Chapters (62)
Bosch was stunned for a moment and then a sharp pain in his right knee cut through the fog and brought clarity. He grabbed his knee and looked around, trying to get his bearings and determine what had just happened. Through the windshield he saw the blue BMW he had been looking for. It was sitting in the middle of Lincoln, its front passenger-side headlight shattered from the impact.
Bosch quickly formed an understanding of what had happened. Rawls had hit his car from behind with a PIT maneuver—a pursuit tactic designed to spin a car out by clipping the rear corner, changing the direction of its momentum, and swinging it into an out-of-control fishtail.
Only slightly damaged, the BMW didn’t take off. It sat motionless in the middle of the street until the driver’s door was suddenly flung open and Rawls got out. He came around the front of the car, and at first Bosch thought he was going to check the damage to his car. But he didn’t even glance at the BMW’s front end. Instead, he calmly started walking toward Bosch’s car.
Bosch could see that he was carrying a gun down at his side.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Bosch said.
He leaned across the center console and groaned as he felt pain in his ribs. He opened the glove box, reached in, and wrapped his hand around his own gun. Leaning back into his seat, he held the gun on his thigh. He had no idea what kind of confrontation was about to occur.
Rawls continued to advance, and as he got closer, he suddenly raised his gun up into a ready-fire position.
“No, no, no, no,” Bosch said.
He raised his gun to aim, but Rawls fired first, and Bosch felt a searing pain spark through his brain.
37
BOSCH’S VOICE WAS cut off by a loud crashing sound followed by the squeal of tires on asphalt and then a final sound of crunching metal.
“Harry!” Ballard yelled into the phone.
She got no response.
“Harry? Are you there?”
There was still no answer, and then she heard his voice, but it was muffled and distant. She couldn’t make out the words.
“Harry? Can you hear me?”
Then she heard him clearly, though it was also obvious he was not talking into the phone.
“No, no, no, no …”
And then came the shots. Clear, sharp reports. First one shot, followed by the shattering of glass, then a hail of gunfire. Too many shots in too few seconds to count. And then a final shot, muffled and spaced long enough after the others to be the coup de grâce, the kill shot.
“Harry!” Ballard yelled.
She yanked the wheel of her car into a U-turn. She hit the siren and code 3 lights hidden in the front grille and took off toward Santa Monica.