“No-that’s the cop’s radio,” the guard replied. “Dispatch is asking him to check in.”

“Do you know their procedures?” the Major asked. “Can you respond for the policeman?”

Mullins, the Judas security guard, hesitated. It had been two years since he was kicked off the Oakland police force, caught stealing drugs and guns out of police property rooms. He couldn’t get a decent job anywhere in the Bay Area, although he had never been charged with any crime because the department wanted the incident kept quiet. He finally found a job with a private security company in Sacramento. But he was unable to get a gun permit and make the big bucks of an armed security guard, so he made minimum wage as a seasonal-hire watchman at Sacramento Live! and other locations around town. He lived in a filthy fifty-dollar-a-week hotel room near the Greyhound bus terminal in the downtown area.

But Mullins now had additional sources of income. He had always loved motorcycles, and when he got kicked off the Oakland force, this passion turned in a dark direction: He became a Satan’s Brotherhood recruit. The Brotherhood paid him well to simply look the other way when the gang wanted to steal some fuel from a refinery, chemicals from a warehouse, or pharmaceuticals from a medical supply store.

His conspiracy activities were no longer for the benefit of Satan’s Brotherhood, however. Two weeks ago, a couple of paramilitary guys with German accents had approached him and offered almost a half-year’s worth of wages for one night’s work. He readily agreed. All he had to do was brief the head of the group on the security procedures when the cash boxes were being moved, and open a door when instructed. He’d make five thousand dollars on the spot.

But he never expected these guys to be so bloodthirsty. Every private security officer had been executed on the spot, even the unarmed watchmen. And now, instead of being given his money and let go, he had been dragged upstairs by one of the Germans to explain the cash room routine. He hesitated.

“Go, Mullins. Answer them. Now!”

“But I don’t know this department’s codes or procedures…”

“Go! It must be answered. Tell them everything is okay.”

Mullins walked up to the security desk and picked up the beeping police radio. Hesitantly, he keyed the mike button. “Security One-Seven, go ahead.”

“Security One-Seven, roger, One John Two-One is requesting a 940 at your 925.”

Oh shit, he thought-Sacramento uses nine-codes instead of ten-codes. It had been ages since he’d used any radio codes at all. He figured that 925 meant “location,” but he had no idea what a 940 was. Probably some sort of meeting. “Ah… roger, tell One John Twenty-One that I’ll be done here in thirty minutes and I’ll meet him at…”-he remembered that the county jail was only about three blocks away-“…at the jail. Out.”

“Roger, Security One-Seven. KMA clear.”

“That was not Rusty Caruthers,” LaFortier said grimly. Paul could see his partner’s mind racing, turning scenarios and possibilities and explanations over and over in his head. But after several long moments, all he said was, “Shit.”

“Maybe it was one of the private security guys, answering Caruthers’s radio,” Paul McLanahan offered.

“Then why didn’t he say so? Why didn’t he say, ‘The cop’s in the bathroom, I’ll tell him you want him to call in ASAP,’ or something,” LaFortier said. “No. This guy tried to answer the radio as if he was Rusty. Something’s going on.” He put the car in gear and pulled back onto the street. “Let’s cruise around the complex and take a look.”

“Ein Polizeiwagen kommt durch die Seventh Street,” one of the lookouts reported on the radio. “Der gleiche Wagen wie vorher.”

“He bought it,” Mullins said nervously.

“Nein,” the Major said. Just then, they heard a faint metallic slam-the tiny shuttered steel window on the cash room door had opened, then closed and locked. The Major deployed his men on either side of the door, and he and Mullins took cover behind the security desk.

“Attention in the cash room,” the Major shouted. “You are surrounded. My men and I have taken your guards and police officers prisoner, and we have already taken the other eight cash bins. You will come out of that room immediately and surrender yourselves. If you come out now, you will not be harmed.”

“We called the police!” a voice called from inside the cash room. “They’re on their way!”

“We have disabled the phone lines, alarms, and power to the entire complex,” the Major said. “The police were already here, but we convinced them all is well. No help will be arriving. It is advisable you surrender and come out at once. If we become too impatient, we may have no choice but to execute our hostages. The decision is yours.” He turned to Mullins and asked in a low voice, “Where would the money be kept right now?”

“They’re probably locking the uncounted money away in the bins, getting ready to put it all in the safe,” Mullins replied.

“Does the manager have access to the safe once it is locked? Is it on a time lock?”

“I don’t know,” said Mullins. The leader looked angry, so he decided he’d better answer with something more than this real fast. “But I think… yes, it is.”

“Then we need to blow that door open at once, before they put the money in the safe,” the Major said. “The dynamite, right away!” His men moved quickly to set explosive charges on the cash room door.

Patrick McLanahan was still waiting in the hallway outside the surgical suite, dressed in his plastic surgical outfit. It had been more than twenty minutes since the obstetrician, the anesthesiologist, several nurses, and another doctor Patrick did not recognize finished scrubbing and entered the OR.

A nurse came trotting down the hallway with a cart. He held out a hand to get her attention. “I’m the father,” he said. “What’s happening? I’m supposed to be in there with my wife…”

“The doctor will let you know as soon as possible,” she said.

Patrick held the door open after the nurse rushed inside. The scrub area was to the right, separated from the operating room by a curtain. It was pulled aside, and he saw a cart with what he recognized as a defibrillator-a device used to shock an irregularly beating heart back into a normal rhythm-being pushed over to the operating table. Gowned and masked medical personnel surrounded the table. “What’s going on?” Patrick shouted.

Several heads turned in his direction. He heard the obstetrician’s voice shout, “Close those doors!”

“Dammit, tell me what the hell’s going on!” Patrick shouted.

“Mr McLanahan, let us do our work now,” the obstetrician said. “Nurse…” The doors to the surgical suite were dosed, and a moment later a nurse came out, took Patrick by the arm, and instructed him to remain in the hallway.

“What’s happening?” Patrick repeated. “Is Wendy all right?”

“It’s a critical moment, that’s all,” the nurse said.

“What in hell does that mean?” Patrick exploded. “Is she all right?”

“The doctor will let you know as soon as he can,” the nurse said. “Please wait here.” And she hurried back in without saying anything else.

It was a nightmare, Patrick thought, an absolute nightmare…

As expected, they found Caruthers’s squad car parked on the K Street Mall itself, on the south side of the Sacramento Live! complex. Off-duty officers were allowed to use city squad cars to transport prisoners if necessary; and although the K Street Mall was a pedestrian mall, off-limits to all vehicles, the K Street Mall shop owners and the public welcomed cops parking there.

Sacramento Live! occupied almost an entire city block, between Sixth and Seventh streets and K and J streets. Along L-shaped alley that snaked around the complex from Seventh Street all the way to J Street cut off the northeast corner of the block. From Seventh, LaFortier shined his searchlight down the alley and saw only Dumpsters. “Looks okay to me,” McLanahan said.