backward into Bishop. Rittenbacher dropped, a dead weight knocking Bishop to one side.
Cobra, meanwhile, ripped the HK’s strap clear of Rittenbacher’s shoulder. The gun was his.
Before anyone could react, he was charging at the door, charging straight at the startled Ketchum. He swept the machine gun over the room as he ran, sending a fusillade in every direction.
Bullets sparked off the concrete, off the metal lockers. Cops dropped to the floor as one. The snipers on the locker tops ducked their heads. Ketchum went for his Glock, but he was too late. Cobra barreled into him, shoved him aside.
The outlaw raced through the office door. Behind him, only Bishop, who’d struggled free of Rittenbacher’s corpse, was still standing. Bishop leveled his .38 as Cobra plunged into the office shadows.
But it was no good. There was no shot. Armored cops jumping to their feet blocked him. Ketchum blocked him, trying to get off a shot of his own.
Bishop cursed, He fought his way forward, weaving around the cops. He reached the office door just behind Ketchum. Ketchum went through, and Bishop followed.
By then Cobra had reached the door to the outside. He yanked it open. Ketchum raised his pistol quickly and fired. There was a white flash, a deafening blast.
But Cobra was gone, out the door, rocketing headlong into the night.
Bishop went after him.