Stephen Cannell - Hollywood Tough

He edged around the corner of the barn, then started to make his way toward a standard-sized door cut in the center of the side wall. As he got closer, Shane dropped to his stomach. With the barrel of his gun, he gently touched the door. It was unlatched, so he pushed it open a crack wider and looked inside. Through the slit, he could see only half the barn, but that area was deserted. He listened for voices; nothing but silence, so he carefully pushed the door wider, craning his neck in for a better look.

He had just seen five men, including Tony, enter this barn seconds ago, but now it was absolutely empty.

Shane held his breath, then wiggled the rest of the way through the opening, staying on his stomach with the Beretta out in front of him until he could see the entire room. The hay trailer had been pulled inside the barn and was parked next to the east wall. From his prone position on the floor, he could see under the still-loaded trailer. Nobody was there, but several bales of hay had been removed from the center of the load. Shane assumed that was where the shipment of White Dragon had been stashed. Suddenly he heard voices. They were distant, sounding as if they were echoing through a tunnel. Then silence. Shane slowly got to his feet and began to move deeper into the barn. He stopped, stood very still, and listened. The voices started again. Shane cautiously followed the direction of the sound and soon found a metal door. It was on the far end of the barn, partially hidden behind a riding blanket. The door had been left slightly ajar, so the voices were leaking through the opening. He reached out and slowly pulled the door wider. It creaked loudly on rusted hinges. Shane froze, then tried again, pulling it an anxious inch at a time. Once he had a few feet clearance, he quickly swung his gun through the opening, pivoted, and followed it in.

He was looking down a dimly lit, short flight of stairs that led to a narrow concrete passageway. Shane kicked off his loafers. In his stocking feet, he crept down the steps until he got to the floor of the tunnel. He was standing in a long, curving concrete corridor. There were a few dim lights hanging from exposed fixtures. Moisture glistened from the walls. He could make out muffled laughter. Then he heard Tony cry out in pain.

Shane moved slowly along the hallway, putting one foot carefully before the other, his gun extended firmly in both hands. He was hugging the far wall to get the longest visual reach down the curving tunnel. He crept forward until, finally, he saw a bright light reflecting off the glistening walls ahead. As he drew closer, he saw another set of stairs leading to a lit area above.

Suddenly, more talk… Shane couldn't make out all that was being said because it was distorted by echo. Tony's voice sounded weak, but he thought he heard the chief say, "Fuck you, asshole."

Shane was now at the foot of the concrete steps. Desperately trying not to make any noise, he began to creep silently up the stairs in his socks, his Beretta out in front of him.

Just as he was almost at the top, a gunshot thundered through the echoing silence, followed immediately by a screaming ricochet. A slug chipped the wall beside his head, stinging his cheek with flying concrete before it whined away, thunking into a riser at the top of the stairs. Shane dropped to one knee and spun around, squinting back into the dark passageway. He saw two vague shapes wearing blue headbands. Huge chrome Colts glinted in their outstretched hands. Both had stopped and had him in their sights. Shane was raising his Beretta, ready to fire, but he was already too late.

Two more shots thundered in the tunnel. Instantly, Shane plastered himself against the cold, curved wall, as both Crip gangsters flew forward, landing facedown on the concrete floor. Miraculously, Shane wasn't bleeding.

A second later, Shane heard several weapons trombone behind him. A shotgun racked. Alexa was moving up the corridor, the smoking Smith in her right hand. Suddenly Shane felt cold steel on the back of his head, then somebody behind him yanked the Beretta out of his grip.

"Drop the piece!" Dennis Valentine shouted at Alexa.

She froze, caught out in the open with her gun up. Shane was between his wife and Dennis, who was backed by armed g'sters. It was why she hadn't fired again. She was afraid she'd hit him. Alexa held her breath, powerless in the narrow corridor, her eyes wide, her.38 glinting impotently.

Shane felt an icy fear for his beautiful wife.

"Drop it!" Valentine demanded.

"Hey, dirtbag, no LAPD officer ever gives up a weapon." Alexa's voice was a low, adrenalized hiss.

"I've got no more use for your guy here," Dennis said. "Put it down or I'm gonna paint this place red with him."

She looked at Valentine, trying to gauge the threat. "I don't think so," she said. "Not your style."

"I'm not the one's gonna do it." He motioned to a tall, muscular African American. "He is." One of the Crips stepped forward. From the corner of his eye Shane caught a glimpse of Russell Hayes, the man Amac credited with arranging Stone's murder. Without hesitation, Hardcore Hayes put his cut-down.12-gauge to Shane's head. Fear and indecision flickered in Alexa's eyes. There was no doubt in anybody's mind that Hardcore would pull the trigger.

"Okay," Alexa said, lowering her gun.

The rest was just housekeeping.

Two more Crips ran into the corridor, grabbed Alexa, and threw her on the floor. Dennis stepped back and another two gangbangers took Shane down in exactly the same fashion. Once subdued, they were both pulled up the stairs into a windowless neon-lit room about twenty feet long and ten feet wide. Across the end of the chamber were five tables with hammered metal tops. They looked as if they had perhaps once been milking shed tables, but now they were piled high with Baggies of powder, each one displaying White Dragon logos stenciled on the sides.

There were a dozen Crip and Blood bangers in the room with Dennis Valentine, all packing street sweepers or cut-down shotguns.

Farrell Champion and General Ruiz were not there.

Shane was shoved forward and saw Tony slumped in the corner, his shirt drenched in blood. His normally round, cherubic face had gone pale and damp. He looked like he was going into shock. Two Crip gunmen were standing over him, but the chief wasn't going to be causing any trouble. He was hanging by a thread, bleeding out.

"You gotta get him medical attention," Alexa said anxiously. She was being held by a muscular banger whom Shane remembered from gang briefings: a dangerous Crip murderer known as Insane Wayne.

"You don't get it. All a you motherfuckas 'bout t' get taken off d'count," Hardcore Hayes said in a deep Barry White-type voice.

Then, as if to prove the point, Tony started coughing-deep, rattling, dangerous sounds that scared Shane more than Hardcore's threats.

"It's not gonna go down that easy, Hayes," Alexa said softly.

"Git your ass down offs your shoulder, bitch," Hardcore growled. "This is over."

"I got troops rolling," Alexa said. "In a few minutes, this place is gonna look like a federal law enforcement convention."

"Shut up, Alexa," Shane growled. "Don't give these jerkoffs anything."

She looked over at him and glowered. It was bad acting-Dragnet theater-but it seemed to work. Dennis and Hardcore looked worried, like they suddenly didn't know how to play it.

"Put 'em in the container truck and get 'em outta here," Valentine ordered. "Rest a you guys load up the powder in the other tanker, then follow in the SUVs. Let's move outta here," Dennis said, sudden urgency in his voice.

Alexa and Shane were dragged across the room toward another metal door, then pushed out into a large automated milking shed.