Stephen Cannell - Three shirt deal

I jumped out of the golf cart and started to run from underneath the ride. But something was wrong. I felt weak, dizzy. I couldn't coordinate. Was this the beginning stages of shock? Then just when it seemed things couldn't get much worse, Brian Devine stepped away from the side of one of the nearby electromagnets. Apparently he had doubled back to finish the job that Mike Church had started.

There was a large 9mm automatic in his hand. He fired and, using what strength I had left, I dove inside the golf cart just as the bullet crashed into the metal housing on the coaster magnet right above my head. Using my hand on the golf cart's throttle, I tried to maneuver the damn thing out of the line of fire. But the wheels were jammed. It wasn't going anywhere. Devine was still firing rounds at me. The 9mm slugs were easily punching holes into the flimsy plastic sides of the cart. The only thing that was saving me was the fact that he couldn't see where I was on the floor of the little vehicle.

"You're a resilient motherfucker, I'll give you that much," Devine shouted. He had his gun out in front of him, and began circling closer to the cart to find me.

I was suddenly filled with mind-numbing anger. Enough was enough. How much of this shit was I supposed to takei

My body looked so destroyed that Devine probably didn't see me as much of a threat. He hadn't contemplated the suicidal rage that now drove me. When he was ten feet away, I launched myself at him, hitting him high in the chest. His Beretta went off, firing wide. I jumped on top of him, violently pummeling him with both hands. In seconds, two of his teeth were out and a huge gash had opened over his left eye.

He rolled away, then stumbled to his feet still holding the gun. I was seconds from death as he pointed the barrel at me.

"Prepare to launch," the metallic voice announced. Just as Devine was about to fire, the ride flew by overhead, blasting us with its powerful slipstream and forty screaming riders. Devine glanced up, startled. That split-second saved me.

One of us is going down, I thought, remembering my promise as I launched myself directly at his chest. But before I hit him, a strange thing happened. Some unseen force lifted him right out of his shiny black loafers and threw him five feet in the air backwards away from me, landing him on his ass. He sat there staring at me in startled confusion as a bright red stain began to blossom on the front of his shirt. He struggled up to his knees, looking down at his bloody chest, holding both hands over the widening red stain before his expression changed and he finally seemed to get it. He'd been shot. His life was over.

"Son of a bitch," he said in disbelief, then pitched forward, facedown, at my feet.

My beautiful wife was standing in the road next to one of the park security carts. She was still crouched low in her shooting stance, legs wide, her silver-plated Astra nine clutched in front of her with both hands.

Suddenly, all my energy left me as I slumped to the ground.

"This is an emergency. Send an ambulance to Building Six under the Superman ride," I heard her say into a park walkie-talkie.

Then Alexa rushed up and knelt down, cradling my head in her lap. I must have finally gone into shock as she stroked my head and looked down at me, because her beautiful blue eyes were the last thing I remembered seeing.

When I woke, I was in another hospital room. This time I was lying inside a parabolic chamber filled with Freon, which was artificially lowering my body temperature. This was unacceptable. This had been happening way too often. The docs said I had gone into shock but now, several hours later, I was told I was stable.

Alexa hovered nearby and Chooch and Delfina arrived. Shortly after midnight they moved me out of ICU into a regular hospital room. My body was slathered in some kind of foul-smelling ointment. I was told that the burns were mostly first degree with a few second-degree spots on my chest and arms. My survival was assured.

Brian Devine, on the other hand, had gotten his ticket punched. I'd finally put that unreasoning asshole on the ark. They'd scraped his body up from the pavement where Alexa shot him and an ambulance carted off his remains to the coroner's office in Sylmar. Over the next hour, Alexa filled me in on what happened. Mike Church and his posse were apprehended in the Six Flags parking lot but Wade Wyatt was in the wind. Alexa had put out a BOLO, so hopefully he'd be picked up before he could take advantage of his powerful father's connections and get out of the country to some rum-soaked paradise with no extradition treaty, like Cuba.

Alexa told me that when I didn't come back from my run, she went looking for me. A woman on the Venice bike path told her she'd seen an unconscious runner being loaded into a van by two Hispanic men.

Alexa and Jeb Calloway immediately put the Communications Division to work on the problem. She got Mike Church's cell phone number through AT amp;T and started a pod track, which was a form of technology that allowed us to key in on a particular cell phone. Transmitters broadcast calls from area pods located all over the city. These pods store all the numbers they transmit. Communications scanned in the numbers from Church's cell and picked up a call from his phone that went through the Venice pod at eight-fifty-five p. M. The next transmission was out near Sunland, then Santa Clarita. The track of calls indicated Church was using his cell while heading northeast on the freeway. Alexa and Jeb mobilized two SWAT teams and headed in the direction of the transmissions.

The last call was traced to the pod right in the parking lot at Six Flags Magic Mountain.

"I can't believe how close we came to not getting there in time," Alexa said.

"Where does it go from here?" I asked, my head still full of mist.

"It's going to take a day or so to sort it all out," she said. "Devine is dead and Church and his homies are all lawyering up. Without Wade Wyatt to turn state's evidence, we still don't have anything that directly links any of this to Tito Morales. You can bet neither Church nor his vato posse are going to rat Tito out. Gang ethics. It looks like Morales might actually squeak through this without getting tagged."

"Then he's still in a position to argue against Tru getting a new trial," I said.

"We gotta go over his head, talk to Chase Beal, the district attorney," she answered. "But first I need to set up a meeting with Tito, the Chief, and Jane Sasso. I need to get Morales on the record before I go to the D. A. Jane needs to set up a new investigation into Olivia Hickman's murder for us to have any chance of getting that writ. That skinny bitch better come through this time."

I had my doubts. It had been a long, torturous journey. If Wade Wyatt got out of the country and Church and the VSLs kept quiet, Tito was in the clear and Tru Hickman was probably going to be stuck doing life in Corcoran. Not a very rewarding outcome to a very stressful three weeks.

As we talked, Alexa's cell phone rang. "Just a minute," she said and looked over at me. "I've got to take this outside. Be right back."

When she was gone I was distressed that there were still things she felt she couldn't say in my presence. But then the door opened, and I knew why she'd left.

Secada stood there looking a little less vivid and a lot thinner. She walked into the room, then sat on the edge of my bed.

"Are you always this reckless?" she asked.

I wasn't sure how to answer, so I said nothing. Finally she broke the silence. "We didn't get enough, did we? All we've got is a kidnapping and attempted murder of a police officer. That could put Church and Wade Wyatt away for thirty years, but it doesn't get Tru out of Corcoran."