Bosch’s voice was cut off by a loud crashing sound followed by the squeal of tires on asphalt and then a final sound of crunching metal.
“Harry!” Ballard yelled into the phone.
She got no response.
“Harry? Are you there?”
There was still no answer, and then she heard his voice, but it was muffled and distant. She couldn’t make out the words.
“Harry? Can you hear me?”
Then she heard him clearly, though it was also obvious he was not talking into the phone.
“No, no, no, no…”
And then came the shots. Clear, sharp reports. First one shot, followed by the shattering of glass, then a hail of gunfire. Too many shots in too few seconds to count. And then a final shot, muffled and spaced long enough after the others to be the coup de grâce, the kill shot.
“Harry!” Ballard yelled.
She yanked the wheel of her car into a U-turn. She hit the siren and code 3 lights hidden in the front grille and took off toward Santa Monica.