Shit.

Gearhart motioned for the men to go back. Rather than trying to turn with the guns and buckets, the men decided to simply sidle back. Suddenly, the officer on the outside stopped. He listened for a moment, then put the bucket down and removed his mouthpiece.

"I heard something," he said quietly.

Gearhart slipped out his own mouthpiece and let it hang under his chin. "Don't move," he said to the others.

There was definitely movement behind them. Scratching sounds, like fingernails on a screen door.

How? Gearhart wondered. The only way in was through the garage. And if the cats had somehow come in that way they would have heard shouts, gunfire, something.

And then Gearhart realized what must have happened. There may have been an opening near the hole itself, one that they'd missed because it was hidden by dust One that the ultrasound hadn't read because it was outside the building. Or maybe the damn cats were clawing through the wall. Grand had said the bastards were smart The sheriff felt like he did whenever a Hanoi Two-Fuck had been triggered: as if there was nothing to do but wait.

There was no way out and, worse, they had the tar. The cats had to smell it Because of the way the officers were positioned-one man behind the other-only the outermost officer would be able to fire. If the first tiger didn't go down right away, it could still get one or more of them. Then the others would be able to finish them off.

To hell with this, Gearhart decided.

"Captain!"

"Sheriff?" came the distant reply.

"We're backed into a dead end and the cats are near the opening!" Gearhart shouted.

"Fuck!" Mclver shouted. "Sit tight! We'r-

Mclver fell silent.

"Captain!" Gearhart yelled.

"Something's going on," Mclver shouted down.

Gearhart listened as the scratching came closer. The two officers looked back at him. He wished he could switch places with them, take point. But there wasn't enough room to get around them. He pulled off his gloves. He wanted to feel the metal of the weapon, the gentle kick, if he had to use it.

And then Gearhart heard something he wasn't expecting.

Gunfire. In the garage.

Chapter Seventy-Three

A crowd of nearly twenty reporters had run after the LAPD truck. The group was cut off by police and forced away from Wilshire. None of the reporters believed the police when they said they had no idea what the Anti-Terrorist unit was doing in the garage. The situation did not improve when the small National Guard convoy from the Hollywood Hills rolled down Curson.

Of all the press people only the Wall managed to get to the Wilshire Courtyard. He had crossed Curson after the police truck left and hid behind the pedestaled bust of Miracle Mile founder and developer A. W. Ross. While he was there, the Wall phoned Grand and told him exactly where Hannah had gone. Then, as the police were busy moving everyone else back to the museum entrance, the Wall was able to sneak across Wilshire.

The photographer went to the garage entrance. There was a security camera on the left, right beside the electrical closet. As the Wall walked down the ramp to the guard gate in the center of the two-lane road, the security officer stepped out to stop him.

"I'm going to lose my job if I don't get down there," the Wall lied.

"So will I, if you do," the security officer told him.

Just then the National Guard vehicles arrived. The four Jeeps swung through the entranceway and down to the gate.

Mindar was sitting in the back of the first Jeep with Grand. "Open up!" he yelled, rising in the seat. The other Jeeps lined up behind the officer's vehicle, their engines growling.

"Lieutenant, the police captain told me-"

"Now," Mindar said.

The guard ducked back into the booth to raise the black-and-white-striped bar. As he did, Grand yelled over to the Wall.

"There was an electrical closet back at the entrance," Grand said.

"I saw it-"

"Get in there and crank up the emergency lights," Grand said. "Do anything you can to make it bright down there."

"Will do," he said.

As the photographer relayed Grand's instructions to the guard, the convoy charged down the ramp.

Grand was no longer feeling disconnected. He could feel the cats, the sense of danger, the impending confrontation. In the midst of it all, he could also feel Hannah. There was nothing mystical about that. She was brave, she was impetuous, and she was someone he cared about very much. His jaw was locked, his fists were hard, and the muscles of his arm were coiled tight. The Jeep couldn't get down the ramp fast enough.

As the convoy approached P3, they were greeted by a thin fog of dust. When Grand saw Hannah and the other officers crouching behind the flatbed truck, he leaped from the still-moving Jeep and ran over.

"Jim!" Hannah cried in a loud whisper.

He crouched behind her as one of the policemen, a captain, was telling whoever was in the hole to sit tight.

"What's happening?" Grand asked Hannah.

"We think the tigers came in through a side cavern and they may have Gearhart and two men pinned."

Grand didn't wait to hear more. Still squatting, he stepped around Hannah. "Captain, let me have your pistol."

"Who the hell are you?" the officer asked.

There wasn't time to discuss this. Grand reached for the 9-mm pistol, pushing the butt down to release the holster's internal safety catch before pulling up. He ran around the truck to the side facing the hole. There, he quickly emptied the full clip into the two drums that were facing him.

Tar sprayed from the large, raw holes.

"Lieutenant Mindar!"

"Here!"

"Turn the Jeeps sideways on the ramp and then back everyone out!" Grand yelled.

"Jim!" Hannah yelled. "What are you going to do?"

There wasn't time to answer. "Flashlight!" he called back to the police officers.

One of the men tossed him a flashlight. Grand caught it and ran to the hole as the tar pooled and began dripping over the rim.

Grand dropped next to the opening. "Gearhart, can you hear me?"

"I hear you!"

"What's happening?"

"Your tigers are coming!" Gearhart said.

"How many?"

"I can only see the first one," the sheriff said. "A big bastard."

"Bigger than the ones on Monte Arido?"

"Definitely. A seven footer, maybe bigger. It's got a ridge of hair on its back, like a Mohawk. The teeth are longer, more curved."

The cat was a male. Grand wondered if it was the men, the tar, or something else the saber-tooth was after.

"He's coming through an S-turn," Gearhart said. "We don't have a clear shot yet."

"Are you backed as far away as you can go?"

"Yes," Gearhart told him.

"Do you have tar?"

"Two buckets."

"Spill them now," Grand told him, "as far along the floor as you can. The cat may not realize it's only a few inches deep. It might not want to risk crossing."

Grand listened as the men did what he said.

"And keep your lights turned ahead," Grand added. "The saber-tooths don't like the light."

Just then the dusty garage grew much brighter. The emergency spotlights came on in the corners and from several of the support columns. The Wall had done his job. Now Grand had to do his. He had to get the cats out of the fissure and back whichever way they'd come. He stood and looked around. He noticed the equipment locker on the truck, saw the open case marked EMERGENCY AIR SUPPLY. He turned back toward the hole.

"Sheriff," Grand shouted, "do you have air tanks down there?"

"Yes-"

"Put them on." Grand turned to the police officers and yelled, "Someone get me a lighter and someone else get a fire extinguisher. And you better call for backup. If they turn on us, we'll need it."