Chapter 53
CHAPTER
At nine thirty on Monday evening in late October, a bank of chill, dank fog rolled in off the Chesapeake Bay.
It swept, curled, and misted slowly through the oaks and pines overlooking the west side of the razor wire and chain-link fence that surrounded the construction equipment, the supplies, and the big steel-sided warehouse out of which Patrice Prince supposedly ran his import/export business.
We thought we’d come prepared, wearing winter clothes over our body armor and carrying wool blankets, radios, a thermos of hot coffee, binoculars, and a Tupperware with sandwiches.
I had all the warm stuff on, but the fog wormed its way through the clothes, making me shiver as I adjusted an earphone and mic connected to my radio.
Two police-issue combat shotguns rested against a nearby tree. We were perched in cover on the bluff above the fence and inner compound.
Sampson checked his watch, murmured into his mic, “Any second now they’re going to start knocking on doors and bringing in the first Haitian gangbangers.”
“You’d think there’d be a delayed effect,” I said. “We probably won’t see any kind of real reaction for a few hours, maybe not till close to midnight.”
He nodded. “If Prince knows he’s under assault, he’ll come here.”
“Or, if he’s here already, he’ll leave,” I said. I had my binoculars up and was looking over the fence. “We’ve got two more sets of guards coming from the north side of the complex with a pair of Malinois attack dogs.”
“I see ’em, going by the backhoe and the bulldozers,” Sampson said, peering through his own binoculars. “That complicates things.”
“Only if we need to go in there,” I said.
“Well, I’m hoping that’s the eventual plan, search warrant or no search warrant, so we better figure out the canine situation.”
For the next forty-five minutes, we stood and stamped our feet in the fog and the cold, shivering in the shadows and trying to monitor the radio chatter as Metro detectives moved in to take various members of LMC 51 into custody.
Kurtz and Diehl evidently rapped on Valentine Rodolpho’s front door but got no answer, and his row house was dark.
They remained in position, watching his place.
The coffee shop Rodolpho liked and the crab-boil shack in Chesapeake Beach his cousin loved had long since closed for the day. Teams had left those locations with plans to return in the morning.
The other officers assigned to find the members of LMC 51 were also coming up short. It was as if the gang had disappeared from all their usual haunts.
I said, “Wish the hell we knew where Prince lives full-time.”
“You think Donovan might have found out?”
“If she found out in the wrong way, it could explain her disappearance.”
“It could,” he said, “but I—”
We both heard vehicles approaching and tires crunching on the driveway into the warehouse. A few moments later, two black Chevy Suburbans rolled up to the gate, which the armed guards opened.
As they drove in and parked near the second loading dock, John double-clicked the radio, said, “Chief Pittman, this is John Sampson. We’ve got action here in Davidsonville. Two vehicles. One of them could be the Suburban used in the drive-by.”
Pittman came back immediately: “You’ve got that confirmed, Sampson? Can you see your bullet holes?”
“Negative. Too far and there’s fog, but stand by. Doors are opening and—”
“I’ve got Rodolpho coming out of the first Suburban,” I said. “Three guys with him, all armed, heading toward the first loading dock door.”
“And here’s Prince from the back of the second Suburban,” Sampson said. “Three other armed men with him are going to the rear of the vehicle.”
One of the gunmen opened the back door and pulled out Officer Donovan. She was blindfolded and gagged with her wrists tied behind her.
“We’ve got Donovan,” both of us said at the same time.
“That’s confirmed?” Pittman demanded.
Sampson said, “Yes. They’re taking her inside in restraints, blindfolded, and gagged.”
“Hold your position,” Pittman came back. “I’m notifying the Maryland state police and everyone else with jurisdiction out there. Repeat: Unless you believe Donovan’s life is being threatened, hold your position until we’ve got the kind of team we need to contain and breach the place safely.”
“ETA on that, Chief?”
“Two hours, maybe?”
“And if they try to leave with her in the meantime, sir?” I asked.
“Then you stop them, Detective Cross.”
“Roger that,” I said. “We’re standing by.”
“Don’t send sirens or flashing lights,” Sampson said.
“Roger that,” Pittman said.
Two minutes later, we heard a diesel engine rumbling and then gravel crunching. An eighteen-wheeler emerged from the fog and the trees and pulled up to the gate.
The guards seemed to recognize the driver and opened the gates. The rig rolled forward and hard to the right of the two Suburbans and backed up to the third loading dock. The overhead door rose, revealing four more armed men in the bay.
“Looks like something important is getting delivered,” Sampson said.
“Yeah,” I said. “This is starting to get—”
Out in the fog near the far northwest corner of the fence, an explosive device detonated in a dull flash and blast that, even at a distance, boxed our ears and pulsed through our chests.