The Overlook

hang in the balance.”
    Bosch shook his head. He wasn’t going to get through to Hadley. The man believed he was poised at the edge of some sort of victory that would redeem every mistake he had ever made.
    “Where’s the FBI?” Bosch asked. “Shouldn’t they be-”
    “We don’t need the FBI,” Hadley said, getting in Bosch’s face again. “We have the training, the equipment and the skills. What’s more, we have the balls. And for once we’re going to take care of what’s in our own backyard ourselves.”
    He gestured to the ground as if the place where he stood was the last battlefield between the bureau and the LAPD.
    “What about the chief?” Bosch tried. “Does he know? I was just-”
    Bosch stopped, remembering the chief’s admonishment about keeping their meeting at the Donut Hole to themselves.
    “You were just what?” Hadley asked.
    “I just want to know if he knows and approves.”
    “The chief has given me full authority to run my unit. Do you call the chief every time you go out and make an arrest?”
    He turned and marched imperiously back to his men, leaving Bosch and Ferras to watch him go.
    “Uh-oh,” Ferras said.
    “Yeah,” Bosch said.
    Bosch stepped away from the back of the foul-smelling sanitation truck and pulled out his phone. He scrolled through his directory to Rachel Walling’s name. He had just pressed the call button when Hadley was there in his face again. Bosch hadn’t heard him coming.
    “Detective! Who are you calling?”
    Bosch didn’t hesitate.
    “My lieutenant. He told me to update him after we got here.”
    “No cellular or radio transmissions. They could be monitoring.”
    “They who?”
    “Give me the phone.”
    “Captain?”
    “Give me the phone or I will have it taken from you. We’re not going to compromise this operation.”
    Bosch closed the phone without ending the call. If he was lucky Walling would answer the call and be listening. She might be able to put it together and get the warning. The bureau might even be able to triangulate the cell transmission and get to Silver Lake before things went completely wrong.
    He handed the phone to Hadley, who then turned to Ferras.
    “Your phone, Detective.”
    “Sir, my wife is eight months pregnant and I need-”
    “Your phone, Detective. You are either with us or against us.”
    Hadley held his hand out and Ferras reluctantly took his phone from his belt and gave it to him.
    Hadley marched over to one of the SUVs, opened the passenger door and put the two phones into the glove box. He slammed the compartment shut with authority and looked back at Bosch and Ferras as if challenging them to try to retrieve their phones.
    The captain’s attention was then distracted when a third black SUV pulled into the lot. The driver gave the captain a thumbs-up. Hadley then pointed a finger into the air and started a twirling motion.
    “All right, everybody,” he called out. “We have the warrant and you know the plan. Perez, call air support and get us the eye in the sky. The rest of you warriors mount up! We’re going in.”
    Bosch watched with growing dread as the members of the OHS chambered rounds in their weapons and put on helmets with face shields. Two of the men began putting on space suits, as they had been designated the radiation-containment team.
    “This is crazy,” Ferras said in a whisper.
    “Charlie don’t surf,” Bosch replied.
    “What?”
    “Nothing. Before your time.”

FOURTEEN
    THE SLICK BANKED OVER a thirty-acre rubber plantation and put down in the LZ with the usual spine-compressing final drop. Hari Kari Bosch, Bunk Simmons, Ted Furness and Gabe Finley rolled out into the mud and Captain Gillette was there waiting for them, holding his helmet on top of his head so he wouldn’t lose it in the rotor wash. The chopper labored as it pulled its skids out of the mud-it was the first dry day after six days of rain-and took off, following the line of an irrigation canal back in the direction of III Corps HQ.
    “Walk with me, men,” Gillette said.
    Bosch and Simmons had been in country long enough to have nicknames but Furness and Finley were fresh and strictly OJT-on-the-job training-and Bosch knew they were scared shitless. This was going to be their first drop and nothing they taught you back at tunnel school in San Diego could prepare you for the sights, sounds and smells of the real thing.
    The captain led them to a card table set up under the command tent and outlined