Conklin and I watched from our unmarked car at the crest of a hill where two roads met in a Y-shaped intersection; Apollo to the left, Thornton straight ahead.
The house where Leonard Barkley lived with his wife was one of dozens of small, plain stucco-and-wood-slat houses on both sides of Thornton Avenue.
We saw movement in the Barkley house as the occupants walked past their ground-floor windows. Mercifully, there were no pedestrians. No one was out mowing the lawn, washing the car, or engaging in other activities that would put bystanders in the way of gunfire.
Covington and his team were in an armored vehicle on Thornton. Others of the SWAT team had set up a perimeter ringing the house, extending the line down the hill.
We didn’t want to enter the house—yet.
A man like Barkley would have access to firearms as well as improvised explosives, booby traps, God only knew what else. We’d put a spike strip in front of his vehicle. If he tried to make a run for it, he’d blow his tires and we’d have him.
I had Barkley’s home and cell numbers. I checked in with Joe, who told me he was still with Dave Channing. He told me that he’d spoken with Julie’s nanny, Gloria Rose, who was now in charge of our darling and our home.
I asked myself, as I always did when my gun was in my hand, why I thought I had the right to take chances like this when I had a child. But I didn’t take time to search for an answer. A very dangerous man, likely a killer with an agenda, was inside his house only thirty yards away.
I looked at Richie. He said, “I prayed. We’re covered.” I grinned at the man I loved like a brother and trusted with my life, just as he trusted me with his.
We gripped hands for a second or two, then I spoke to Covington over our channel. I waited until his BearCat pulled up next to our car and in front of Barkley’s house. Then I called the subject on his landline.
I let the phone ring until a man’s voice spoke on the outgoing recording. Same thing happened when I called Barkley’s cell.
I did as requested and left a message.
“Mr. Barkley, this is Sergeant Lindsay Boxer, SFPD. I need to speak with you. Please come out your front door with your hands up. Do it now or we’re coming in.”
No one picked up the phone, but there was a response, the sound of breaking glass coming from a dormer on the second floor. A gun barrel poked through the opening and shots cracked the air. Covington’s team let loose with a fusillade of gunfire followed by a flashbang grenade.
The explosion rang out up and down the street, and finally there was a tense silence.
Time to go in.