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Ballard saw Bosch drop to the ground and crawl to the side of the Cherokee for cover.
The van started forward and she saw the flash of gunfire frominside as the driver shot at Bosch through the open passenger-side window. But Bosch got to a safety point against the rear tire of his car.
Then came the explosion of glass as sniper shots pierced the van’s windshield and took out the driver. The van kept moving for twenty-five yards and drove directly into one of the concrete pedestals of the parking lot’s light poles. It stopped and Ballard saw no movement from inside.
“Clear the van!” Olmstead barked. “Clear the van!”
On the wide screen, Ballard saw FBI cars race across the lot to the van. She saw Bosch crawl back to Dehaven. He shoved the gun away and put a hand to Dehaven’s neck to check for a pulse. He bent over the body and turned an ear to listen for breath.
He straightened up and looked directly at one of the cameras.
“Dehaven’s down for good,” he said.
Agents wearing black assault gear were now on foot and moving in on the van, their weapons trained on the driver’s position. One agent got to the door and opened it. The driver tumbled out to the ground. Another agent opened the side door while a third covered. They moved in weapons-first and in a moment backed out.
Ballard heard the all-clear call on the radio.
“Spencer, get us over there,” Olmstead said.
Spencer jumped up and went through a curtain to the front cab of the van. Olmstead followed him and took the front passenger seat. The engine roared to life and took off with such a jerk that Ballard was thrown into the back doors. They popped open and she fell to the street.
The van didn’t stop. From the ground, she watched it drive away.
30
BY THE TIMEBallard got to the parking lot, agents were already stringing yellow tape around the shooting scene, using the light poles as the corners of a huge restricted area. People, including many of the roller-hockey players, gathered at the perimeter. Ballard was attempting to lift the tape and walk under when an agent in bad-ass black commando clothes and gear stopped her. She identified herself, but he would not let her into the crime scene without permission from his superiors.
“Then call Olmstead,” she said. “Tell him Ballard wants in.”
While the agent whispered into a wire-thin microphone attached to his earpiece, Ballard massaged her shoulder, which she had landed on hard when she fell out of the van.
“He said he’s coming,” the agent said.
“When?” Ballard demanded.
“Now.”
She saw Olmstead break away from a huddle of agents near the Cherokee and head toward her.
“Why’d you jump out of the van?” he asked.
“I didn’t,” Ballard said.
“What? We got here and you were gone.”
“Whatever. Can you tell this guy to let me in?”
“You don’t want to be here, Renée. This went sideways and the media is going to be all over it. Helicopters, cameras—you don’t want to be on video.”
She knew he was right but she didn’t want to leave.
“Then I want to talk to Bosch. Send him out here.”
“He’s being debriefed.”
“I don’t care. You’ll be talking to him for hours. I just need five minutes to make sure he’s okay.”
“All right, five minutes, then you get away from here.”
