“I’m OK,” Wilson called.

Hardin twisted, looked across the aisle. Should be one more shooter over there. He saw the first guy he’d hit, gut shot guy, rolling toward the aisle, reaching for his weapon. Hardin lined him up and put two in his brain pan, saw the last guy coming out. Hardin fired again, three rounds hitting the target high center mass before the slide locked back. Empty.

Hardin went to reach for his spare magazine with his left hand, but his left arm wasn’t working. Felt more pain then. Hardin dropped the empty pistol from his right, squatted down, picked up the one he’d lost when he got hit. Didn’t know what he had left in that one.

Nobody was shooting, nobody was moving.

Wilson was back up, gun out, swiveling. “That everybody?”

“Yeah.”

She saw his arm. “You OK?”

“Will be,” he said.

From below, they heard sirens, lots of them. Sounded like half the Chicago PD was pulling into the garage.

Behind them, the two cops stood up from behind the Buick, the short one’s left arm hanging, the bigger one hobbling around the front of the car, his right leg bloody.

“You’re Hardin and Wilson, right?” the tall guy said.

Hardin nodded.

Both cops raised their weapons. “Not that we don’t appreciate the help and all,” the tall guy said. “But you’re both under arrest.”

“And we’re really hoping you’ll put the guns down,” the short cop added. “Cause I think you’re better at this shit than we are.”

Hardin, shrugged, set the 9mm down on the roof of the car next to him. Wilson laid her S&W down next to it.

“Which one of you got al Din?” Hardin asked.

“Me,” said the tall guy.

“Then you’re pretty good yourself,” Hardin said.

CHAPTER 92

A couple of units reached five, lights going, sirens going, stopping at angles on either side of the Lexus that blocked the aisle. The cops leapt out, going to guns, but Lynch and Bernstein had moved to the center of the aisle, holding their badges out, and everybody calmed down.

“Radio for some buses,” Lynch yelled to one of the uniforms. “Here and on six.”

“How many?”

“Lots,” Lynch said, “Hold on.”

He yelled over the sirens to Hardin.

“Anybody wounded upstairs?”

“Not unless I’m slipping,” Hardin answered.

“How many?”

“Four.”

“So four on six, at least six here,” Lynch said to the uniform, raising his voice over the commotion. “Gonna need crime scene, ME, fuck it, we’re gonna need everybody.”

Five minutes later, the first two ambulances arrived. The EMTs wanted to transport Hardin and Lynch, but Lynch told them to wait. He was on a gurney they’d pulled out, his right leg out straight, the pants leg cut off halfway up his thigh. One of the techs was cleaning the wound, shooting a local into the leg in a few spots. The back of the gurney was raised so Lynch could sit up. Hardin sat on the bumper of the second unit while a short woman cleaned and bandaged his arm. Another EMT was wrapping Bernstein’s ribs. When one of the techs tried to look at Wilson’s head, she told him to fuck off.

Hickman came out the door, holding up his creds, walked over to Lynch.

“I don’t know what happened here detective, but this whole crime scene is under federal jurisdiction.”

“Fuck you,” Lynch said.

A plainclothes car stopped, half on the ramp. Starshak got out. He walked over to the gurney, looked at Lynch.

“Get to a fucking hospital,” he said, turned toward Bernstein. “You too.”

“Just as soon as Hickman stops trying to Bogart my crime scene. He says this is a Fed deal.”

Hickman stepped between Lynch and Starshak. “Your people stumbled into and very nearly ruined a long-running and extremely sensitive federal investigation involving matters of national security that I am not at liberty to disclose at the moment. I might add, Captain, that you were told to stay away from this case, that it was a task force matter now.” Hickman was trying to be pedantic, but it wasn’t working because he was shivering. He was still in his shirtsleeves, and the temperature was in the fifties, a cold wind gusting into the garage from the east on and off.

“Membe Saturday,” Starshak said.

“What?” said Hickman.

“Refugee guy by the Stadium,” said Lynch. “We liked al Din for that, too. Nobody said anything about not clearing that case. Guess it wasn’t sexy enough for you Fed assholes to work it.”

Hickman shook his head, waved a hand. “Clearly that was connected. At any rate, I’m telling you now, this is a Federal matter. Transport your injured people, back your uniforms off to the street so they can control access to the garage, and get everybody else out of my crime scene.”

“Not gonna happen,” Starshak said. “Homicide is a state crime, not federal. And right now, all I’ve got is a multiple homicide. We haven’t even ID’d any of the victims yet, No way in hell I turn this over on your say so, especially since I got you on scene. Right now, you ain’t the US Attorney, Hickman. You’re a material witness. Maybe a suspect.”

Starshak turned to a nearby uniform. “Hardin, Wilson and Mr Expensive-tie, I-don’t-say-shit over there,” Starshak pointed at Lafitpour, who had come out the stairway door with Hickman and was standing by the wall, “link them up and process them.” Starshak poked a finger into Hickman’s chest. “And if this dick interferes, cuff his ass and run him in, too.”

“Cap,” Lynch said, “just so you know, Wilson and Hardin saved our asses.”

Starshak looked at Hardin, then at Wilson. “Well don’t this just get curiouser and curiouser.”

From above, Lynch heard the beat of a chopper getting louder, closer, then shutting down. Sounded like it landed on the roof. From below, the sound of more sirens, on the street, then some shouting. Starshak walked over to the wall, looked down at Washington Street.

“Mess of Feebs. Who called them?”

CHAPTER 93

Lynch watched a powerfully built older man walk down the ramp from six. One of the uniforms stopped him, but the guy just smiled handing the uniform a cell phone, the uniform listening for a second and then stepping aside, still holding the phone to his ear. The guy was at least sixty, probably more, looked like he could still throw a punch if the mood struck him. Expensive suit, spring weight camel hair coat. Guy looked like Brian Dennehy maybe ten or fifteen years back. He walked directly to Starshak.

“Captain Starshak, before you fuck things up to the point where I can’t unfuck them, perhaps you and I could have a word.”

Starshak ignored the guy and looked past him to the uniform who’d let him pass. The uniform looked back sheepishly, still holding the phone like he didn’t know what to do with it.

“Too busy playing Angry Birds to do your damn job?” Starshak barked. “Who is this hump and what is he doing in my crime scene?”

The cop opened his mouth and then closed it, didn’t know what to say. The Brian Dennehy guy took the phone from the cop’s hand.

“Actually, the phone’s mine,” the man said, handing the phone to Starshak. “And it’s for you.”

Starshak took it, listened, his face impassive. He listened for a long time. He never said anything. Then he handed the phone back to the big man and turned to address the cops.

“Listen up, people,” Starshak yelled. Everybody stopped, turned. Starshak pointed at the big man. “This guy’s name is Munroe. Don’t ask me who he works for, cause I don’t know. But I’ve heard from the chief, who’s heard from the mayor who, for all I know, has heard from the fucking President. Good work on al Din, that’s the word. Atta boys all around. Now we dumb-ass local yokels are supposed to step back and let the big boys do their jobs.”