The Fox's Den was loaded with atmosphere, the intangible sort of romantic feel that higher priced restaurants specialized in. It was almost possible to forgive the inflated prices in a place that struck such a perfect balance between fantasy and reality. The tables were placed far enough apart to allow each dining couple their own journey into the romantic realm without hindrance from their fellow diners. In the glow of the candlelight, anyone or anything more than an arm's length away simply faded out into the mists of the consciousness. The room was filled with over 50 tables of customers but the acoustics had been so designed to prevent noise from carrying over any distance. The only sound was the occasional click of silverware against fine china which only helped to heighten the mood rather than disturb it.
Jon Baker ignored the food cooling on his plate while he played absentmindedly with the stem of his wine glass. The fine crystal slipped back and forth between his fingers as he gazed admiringly at the woman across the table. Her dark hair framed a heart shaped face blessed with full lips. Her dress accented the small figure perfectly. She bent over her plate to take a bite of the seafood, her lips closing sensuously over the fork as she held the food in her mouth for a moment to fully taste the morsel. She closed her eyes and chewed delicately before swallowing. Catching Jon watching her, she smiled up at him. "The food is so exquisite. It's like eating artwork."
Jon's smile widened. "I'm surrounded by artwork, but the most beautiful is the work that I brought with me." He enjoyed the blush that came to her cheeks as she found her napkin needed to be straightened out on her lap.
"Thank you, sir." Her voice was so low he had to strain to hear it. "You make me feel very special, Jon."
He reached over and took her hand. "You are special."
She pulled her hand back and pointed at his plate. "You need to eat your dinner."
Shrugging his shoulders, he picked up his fork and took a large bite of his own entrée. "It is good."
A sharp crash from the kitchen ruined the ambiance for a few seconds as a waiter dropped a large tray of dishes. Jon shook his head and smiled at Christine. "Now you know why the prices are a bit high here. You have to pay for the dishes."
Seconds later, another crash rocked the quiet of the restaurant causing a number of diners to look up in annoyance. Deep in their own little worlds, the broken dishes had shattered more than the silence. The murmuring of voices escalated in the small room in an annoyed buzz like a disturbed beehive. Jon stopped eating to stare at the entrance to the kitchen that flashed with light as the door swung open and shut. The picture of the kitchen that he had seen tweaked at his mind. Something wasn't quite right. He flashed a bright smile at Christine and mumbled an excuse to leave the table for a moment.
Being careful to stay in the darkened areas between the tables, he maneuvered to get a better view of the kitchen door while silently cursing his own cautious nature. The noises in the kitchen had set off every warning signal that his job had honed over the years. His flesh literally crawled with the certainty that something was desperately wrong.
The door swung open again, and he caught a glimpse of bodies in the kitchen that weren't dressed in the white of the cooking staff or the red vests of the waiters. Slipping quietly back to his table, he wordlessly pulled Christine out of her seat and placed a firm hand across her mouth once she was out of the lighted halo of the table. Half pushing and half carrying her, he made his way to the entranceway only to see the host sitting rigidly in a chair while a hooded man in black stood next to him with a gun.
Christine's eyes widened in fear and she shrank back against Jon with a slight squeak that was mercifully shortened due to his tightening his hold on her.
Backing up from the foyer, Jon pulled Christine into the men's room and scanned the room. An older man stepped from a toilet stall and opened his mouth to protest the unorthodox scene but Jon cut him short by grabbing his throat with his free hand and pushing him solidly up against the wall. "Keep quiet." The hushed voice held a ring of authority that pulled the man up short. "The restaurant is being held up." The man nodded in understanding to Jon's immense relief.
Jon released Christine and tested the set of a sink. The bowl was solid and seemed to be capable of sustaining his weight. Cautiously, he pulled himself up so he was balancing on the fixture and had access to the transom window that provided the fresh air to the room. He took the chain that held the window at a half open angle and pulled on it experimentally. Rusted over years of use, it refused to open any further than it had already. Taking a firm hold on it, Jon gave it a solid yank and was rewarded with a slight give. Changing his position on the sink for better leverage, he once again grabbed the chain and began to pull it away from the wall. The rusted chain bit into his hand and he could feel the veins begin to swell in his neck before the ceramic cracked and the window swung down to give him access to the full opening. He left the hinge sink down slowly to minimize the sound and then released the chain.
Jon reached down to grab Christine's hand and pulled her up against his chest. "Get out of here and call 911. Tell them officer needs assistance."
Christine nodded at him her eyes filled with fear. "You're coming, too."
Jon shook his head. "I can't leave, honey. Gotta do my job." He turned her around and pushed her gently out the window and lowered her as far as he could before releasing her hands. Satisfied that she was uninjured, he jumped off the sink and landed lightly next to the man who had been staring at him since they'd entered the room. "Okay, sir, you're next." Jon cupped his hands.
The man looked like he was about to protest but then thought better of it and placed his foot in Jon's hands to be pushed up onto the sink. Showing more athletic ability than one would have thought the man capable of, he wiggled through the window and fell to the ground. When the gunmen stepped into the bathroom to search for errant diners, they found the transom closed, and Jon washing his hands at the sink. "You in here alone?"
Jon raised his hands above his head and managed to look startled. "Yes."
The gunman kicked in each stall until he was satisfied that Jon was the only occupant. Waving his gun at Jon, he indicated that he was to leave the restroom and return to the dining room. The policeman offered up a silent prayer of thanks that the man hadn't thought to search him. The last thing he needed was this man finding out that he had an off-duty policeman to deal with.
*****
Lieutenant Richards pulled up in front of Antonio's and put on a great show of waiting for someone. In actuality, he was trying without success to get a better look at the interior of the restaurant. Frustrated, he cursed out all restaurant designers who didn't have a straight line of sight into their establishment with a special vehemence reserved for low lighting. The two people who had called in the report were noticeably lacking in details. The man had been intent on getting away from the station as quickly as humanly possible, and the woman had been so agitated that she had noticed very little about the situation at the restaurant. They had been unable to give the number of the perpetrators or any descriptions that were helpful. There was little or no information as to what they wanted or why they were still in the restaurant a good hour after they had begun their operation. A simple robbery and they would have been gone as quickly as they had come. The only edge Richards had was the off-duty highway patrolman. Knowing that he couldn't stay there much longer without bringing suspicion down on himself, Richards gave a quick look at his watch and then slipped into the driver's seat. Casually, he pulled away from the restaurant and drove into the parking garage across the street to join the task force.
"See anything?" Stevenson took a large bite out of the apple that was serving as a replacement for his dinner.
"Not a thing." Richards ran a hand through his hair. "Did you read that information on the patrolman?"
"Yeah." Stevenson shook his head and chewed energetically. "He's a real solid type. Doesn't panic easy. He's been under fire in the service and in the patrol. Ex-marine. He's our ace in the hole."
"But he's deaf and blind in there. We have no way to get to him, and he's got no way to get to us." Richards reached for his cigarettes and found a package of gum instead. "Why is it never a good time to stop smoking?" He unwrapped a stick of gum and held it between his lips like a cigarette. Giving Stevenson a quick grin, he wiggled the gum up and down. "Gotta light?"
Stevenson shook his head and rolled his eyes. "CHP is sending us some help. The general idea is that the guy will more easily recognize one of their own. If...and I do mean if....we find a way to get someone in there."
Richards nodded. "Well, I hate having the CHP involved but, in this case, it looks like they already are. If the circumstances were reversed, we'd want in too."
Stevenson nodded in agreement. "Now, all we have to figure out is what these jokers want. It isn't a hostage snatch. It isn't a robbery. So what?"
Richards chewed his gum thoughtfully. "I guess we just wait to see what happens. I sure wish we had a wire on Baker."
*****
The gunman placed the gun nozzle in the small of Jon's back and pushed him forward into the dining room. The lights had been turned up and the diners were all sitting like mannequins at their tables. Jon took notice of a table that held a single woman but two full plates of food. Her mouth was tight with fear, and she kept checking in the general direction of the restroom. Instead of returning to his table, Jon moved purposefully towards her and sat down in the empty seat. "Sorry, honey, this wasn't the dinner I had planned for us."
"Shut up." The gunman pushed him roughly for emphasis. "You can talk to your girlfriend later."
Jon caught the woman's eye and gave her a friendly wink. She smiled weakly at him never taking her eyes off the men in black who moved around the room menacing the diners. If she thought it odd that a strange man sat down with her, the total oddities of the situation made this detail pale in comparison. Jon watched as a gunman grabbed a waiter and asked pointedly about the table that he and Christine had previously occupied.
"They left before you came in, sir." The waiter had purposefully raised his voice so that Jon would know he hadn't been given away. "We just didn't have time to clear the table yet."
The gunman stared at the waiter for a few stressful moments before accepting the explanation as it was offered.
Jon caught his companion's eyes and mouthed an explanation at her. "He went for help."
The woman nodded imperceptibly to show she understood him and then found her hands very interesting.
Satisfied that the men had no idea that the police had been called and that the woman with him would not cause a problem, Jon settled back to wait for his opportunity and prayed that he'd recognize it when it came. Until then, his badge and service revolver weighed heavily in his pocket. Useless in a room full of hostages, they'd be a certain liability for him if found, and there was no where to hide them.
*****
Frank Poncharello took the steps of the parking garage two at a time. The pent up energy that he'd been feeling ever since the call from Getraer hadn't permitted him to wait patiently for the elevator. A dozen questions flooded his mind thankfully putting the brakes on other less helpful thoughts that tried to intrude.
He exhaled when he reached the fourth floor and tried to appear calm before he opened the door and stepped out into the garage. It was easy to spot the surveillance team as they were the only signs of life in the otherwise lifeless structure.
"I wonder if he's ever done any undercover work." The taller of the two men was staring at a building plan.
"In the CHP? I doubt it." The second man leaned against the car. "The CHP isn't known for undercover activities."
The man reading the plan gave a dirty laugh. "LAPD does it better."
"Oh, I don't know about that." Ponch's voice carried an angry undertone. "Actually, the CHP does have an investigative unit for car theft and both my partner and I have put in our time."
The two LAPD officers jumped guiltily. "Didn't know you were here." Richards walked over and offered his hand.
Ponch took it cautiously. "Obviously."
"No hard feelings." Richards pulled him towards the table that held the plans. "We were just trying to cut the tension."
"I'd prefer to cut the bull." Ponch locked eyes with him. "What the hell is going on?"
Richards sighed and gave Stevenson a resigned look. "We think it's a hit."
"A hit." Ponch stepped to a place where he could see the front of the restaurant. "What makes you think it's a hit?"
"The restaurant is owned by a dubious character named Fawkes who comes in every night and shuts it down personally. I think they're waiting for him."
"and Fawkes is?" Ponch leaned back against a parked car.
"We're not entirely sure where he fits in. He has a record full of arrests with no convictions. Lots of shady dealings, but nothing solid. This restaurant is totally on the up and up. It doesn't even seem to be a laundry. It's his bid at respectability." Richards shrugged his shoulders.
"So," Ponch stared at the door of the restaurant. "No place better to make a point than in the man's one claim to respectability."
Stevenson nodded. "That's the way we see it." He pointed down to the restaurant. "They've got a guy in the front that's turning away any new business on the basis that they're full up. It's clear they're waiting for something."
"So, going in as a customer isn't an option." Ponch rubbed his forehead. "Where does that leave us?"
Richards stared at him for a few minutes. "You know, you look a little Hispanic."
Ponch stared at him in mock amazement. "No, you don't say."
Richards smiled. "I don't suppose you speak Spanish."
"Only as my third language, I'm more proficient in Swahili." Ponch was getting irritated.
"The vegetable guy who services the restaurants around here is Hispanic. His English isn't real good. If someone told him to go away in English, he might not understand them." Richards grinned openly.
Ponch nodded. "Okay, so I'm a Spanish speaking vegetable guy." He grinned. "I hope nobody asks me about eggplants. I know nothing about them." He scratched his ear. "Let's hope no one down there offers to translate for me."
Stevenson rolled his eyes. "Amen to that."
*****
A woman began to sob gently. Immediately, a gunman moved to stand next to her to offer a low voiced threat. Instead of halting the tears, the woman's sobs got louder and more panicky.
The gun raised menacingly and Jon moved slowly to his feet. He stopped short when the cold metal of a gun barrel touched the back of his neck. He froze and addressed the man at his back. "If you want the woman to be quiet, you're going about it the wrong way."
"Don't be a hero, Blondie." The voice had a deep gravel undertone. "We know what we're doing."
"Then you know if you fire a shot in here, it'll be heard on the street. You don't have silencers." Jon kept his voice even.
"We don't need em. We'll be out of here before anyone can get here." The man chuckled nastily. "Sit down."
"I doubt you came here to kill that woman." Jon eased away from the table. "You don't want to tip your hand too early do you?"
The man by the woman swung to face the police officer. "Shut up."
Jon caught his eyes and held them with a level stare. "Let her go." He felt the gun butt coming down and twisted sideways before it hit.
The gunman found himself off balance and fell heavily to the floor leaving the gun spin away from him. Jon made a grab for the gun but stopped when he found himself facing a muzzle less than 2 inches from his nose.
"Leave it." The muzzle indicated that the man wanted Jon to stand up. "You try anything heroic again, Blondie, and we'll find a way to put you out of business very quietly."
Jon moved slowly back to the table and sat down. He caught the sobbing woman out of the corner of his eye and noticed that she was trying to control her crying. With Jon's distraction, the men had apparently forgotten her and turned their attention to him. Unfortunately, it would just be a matter of time until the next civilian broke under the strain. Jon glanced at the clock. What were they waiting for?
*****
Ponch shouldered the crate of tomatoes and knocked forcefully on the back door to the restaurant. He left a few seconds pass before once again pounding the door. One of the cooking staff opened the door and stared at him blankly. He kept glancing behind him nervously. His complexion was pale, his eyes were pulled tight and he kept rubbing his hands against his apron like they were sweaty. If he noticed that Ponch wasn't the usual vegetable man, he didn't make mention of it. "We don't need any today."
Ponch shrugged his shoulders and then pushed past him to set the tomatoes down on the preparation table. Holding out a pad and pencil, he smiled vacantly at the man expecting him to sign for the produce. The kitchen was incredibly quiet. No skillets were in use, the cookers were shut off, and the food was left to sit unattended in various stages of development. The only person in evidence was the man who had opened the door who was now staring nervously in the direction of the dining room. The door to the pantry was barred from the outside and Ponch took a quick guess that the cooking staff was inside. It was a safe bet that somewhere a man with a gun was keeping close tabs on the frightened kitchen helper.
The helper grabbed the pad and scribbled his signature on it and pushed it back towards Ponch.
Ponch smiled broadly again. "Gracias, Senor." He spent a few minutes looking at the signature as though checking it for any errors and then turned towards the dining room door. Absent mindedly, he pushed against the door letting it swing outward as though by mistake. The brief view of the dining room with its frozen tableau of diners was eerie. Jon was easy enough to spot. The tall blond policeman had a certain carriage to him that was unmistakable. Jon was talking quietly to someone out of Ponch's line of sight. The slight noise of the door swinging in briefly brought Jon's attention to the kitchen. Ponch took the risk of letting his face be framed in the service window.
He grinned broadly at the helper before gesturing towards the dining room. "Bueno duedores." He shoved the pad towards his pocket but managed to drop it on the floor instead. He turned his back on the helper and stood up in such a way that he could look through the window quickly. Jon had sat down and was holding his head with his hands as though dealing with a headache. The one hand was bent at an odd angle.
Ponch smiled amiably and slipped out the kitchen door.
*****
"Jon knows we're on it." Ponch ripped the grocer's apron off and dropped it on the surveillance table. "There's also 6 of them in there."
Richards stood up abruptly. "Did they see you counting them?" His face was livid with anger. "That's a good way to tip them off."
Ponch gave him an irritated look. "I didn't see any. They were staying out of sight. Think if I'd seen even one they'd have left me walk out of there?"
"Then how do you know there's six of them?" Stevenson spoke quietly.
"Jon told me." Ponch glared at him.
"You talked to him?" Richards crossed his arms in front of his chest and glared back at Ponch.
Ponch shook his head. "Jon knows sign language. As soon as he saw me, he signed off the number six."
"Talented man." Stevenson nodded in approval. "So, we know there's six of them in there, and only one policeman. Does he carry his weapon off duty?"
"We're supposed to, and Jon's by the book. I'm sure he has it." Ponch ran a hand through his hair. "So, what do we do now?"
"We intercept Fawkes and hope that they don't decide to frisk any of the hostages." Richards folded a piece of gum and placed it neatly into his mouth. "It would be very inconvenient if they found your partner's ID."
Ponch nodded. "Yeah, but it would have been better if I could have stayed in there."
"Couldn't happen." Stevenson shrugged. "You can bet you were being watched if the kitchen guy was that nervous. The only reason they left you walk out was because they thought you were clueless."
"Now, where's the best place to intercept Fawkes?" Richards leaned over the map on the table.
Ponch leaned across him and smiled. "That's easy. You can't get around in LA without getting on the expressways. That's my turf. Give me the license number of Fawkes car and the CHP will ID it and detain it without anyone knowing about it."
"Someone's gonna write him a ticket? Oh, that's real sly." Sarcasm dripped from Richards' voice.
Ponch ignored him and spoke to Stevenson. "Once we know what stretch of road he's on, we can create a traffic tie up that'll hold him for as long as we want him to stay put. He'll never see a policeman. Then, it'll be a simple matter to have one of us walk into that restaurant on time taking his place."
Richards stood up a bit straighter and stared at Ponch. "That means that one of us is gonna be a target? I don't think so."
"You have any better ideas, it's time to put them on the table." Ponch glared at him. "We're running out of time."
Stevenson bit into a sandwich and looked thoughtful. "I think if we want to get that blockade up, we need to do it now. At the very least, it'll keep Fawkes alive a while longer."
Richards nodded his head in agreement. "All right, all right......I'll give you that." He sighed deeply. "Call your buddies at the CHP and have them throw up the blockade. It might buy us some time."
*****
Jon stared at the man who appeared to be in charge of the operation. The man was nervous, edgy and prone to startle easily. If one of the men were going to make a mistake and shoot a restaurant patron, it would be him. In contrast, the man standing behind Jon was surly, spoke seldom and had a very steady hand on the gun he held. Best guess would be that the man in charge was not a pro but he had hired some professional talent. If push came to shove, he'd be on his own as his hired help would watch out for their own necks first.
Jon surreptitiously scanned the room. The one man in the kitchen watching the back door, the one in the lobby keeping an eye on the maitre d' and that left four in the dining room to watch a good 100 patrons. With some maneuvering, it might be possible to get the four in the dining room grouped together so that he could use his own gun to good effect. The problem being that one shout from the men under his control would bring reinforcements from two separate directions. It would be impossible to keep the drop on six men who were not lined up directly in front of him.
Then, there was Ponch. He must be here with the LAPD. There'd be no way he'd be working out of jurisdiction without permission. If the LAPD were here, then the odds were moving in the right direction. It was a sure thing that they hadn't moved on the restaurant because they didn't have a clear line of sight into the inside. That meant that when the move came, it would probably be through the kitchen since that was the most direct point of entry. A man in the kitchen would have a fairly clear view of the dining room.
Jon began to peruse the faces of the diners. One by one he rejected each as a bad risk. Frightened, shaking or simply too old to move quickly enough, they would be no help if it came down to a fight. One man took his attention even though his hair was steel gray. He was assessing the room with the same analytical eye that Jon was using. World War II veteran, Jon surmised. Jon stared at him pointedly until their eyes met. Jon nodded hoping the man would understand to watch him before starting anything. The man smiled and brought his hand up as though to brush back his hair but quickly gave Jon a short salute that was lost on the gunmen. "Yep," Jon thought. "A veteran...and he recognized Jon for one as well."
****
Ponch got off the phone and gave Stevenson a thumbs up. "He's stalled in traffic between exits. No way he's going anywhere."
Richards walked swiftly from the elevator and dropped a file folder on the table. "Okay, we have a picture of Fawkes, and we've got a SWAT guy that will do fine as a ringer. He'll go in the front door."
"I'll go in through the kitchen." Ponch opened the folder and took a long look at the two men. "Which one is Fawkes?"
"The one on the right." Richards picked up the telephone. "Our man is Michael Corrigan. Our big problem is that we have to spend time in the kitchen and foyer first. There's no direct line of fire into the restaurant. There'll be a time delay of a few seconds at least when the guys inside can get antsy and start shooting hostages."
"If Jon sees me in the kitchen, he'll be the man we need in the dining room." Ponch swallowed as he stared down at the rough map they had drawn of the restaurant.
"Yeah," Stevenson nodded. "The minute he moves, he'll have four guns on him. You'll have to get through that door fast. These guys have very little to lose and they're going to shoot it out if we don't get the drop on em."
"I don't like it." Richards pushed another stick of gum into his mouth. "I don't like this at all. No matter what we do, someone is going to start shooting. I wish we could get some tear gas in there."
"Tear gas?" Stevenson shook his head. "With that many unknowns? What if one of the patrons has asthma?"
"And the point is that we won't get sued if we let the gunmen shoot em instead of having us gas em?" Richards snorted derisively. "Don't ya just love it when we have to factor in the lawsuits."
"The point is..." Ponch looked squarely at both men, "we have no time to debate it. We move now or they'll start getting upset anyway. Fawkes is due to go in there in less than a half hour. Statistically, if this situation degenerates, we risk more people than if we move on time."
Richards nodded. "Get moving. Think you'll have trouble in the kitchen?"
"I hope not." Ponch started towards the elevator. "There's only one place that guy can be, and he can't have a clear view of the entire kitchen from there."
"Corrigan moves in 20 minutes. I'll blow the car horn when he opens the front door." Richards hesitated. "Good luck, Chippie."
"Si, senor." Ponch smiled back at him. "Hasta luego."
*****
Ponch knocked on the kitchen door. "Fruto! Entrega fruto!" The frightened face of the kitchen worker peered out through the small window in the door. "Fruto!" Ponch held up his case of apples so the man could see he had a delivery. He smiled reassuringly and nodded towards the door expecting to be left in.
The nervous kitchen assistant opened the door a crack and tried to wave him away.
Ponch smiled broadly and pushed his way into the kitchen past the protesting man and marched resolutely over to the walk-in cooler. Setting the apples on the floor, he took a good grip on the handle of the cooler. The assistant cringed visibly and dropped to crawl under the preparation table. Ponch slipped his gun out from beneath the apples and threw open the door placing the pistol up against the neck of the man who had been listening at the door. The gunmen slowly dropped the rifle he had been holding and raised his hands quietly.
Ponch picked up the rifle and waved the kitchen staff out of the cooler and into the kitchen area before shutting the door of the cooler and dropping the nightlatch into place leaving the gunman effectively jailed. Moving quickly across the room, the patrolman opened the door to the alley and motioned to the staff. He smiled in amusement as the dozen men and women quickly took him up on his offer. There was no asking twice.
Once the kitchen was cleared, Ponch found a spot where he could see Jon from the kitchen door and Jon could see him if he looked. It took only a few minutes for Jon to notice his partner. He watched closely as Ponch's hands flew in rapid fire communication. "Dang, he signs like he talks." Jon thought in annoyance. "Wish he'd slow down just a tad."
Keeping one eye on the gunmen, Jon signed the word slow. Ponch's shoulders dropped but he started again at a slower pace. Twice, Jon had to indicate that Ponch needed to duck down as one man or another scanned the room. A car horn sounded from the front of the building and Ponch pulled back into the kitchen out of sight.
Seconds later, sounds of crashing pots and pans broke the tomblike silence of the restaurant. The nearly hysterical woman jumped off her seat and began to whimper. Immediately, one gunman moved towards her with his hand raised while a second opened the kitchen door and went inside to investigate. The sound of the front door opening froze the tableau.
In the moment when all eyes moved towards the front of the restaurant, Jon stood up and swung around on the gunman behind him. A solid right hook caught the man under his chin and slammed him back into the wall. His head struck a fire extinguisher and he slowly sank to the floor unconscious. In one smooth move, Jon grabbed the gun from his hands and looped it gracefully across the room where it fell neatly into the practiced grip of the old soldier. If there had been a number of years where this man had not held a weapon in his hands, it didn't show. The man standing next to the crying woman soon found himself looking at the business end of the shotgun. Slowly, he lowered his own weapon to the floor, staring at the man with a stunned expression that would have been comical under other conditions.
The leader turned towards Jon and raised his weapon only to find his unarmed target holding a police special in his hand.
"You're under arrest." Jon's voice held the same calm edge that his years of training had ingrained into him. "Lower your weapon."
The man gaped at him for several minutes before laughing a bit too loudly. "You're a lousy cop?" He licked his lips and glanced quickly from Jon to the door and back again. "I don't believe this. The one night I'm going to snuff Fawkes, and he's serving dinner to a cop." He gripped the gun a bit tighter. "It's a standoff cop, I don't shoot if you don't shoot."
"Oh, I think I have the edge." Jon remained unperturbed. "Those sounds from the foyer aren't Fawkes coming in, that's the SWAT team. Your men in the kitchen are already under arrest. My friend over there with the shotgun is a very capable shot. It's down to just you and me and I have reinforcements coming."
Jon's confidence was beginning to wear on the man. He adjusted his grip on the shotgun and licked his lips again. "I'm leaving."
"I don't think so." Jon looked pointedly to the kitchen where Ponch stepped out with his gun trained. Then he nodded to the foyer where Corrigan was standing in the same FBI trained pose.
Panic stricken, the man brought the shotgun to his shoulder and sited in on Jon's head. Lunging forward, Jon pushed the gun to the ceiling where it discharged loudly leaving small particles of insulation drifting to the floor. Several women screamed and tables were overturned as people hit the floor in an attempt to get out of the way of anymore gunfire. Jon brought his right leg up and placed a sharp kick just below the man's knee. Screaming in pain, the gunman released the weapon to hold his injured leg.
"Like I said," Jon repeated. "You're under arrest."
*****
It was past 1 AM when Jon and Ponch walked out of the LAPD station house.
"I'm beat," Ponch yawned and stretched with the sensuous movements of a housecat. "We've got to be up in less than 6 hours to hit the highways."
Jon groaned. "Don't remind me." He stifled a yawn of his own. "I have to go call Christine and see if she's all right."
Ponch gave him a sad look. "Well, she's all right, but she might not be too receptive."
"You talked to her?" Jon raised an eyebrow.
"It was hard not to," Ponch played with the keys in his hand nervously. "She was telling me about being dropped out a men's room window, being questioned by the LAPD for an hour, having to have her mother come and get her from the station...I don't think she had a very good time."
"I got her out of there." Jon stared at him in amazement. "She wasn't concerned about me at all?"
"Sure she was, Jon." Ponch slapped him on the shoulder. "She was also a bit concerned that life with you wasn't going to be real restful."
"She wants to marry a banker?" Jon sighed in resignation.
"No," Ponch laughed. "She wants to marry a restaurant manager."
"Aw, c'mon." Jon looked annoyed. "You're making this up."
"No, I'm not. I swear." Ponch opened the car door. "Ask her yourself."
"Oh, I will." Jon gave him a murderous look.
Ponch's smiled widened. "Jon, you and I need to find some nice girls who don't mind a little excitement in their life. We'll start looking tomorrow."
Jon groaned and slid into the passenger's seat.