Foreign Influence_ A Thriller - Brad Thor [51]
“First things first,” replied Vaughan as he reached into the bag he’d brought along and removed two black triangles about five inches long and three inches high.
“What are those?”
“SWAT chocks,” he said, pulling back the tented part to show the Public Vehicles officer the spikes underneath. “If we miss him or he tries to run, he won’t get very far with a flat tire.”
Davidson laughed. “Did they teach you that little trick in the organized Crime Division?”
“I was on SWAT before I landed at OC.”
“I heard you did intel work in Iraq. Why aren’t you in the Intelligence Division here?”
Vaughan shrugged. “You know how things work. A, there’s got to be a slot and B, you have to have impressed someone enough that they’ll go to bat for you.”
“So in other words, ass-kissing isn’t your forte?”
“Not exactly. No.”
“You just don’t try hard enough. All you have to do is put your lips together and—”
Davidson closed his eyes to demonstrate and Vaughan held up his hand to stop him. “I get it,” he said as he zipped up his bag and reached for the door handle.
“I’ll keep the car running. Just in case he comes out before you’re done and you have to chase him.”
Vaughan was tempted to flip the man the finger, but he didn’t think he knew him well enough yet. “Let’s get a patrol car to back us up on the arrest.”
Davidson nodded and picked up his radio.
“I also want to impound the cab, so let’s get a flatbed too. Once we have it impounded, we can have forensics go to work on it.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Vaughan walked back to the cab and did a slow loop around it. The bodywork was pristine, right down to the shiny new rivet holding the medallion in place on the hood. The interior was clean and contained no items of any personal nature other than a beaded seat cover. He placed his chocks. One went in front of the rear passenger tire and another behind the front passenger tire. This way, whether Nasiri pulled straight out or backed out of his space, they’d be covered.
The chocks set, he walked back up to Davidson’s Bronco and got back in. “What’s the ETA on the patrol unit?”
“They’re about two blocks away,” replied the Public Vehicles officer. “Where do you want them?”
“Somewhere in front of the building, but not directly in front. Let’s not tip our hand until we have to.”
Davidson radioed the instructions to the patrol unit.
“He’s in the third-floor rear apartment,” said Vaughan as he checked the file once more. “We’ll go through the alley.”
Davidson moved his truck to a better spot and then the two men climbed out. They were both wearing plain clothes and tried to act natural, but they stood out like a couple of sore thumbs in Chicago’s de facto Little Pakistan.
“Man, I must look really good today,” quipped Davidson as he noticed people staring at him. “What do you think? Do I have my mojo working or what? This has got to be what it’s like for Brad Pitt when he goes out, huh?”
Vaughan wasn’t paying attention to his colleague. As a cop, he was always careful, always aware of his surroundings, but there was something about Nasiri and this neighborhood that put him on edge. He knew these were Pakistanis and not Iraqis, but nevertheless, he had clicked into his Iraq mode. It was a heightened sense of awareness and almost hypervigilance. It bordered on paralyzing.
He moved slower than he normally would. Davidson noticed and shortened up his stride to keep next to him. “You all right?” he asked.
Vaughan nodded. He scanned apartment windows for spotters and checked the rooftops for kids who might give away their approach via cell phones. He looked for the LOPs—the little old people who were always used as watchdogs. Thank goodness there were no shops along this street. Shopkeepers in Iraq were notorious spies.
It was all stupid and he knew it, yet he couldn’t stop himself. Every day in Iraq he had honed the skills that had kept him alive while other men had been killed and had come home in boxes. Once developed, those instincts don’t disappear. But why