Chapter 2
STILWELL KNEW THE fastest rescue would be from the US Coast Guard out of the Port of Los Angeles.
Their chopper crossed the bay and got to the airstrip twenty-two minutes after Stilwell made the call.
Quigley was dead, the back of his head blown off, but Ramirez was hanging on despite massive blood loss from a bullet that had clipped the top of her vest and gone into her neck.
Stilwell was holding a dressing from the SUV’s first aid kit to the wound when the red-and-white chopper landed and the medical team came rushing across the tarmac.
It took them less than six minutes to stabilize Ramirez and get her on the chopper. Stilwell watched it take off and bank toward the mainland, then looked at Quigley’s body. He’d been taken down by a shot that entered through his left eye.
Stilwell felt nauseated. Quigley had a family. They would never see him again.
His thoughts were interrupted by a call on his cell phone. It was Captain Corum. He said that he and a homicide crew were heading to the sheriff’s air base and would be arriving by helicopter within the hour.
“Stil, you okay?” he asked.
“I’m okay,” Stilwell said.
“What the fuck happened out there?”
“Captain, I don’t know.”