Текст книги "Cold Blue"

Автор книги: Gary Neece

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Was it as innocuous as a person standing next to Jeff while he spoke or something more alarming, like Jeff suspecting—or knowing—that Thorpe’s line was tapped? Jeff also said he wouldn’t have time to meet for lunch. Everyone makes time to eat.

What was it that his friend knew?

Sunday

February 11

Early morning

THORPE CLOSED THE DOORS ON Deborah’s barn and pulled his gear bag from the trunk of the Mustang. He climbed a set of stairs to an unused apartment loft and retrieved the AR he’d stashed there before going to work. Tonight he’d destroy the parts of the weapon that could provide damning evidence upon examination.

Loaded with equipment, Thorpe stepped out into the dark cold morning. A couple of lights were on inside Deborah’s house, but it looked as if he’d slip away without encountering the woman. Thorpe crossed the gravel road and began trekking through the woods toward the rear of his property. Despite what he’d told Collins, Al and Trixie had been left outside; he hoped to find both animals alive and well.

Thorpe now had several items on long-term loan from SID, including the pair of night-vision goggles he currently wore. He hadn’t signed out any of the equipment, and eventually they’d be discovered missing. He was surprised the high-priced gear hadn’t disappeared before now. The procedures for checking out equipment at the office had always been lax. Officers and supervisors alike could borrow gear in excess of $20,000 a piece without many checks and balances.

Thorpe used the hands-free NVDs to traverse east and slightly north toward the creek that ran behind his house. The temperature hovered a degree or two above freezing. Wet from an afternoon of melting sleet, the soggy foliage allowed Thorpe to travel silently through the woods.

As he picked his way through the trees, he thought about the conversations he’d had with Agent Collins. Something didn’t track with the woman. She’d invited him for drinks, and while he didn’t consider himself unattractive, he was far from irresistible. Given the body language the other agents had shown, he doubted she routinely extended such invitations. Furthermore, he was fairly certain she specialized in offender profiling.

Just great, he had an FBI criminal profiler for a “partner.”

Thorpe wondered if the free time he’d been given was actually rope with which to hang himself. He also questioned whether other investigators in the unit were being outfitted with GPS tracking devices. Maybe he wasn’t the only officer under suspicion.

The FBI had been involved in the investigation for less than twenty-four hours. The only loose end that could have unraveled so fast was Kaleb Moment. But if the kid had gone straight to the feds, Thorpe figured he’d be sitting in a jail cell right now instead of trekking through the woods with a rifle strapped to his chest. Thorpe decided he’d have to do a little investigating of his own. But first he needed to collect the remains of Thadius Shaw and dispose of them somewhere far from his property.

Thorpe neared his barn and heard a low-pitched growl. A few moments of silence were followed by the thrashings of a large animal with bad intentions. Not wanting to lose an appendage to his own dog, Thorpe called out. Recognizing his master’s voice, the shepherd slowed but appeared unsure of the man with the bulky NVDs on his head. Trixie. When she got close enough to identify Thorpe’s scent, her hackles lowered and her ears perked up. She greeted him with a wagging tail and licks to the face. Several seconds later, Al joined the party.

“Good to see you, guys. I reckon that means there’s no trouble on the Ponderosa.” After a quick ear scratching, he sent the two dogs out on a search of the property. No reason to take chances.

Thorpe connected the electrical cords to the Christmas lights in the tree line. He scanned the woods for movement. The dogs roamed the property seemingly unconcerned. He felt secure to move about but kept the AR shouldered as walked toward his front door.

For peace of mind, Thorpe had placed drops of candle wax in the crevices of the doors and windows. A broken seal would indicate he’d had a visitor while away. The front door appeared to be intact.

Thorpe called his dogs, unlocked the door, and gave the order to search. He immediately knew something was wrong. Al and Trixie lingered in certain areas, pausing to gather information through their sense of smell. Muzzles to the floor, the dogs disappeared into Thorpe’s darkened bedroom.

Thorpe retreated from the doorway into the shadows. Acutely aware of his surroundings, he remained still and tried to gauge from where the attack would come.

Was someone inside, or was his attention being purposely diverted?

Al and Trixie hadn’t made a sound. Not wanting to give away his position but fearing for his dogs, Thorpe called the two animals and then changed positions. Unharmed, the shepherds scrambled out the door and located their hunkered-down master. Maybe no one occupied his house now, but he was sure someone had been inside during his absence. Thorpe ordered Al and Trixie to stay while he went forward to clear his residence.

Clearing structures of armed men is dangerous work. Doing so safely, with one person, is impossible. There are countless angles from which one can be targeted inside a multi-roomed building—and every time one moves, those angles change. Nevertheless, Thorpe searched each room until satisfied the interior was secure. Finished, he exited the front and circled around to the back door where he found a compromised seal; no question now, there had been an intruder.

The discovery was disconcerting. He doubted Phipps had the knowledge or resources to enter his home without engaging his dogs. And they didn’t appear to be injured or lethargic from having been drugged.

Had the FBI searched his residence while he was at work?

Thorpe re-entered his home and called his dogs. He followed Al and Trixie through the rooms, taking note of where they lingered. Whoever had been in his house spent considerable time in his closets and dresser drawers—common places for hiding objects.

Thorpe was constantly amazed during search warrant services. No matter how smart criminals thought they were, they almost always hid their illicit treasures in a bedroom closet. Without fail, there would be something illegal somewhere in the master bedroom. Regular citizens used the same location to hide their valuables. Burglars know that, it’s the first place they look after yanking the flat screen off the living room wall.

Someone had been in Thorpe’s house looking for some thing—not someone.

ACROSS THE GRAVEL ROAD FROM Thorpe’s property, forty yards east of the out of season Christmas-light display, a patch of forest floor inched into the darkened recesses of timber. In the blackness, the pile of burlap and jute with intertwined natural foliage rose from the ground and walked away on two legs. The man inside the self-constructed ghillie suit made scarcely a sound as he glided deeper and deeper into the woods.

Sunday

February 11

Morning

IN LITTLE OVER AN HOUR, Thorpe was expected to report to SID, where he’d squander another day shackled to the beguiling Agent Collins. Earlier, he’d dropped Al and Trixie off at the K-9 center located on the grounds of TPD’s Training Academy. Fearing for his dogs’ safety, Thorpe had talked the sergeant over the K-9 unit into housing them for a few days while he “took care of some business.”

Before meeting Collins, Thorpe wanted to have a word with Hull. The supervisor over Homicide hadn’t been answering his cell or pager. Thorpe had called the Detective Division and learned that Hull was in a meeting with the FBI. Wanting to speak with the man as soon as he was free, Thorpe had started toward the Main Station. He was pulling the borrowed Mustang into the underground parking area when Hull finally returned his calls.

“Can you spare a minute for a chat?” Thorpe asked.

“Yeah, bud. Let’s do a face-to-face. What’s your twenty?”

“Just drove underneath you.”

“How ‘bout I meet you at the River Parks Café? Say ten minutes?”

“See you there,” Thorpe confirmed.

Thorpe put away his phone and left the parking garage. Hull must have been near people he didn’t trust; he’d never before referred to Thorpe as “bud.” The detective clearly wasn’t comfortable speaking over the phone. And he’d suggested they meet at the café—even though both men were already at the Main Station. The café was a small outdoor eatery on the banks of the Arkansas River. In weather like this, the place wouldn’t even be open for business.

The café sat nearby. Thorpe bypassed its parking area and stationed himself on the northeast corner of 31^st and Riverside Drive. Ten minutes later, Thorpe called Hull on his cell.

“You ninety-seven yet?” Thorpe asked, using the ten-code officers used when arriving on scene.

“I’m pulling in now.”

Thorpe changed the meeting place. “I’m hungry. How ‘bout we meet at BBD instead?”

BBD was local talk for Brookside by Day, a popular restaurant in the Brookside area. The Brookside district featured several trendy restaurants, cafes, and bars. BBD should be bustling with church crowds at this time; the accompanying chatter would provide excellent background noise to muffle any conversation the two men might have.

“Okay…am I a monkey or something?” Hull asked.

“See you there in five,” Thorpe replied. Then to himself, “A monkey or something?” and let out a short laugh as he deciphered Hull’s meaning.

Waiting, Thorpe watched Hull turn from southbound Riverside Drive onto East 31^st Street. Thorpe stayed put for a couple of minutes, trying to ascertain whether or not Hull was in fact “a monkey.” If the man did have a tail, it was cast in the air and not dragging the ground. Thorpe scanned the sky then drove to the new destination another mile to the east. He parked behind BBD and walked in the back entrance. He found Hull waiting inside.

Thorpe laughed. “Am I a monkey or something?”

“Fuck you. I’m not used to this cloak and dagger shit.”

“Obviously.”

“You, on the other hand, seem to be right at home.”

“Undercover work…I’m used to it,” Thorpe explained.

“Yeah, right.”

The sergeants were shown to a table and both ordered coffee. Hull spoke first.

“So what the hell is going on?”

“I was kind of hoping you’d tell me.”

The two men stared at each other—each trying to force the other’s hand.

“Look, John, we can sit here all day, but the fact is, you need me a hell of a lot more than I need you.”

Good point.

“You’re right, Bob. But I don’t think you’d want to hear what I have to say, even if I did feel inclined to talk.”

“Let me ask you this—completely off the record by the way—you have my word.” Hull’s word meant something to Thorpe. Most men’s didn’t. “All this shit going on…does it have anything to do with your family’s murder?”

Thorpe sat in stunned silence for a full minute as he made up his mind whether or not to answer the question. Finally he lifted his head and met Hull’s eyes.

“It has everything to do with their murder.”

“I see. And how good is your information? In other words, is there a possibility you might be mistaken?”

“One-hundred percent positive.”

“Shit,” Hull mumbled.

“Yeah, shit.”

Thorpe looked across the table at his colleague and could see that the man struggled with a moral dilemma. He hadn’t wanted to involve Hull, but the detective had already reached certain conclusions. Plus, Bob wouldn’t tell Thorpe a thing if he smelled a line of crap.

After much mental wrangling, Hull let out a long breath. “What do you need from me, John?”

“For some reason, I’ve captured the attention of the feds. Why?”

“I don’t know…I don’t. We’re being kept in the dark as far as the FBI’s role in this investigation is concerned. We’re doing our own thing, and the FBI’s doing theirs. We share our information with them; they don’t share shit with us. They were granted access to all personnel files, including yours.”

“But you knew I was being looked at specifically. Otherwise we wouldn’t be meeting like this,” Thorpe pointed out.

“The only reason I know you’re a blip on their radar is because of Agent Collins. She requested to meet with me privately. She showed up with a stack of personnel files saying she wanted to get a feel for potential suspects. Most of the files she brought along belonged to officers with military or SWAT backgrounds. Your file was somewhere in the middle of the stack, and when we discussed it, Collins acted rather flippant. I got the impression it was just that—an act. She was trying to discover as much as she could about you without alerting me to the intensity of her interest in you. I think the other officers’ files were there as cover. Of course, I can’t really tell you anything that substantiates my suspicions.”

Thorpe smiled. “You don’t need to, Bob. You’re pretty sharp for a tailless monkey.”

“She’s sharp, too—Agent Collins.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

“Some information about you I had to pass along. They’d find it sooner or later. Some information I kept to myself, particularly about your father and your extracurricular activities inside the ring. But if I found it, they’ll find it.”

“I appreciate that, Bob. If you don’t mind me asking, what did you learn about my father?”

“Not much. He was probably Army Special Forces before he went to work for a private security company. I figure the work he did for this ‘company’ was related to his Army skills. I also figure he passed some of those skills on to his son.”

“You’ve done a lot of figuring. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what my father did for a living. I know he wanted to keep me apart from it, but his idea of recreational activities did make for an interesting childhood.”

“I bet.”

“I think you started figuring I might have been involved in this mess before the feds even showed up. You want to tell me how?”

Hull shook his head. “I got a lot of stuff that doesn’t add up to shit. Just had a feeling…like when you had a feeling some crankster was lying in wait with a shotgun.”

Thorpe considered the statement. “People ought to trust their instincts more. I’d best get going; I’m supposed to hook up with Doctor Collins in twenty minutes. Don’t want her to think I’m up to no good.”

Thorpe took out a piece of paper, wrote down three names, and passed the note to Hull. “Those assholes are also involved. I’ve placed a document and corroborating evidence in a safety deposit box at the MidFirst Bank at 91^st Street and Yale. If something happens to me before they answer for what they did, make sure you retrieve and use it. By the way, I didn’t have anything to do with Cole Daniels’ death; I think they killed him trying to tie up loose ends.”

Thorpe rose, plopped down a couple of bucks for his untouched coffee, and made his way toward the back door.

“Hey, John...”

“Yeah?”

Still seated, Hull stared into his cup. He raised his head and peered into Thorpe’s eyes.

“I’d have done the same thing.”

Thorpe nodded, turned, and walked out into the bright February afternoon. He had a Marine Force-Recon/TPD sniper trying to kill him and an FBI criminal profiler trying to arrest him. The chances of Thorpe avoiding death or prison were almost zero.

Sunday

February 11

Morning

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, THORPE ENTERED his office to find Agent Collins waiting on his couch. She was dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a dark, snug sweater.

“Blue jeans? You feel bad about outclassing me in the sushi joint?”

“Don’t need a suit for that,” Collins said with a wry smile.

“Ouch. FBI one…PD zero. What’s on the agenda tonight, more of the same?”

“Pretty much.”

“Ready to get going?”

Collins remained on the couch. “Let’s discuss some of your troops first. Give me your impression of them.”

“I can do that in the car.”

“Please.” Collins gestured for Thorpe to have a seat behind his desk.

She was stalling, probably giving one of her colleagues time to hardwire a tracking device to the Mustang. Thorpe sat and defended each and every one of his troops for the next twenty minutes. When the charade ended, Collins announced she was ready to leave. To Thorpe’s surprise, he successfully talked her into taking one of SID’s extra cars. She must have anticipated his request. He wondered if all the division’s surplus units were now outfitted with GPS.

Thorpe retrieved a couple of bags from the Mustang and tossed them into the small backseat of the green Jeep Wrangler. Adding to his suspicion, he noticed Collins had a bag already packed. They both climbed into the four-wheel drive vehicle and discussed which addresses they’d survey during the next twelve hours.

Every officer assigned a protective detail had been granted time off with pay. That meant Phipps had the freedom of choosing a place and time to target Thorpe. Meanwhile, Thorpe remained tethered to a federal agent. In addition to avoiding death, he’d have to deal with the mental probing of the good doctor. He felt the beginning of a headache, a condition he rarely experienced unless administered by someone’s fist. Accumulated stress had exacted a toll on his body and mind. He’d spent half of last night wrestling with the rigid corpse of the late Mr. Shaw while wondering if the FBI were going to pounce at any minute.

Thorpe thought he might have to use his first-ever sick day tomorrow, which would really put the FBI on high alert. They’d surely figure he was on the prowl. But for now, he’d just concentrate on two things: not getting arrested or killed in the next twelve hours.

The Jeep was equipped with a hard top and limo tint. Because of the added privacy, Thorpe didn’t cover his face with the hoodie as he and his denim-clad federal agent pulled away from the office.

“Will we be together all night, or will you give me a reprieve for a few hours?” Thorpe asked.

“Why, you don’t like my company?”

“It’s not that. I just have some people to kill, and you’re putting a cramp in my style.” Thorpe was joking—well, he was pretending to be joking.

How would she react to the comment?

After several moments of silence, Collins finally responded. “Is that one of your attempts at humor again?”

“Was it funny?”

“No.”

“Then it wasn’t. I’m always humorous when I make the attempt.”

“You realize I am a federal agent assigned to this investigation. It’s not in your best interest to make those kind of statements in case one or both of us end up in federal court.”

“Shit, you’ve lost your entire sense of humor overnight.”

Thorpe had a feeling they were being monitored and recorded. She was trying to avoid ambiguous conversation. He decided to have a little fun.

“Agent Collins, what are you doing?”

”What are you talking about?”

Thorpe spoke with feigned agitation. “Agent Collins, please do not grab my crotch again. I have a girlfriend, and while I find you mildly attractive, I am not interested.”

“What the hell? Have you lost your mind? I haven’t touched you.”

“Agent Collins, please pull your sweater back down…I don’t want to see those. They are hideous!”

“Sergeant Thorpe! I don’t know what you’re trying to pull but…”

Thorpe cut her off. “Oh my God, pull your pants back up. Holy shit…when was the last time that thing saw a pair of scissors?”

“Sergeant Thorpe!”

“Screaming my name doesn’t do it for me. Damn, it looks like you have Don King in a leg lock down there.”

Collins flushed red. He couldn’t tell if it was from anger or embarrassment. A deep inhalation chambered a bellow, but then a look of recognition washed over her face.

“You think I’m wearing a wire?”

She still looked pissed.

“Aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Is someone listening to us?”

“No.”

“If there is—they’re laughing their asses off.”

“You’re a prick. I thought you’d lost your damned mind.”

Collins face began to regain its natural color, and Thorpe heard her giggle as she repeated, “Don King in a leg lock. Ugh, you’re an asshole.”

“Admitted. What would you do if one of your FBI buddies talked to you like this?”

“I’d chew his ass up one side and down the other. I’d let him know if he ever did it a second time, it’d be his last.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“Based on what information?” Collins asked.

“Based on how your coworkers act around you. They treat you like you’re a real…”

“Bitch? They might be right.”

“How ‘bout me… going to write me up?”

“You? No. I have to work with those guys…” Collins had a slight smile as she completed her thought. “You, on the other hand, I’ll never have to see your sorry ass again.”

“Unless it’s in federal court.”

Thorpe doubted Collins honesty; he figured the conversation was being monitored. Plus, she’d forgiven his outburst way too easily. Thorpe pictured a room full of suits all nodding their heads when the word “bitch” was mentioned.

A dispatcher making an announcement over the protective detail’s sub-fleet interrupted their verbal Judo.

“All units be advised a large group is gathering outside the rally at the Main Station. Officers on scene are requesting additional units. The crowd is growing in size and in animosity toward police.”

In response to the recent killings, a famous figure in the black community had scheduled a press conference at the Main Station to be held tomorrow. Hoping to capitalize on the national attention, the KKK had organized a rally at the same location for today.

Klansmen were experts at getting police officers injured and sued while at the same time getting protestors arrested. Because officers have a sworn duty to protect all citizens, they are called upon to provide security for these idiots while they spew their bullshit. Klansmen claim ulterior motives, but their true intentions are to prod protestors into such frenzy that they do something stupid. Unfortunately, there are always more than a few willing to fall victim.

Demonstrators often wrongly assume that the police agree with the Klansmen’s views since they’re providing security. Regardless, cops are the only thing standing between them and the devils in the pointy hats. This results in protestors battling officers while Klansmen speed away with their first-cousin wives at the wheel. If cities would just refuse to provide security, there wouldn’t be public protests by hate groups like the KKK or Westboro Baptist Church; stupid they are, suicidal they are not.

For this rally, mounted patrol and uniformed officers had been assigned as security but not in sufficient numbers. The ongoing protection details had strained resources. Command had hoped the event’s early hour would keep things relatively peaceful. Based on radio traffic, Thorpe figured those hopes had been dashed.

Despite the call for help, Agent Collins grabbed the radio and advised all units on protective detail to remain in position.

Thorpe took exception. “If a cop gets hurt because they don’t have enough bodies, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

“And if a cop gets killed because we abandon our posts there’s going to be hell to pay.”

“At least let the relief units start.”

“Fine.”

Thorpe picked up the microphone and instructed those units to start to the rally to assist on-scene officers. Thorpe then changed directions toward downtown.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Collins asked.

“We’re headed to the officers in need.”

“No, we are not. We will continue with our assignment.”

“Well, I’m going to help those officers. Do you want me to let you out?”

“Sergeant, who is in charge here?”

“You are.”

“Then you will turn this car around and continue with our current assignment.”

“No, I will not. Now unless you plan on physically restraining me, this argument is over.”

Thorpe risked a glance at Agent Collins, who stared straight ahead with a clenched jaw. At least for the moment, the jaw was shut.

Thorpe traveled down the Broken Arrow Expressway, taking the Inner Dispersal Loop around the south side of the city. He exited onto Denver Avenue and turned north. When he reached 6^th Street, he found a blockaded intersection. Vehicles couldn’t travel in front of the Main Station. A half-block from the agitated crowd, Thorpe jumped the curb and parked.

This was exactly what Thorpe had feared would happen, and he felt personally responsible for having set events in motion. This was not about race. This was about some crooked-assed cops, a few of whom were black, who’d made a fatal error. Unfortunately, Thorpe couldn’t get on the news and announce the reason behind the killings. But if an innocent person were hurt—and God forbid it be a fellow officer—he’d never forgive himself. He had enough blood on his hands already.

Investigators with the Intelligence Unit usually integrated themselves into volatile crowds. Whether it was the KKK, biker rallies, or those “Occupy” idiots, the Intel guys were in the mix looking for troublemakers before they could instigate civil disobedience—today’s politically correct name for a riot. In addition to infiltrating the crowd, one or more usually filmed its members. The department liked to have video that contradicted a demonstrator’s edited version of events. Because SID had been depleted by the formation of protective details, no such provisions were available for this rally.

Thorpe concealed a radio inside his jacket and ran the ear-bud out his collar. He left the Jeep, walking briskly toward 6^th Street with Collins in hot pursuit. Thorpe rounded the corner on the south side of 6^th and noticed additional responding units. They included a couple of unmarked cars. He recognized two day-shift narcotics investigators pile out of an Impala. Thorpe flagged them over.

“What’s up, sarge?”

“Stay next to me. Look for troublemakers. And let’s try not to get our asses kicked.”

On the north side of 6^th Street, Thorpe saw a man with a red beard in a white robe with dark sunglasses preaching hatred behind a podium. The man’s pulpit sat atop the first of three sets of concrete stairs. He was surrounded by four hooded friends with so much pride they chose to hide their faces. Uniformed cops covered the steps in front of and behind the Klansmen. The Mounted Patrol Unit—six officers on horseback—completed the detail. The police presence continued to grow.

Thorpe and company approached the protesters from behind. Though the crowd was racially diverse, the majority was black. Most of those assembled appeared peaceful, but a small core had trouble on their minds.

“Agent Collins, circle around, get your identification out, and join the officers across the street,” Thorpe ordered.

“I’m coming with you.”

“I need you away from here. I’ve seen this before. There are some in this group looking for any opportunity to cause trouble. And believe me…you’re an opportunity.”

“I can take care of myself,” she said, clearly insulted.

Thorpe swung around and pointed his index finger at Collins. “I’m sure you can. But if someone decides to cop a feel, and we have to take him down, the fight’s going to be on. Then all those officers across the street will have to come over here to save our asses. And if one of them gets hurt, it’ll be on you.”

Collins conceded to the logic; she nodded and took a circular route toward the uniformed officers. When she neared the line of blue, she displayed her identification and was allowed inside the perimeter. Thorpe watched her climb the steps and assume an elevated position where she could observe.

A few minutes ago, the man behind the podium had been citing FBI statistics in an effort to show that blacks commit far more crimes against whites than vice versa. The tempered comments had been but a warm up. The speaker had ratcheted up his rhetoric; he now spouted inflammatory remarks along evolutionary lines.

Thorpe felt pride as he looked upon the stoic faces of the officers, many of whom were black, protecting a man even as he insulted them. Thorpe’s pride in his fellow officers was tainted with personal shame, because he knew it was his actions that had tarnished one of the finest police departments in the country.

Thorpe estimated the crowd to number three hundred plus, with fifty or so having the potential to make real trouble. They were the young and angry, and most of them had worked their way toward the front of the pack. Within this assemblage, Thorpe identified an even smaller clique of five. Each one wore long white t-shirts visible below their coats. All but one hurled racial insults at the officers across the street. It was the quiet one in the group who most troubled Thorpe. Younger than the rest, maybe sixteen or seventeen, the kid paced like a caged predator. He appeared to be working up the courage to do something he shouldn’t. Whatever he was planning, it bothered him so much he’d disconnected from his surroundings. His attention had turned inward.

Thorpe risked moving through the crowd to get a closer look. The three undercover investigators managed to maneuver within several feet of the clique. The quiet one continued to pace behind his buddies, sweating despite the cool weather. Thorpe noticed the kid’s eyes flash downward on two separate occasions.

Shit.

People in possession of illegal firearms often touched them or looked down to where they were concealed. They feared the weapon produced an identifiable outline in their clothing. Instead of a bulge giving them away, it was usually their behavior.

Thorpe glanced at the two narcotics officers. A nod of their heads indicated they’d also recognized the potential threat. The tricky part was what to do about it. Taking down an armed man in a hostile crowd does not constitute easy work, but Thorpe had to step in before the kid committed to his foolish intentions.

The three undercover officers formed a small huddle and discussed their play.

“Snatch and grab,” Thorpe began. “The kid is the football; I’m going to wrap him up and pin his arms to his side. Tanner, as soon as I do, you grab his legs. Frank, clear a path for us to the skirmish line; knock the piss out of anyone who gets in our way. Got it?”

Both men nodded. Thorpe looked up and locked eyes with Collins. He made a circle above his head with his finger and pointed down indicating the three of them. Then—continuing with the football analogy—made a motion similar to the tomahawk chop toward the officers across the street. He didn’t want the skirmish line to think the three of them and their football were demonstrators breaking ranks. Collins appeared to understand his message. She descended the stairs and spoke to the sergeant in charge.