“Melendez. You see any unfinished business?” he asked.
His earpiece crackled. “Negative. Six targets down. The couple and the four that arrived in the second SUV. Down hard.”
He agreed with that assessment. Hoffman had fired nothing but head and neck shots, connecting with each burst.
“Graves. You got any funky chatter out there?” asked Hoffman.
“No. Satellite push-to-talk traffic went quiet right before the vehicles moved in,” he said. “I’m monitoring the police frequencies closely. We heard the shots from here.”
Hoffman was mad at himself for that. He should have plugged the husband first, especially when he didn’t drop the pistol to catch her. Those five shots would guarantee a dozen or more 911 calls. The first two, fired by the other guy, might have kept people inside the townhomes guessing for a while before they finally decided to play it safe and call the police.
“Copy that,” said Hoffman. “Miralles. It’s all you. We’ll keep you covered.”
A car started on the other side of the street, down toward Foster Avenue. He caught a brief glimpse of Miralles’s ski-masked face and a gloved middle finger when her vehicle raced by.
“I saw that,” said Hoffman over the net.
“You were supposed to,” she said.
Miralles squeezed her car past the two idling SUVs and parked in the middle of the street. She worked the scene fast, first emptying the loose contents inside each SUV into a heavy-duty black rectangular gym bag. She’d search under the seats. Inside the glove box. The seat pockets. Everywhere.
Next, she searched the bodies, emptying pockets and tossing everything but the weapons into the bag. When she’d finished with that, Miralles removed a digital camera from one of the outer pockets of the gym bag and took close-up pictures of the Russians’ faces—what was left of them. A few dozen flashes later, she pocketed the camera and started on the fingerprints with a handheld scanning device. Thumbs and index fingers only.
“I’m getting a lot of police scanner traffic,” said Graves.
“How long do we have?” asked Hoffman.
“Software just picked up a unit responding with ‘one minute ETA.’ Get out of there now,” said Graves.
“Pack it up, Miralles,” said Hoffman, pulling down his ski mask. “Melendez. Blaze a trail for us.”
“I’m already Oscar Mike,” said Miralles, headed for her car with the gym bag.
An SUV parked about five spaces beyond Miralles’s sedan pulled into the street and stopped.
“Ready to roll,” said Melendez. “I can hear sirens. No lights yet.”
Hoffman could hear them, too. He climbed over the reclined driver’s seat and slid into place behind the steering wheel, then straightened his seat before starting the car. The keys had been in the ignition the entire time. He’d left them there when he’d rolled the windows down all the way to keep from slow cooking himself to death. The last thing he needed was to be fumbling for keys at a critical moment—like his escape. A quick scan of his mirrors caught some faint red and blue flashes on the buildings at the intersection behind him.
“I have lights coming down Foster Avenue,” said Hoffman. “Can’t tell the direction. Get out of here. I’ll catch up.”
He yanked the wheel all the way to the left and pulled out of the parking space at full speed, somehow avoiding the vehicle parked in front of him. A once-in-a-lifetime stunt, he graciously accepted. Every second would count here. He sped down the street toward the Russians’ SUVs, centering his car on the narrow gap between their vehicles and the cars parked along the right side of the road. He shot through the opening, once again emerging unscathed. Things were going entirely too smoothly for him so far. He’d probably broadside a police cruiser at the next intersection.
With that thought in mind, he slowed as he approached Fait Avenue, looking in both directions as he crept through the empty intersection. A few blocks west, two police cars turned onto Fait Avenue, headed in his direction. He floored the accelerator.
“I have two police cruisers coming up Fait Avenue from the west,” said Hoffman. “Not sure if they saw me.”
“I haven’t picked up any pursuit calls,” said Graves. “All town house units. Take the first left off Glover. We need to get you out of sight.”
Up ahead, Melendez and Miralles turned off the road, their taillights racing left and vanishing. He hoped to get to that turn before the police cars reached the intersection behind him. Red and blue lights flashed in his mirrors, momentarily disappearing—then reappearing. They looked a lot farther away than he’d expected. Mirror tricks? Another glance in his rearview mirror left him believing they’d turned onto Glover Street beyond the Russian SUVs. He ripped off his ski mask and tossed it on the passenger seat.