“It’s called element of surprise,” he assured me.
Jesus, could he be any more like Ian?
Morgan flashed his badge and had his hand on his gun. “SFPD, Hein. Put your hands where we can see them.”
“You can’t come in here!” Hein bellowed from behind his desk. He was shoving papers into drawers. “You can’t—”
“He can, he’s with me. Federal marshal,” I announced, following Morgan’s badge with my star and watching as Morgan’s grin in all its wicked glory spread across his chiseled features. That was what shit-eating looked like.
“Fuck,” Hein groaned.
“Hands away from the computer,” Morgan ordered.
According to what Hein was trying to hide, Sandell had offshore accounts, some in the Caymans and even some Swiss. Everything about Sandell and his operations, including a conversation about taking out Brandt and Morgan, was right there in front of us on files small enough to fit on my phone.
Just as the final file hit my memory card, Sandell came through the doorway of the office with a duffel bag. “I’ve got some cash you need to drop, Hein,” he said, stepping through the broken door, apparently just noticing its appearance. “What the hell hap—”
He stopped short, his eyes frozen on Hein sitting on the floor with PlastiCuffs on his ankles and his hands zipped behind his back. One blink and Sandell bolted back out into the hallway, lugging the duffel with him.
I got that he didn’t want to ditch whatever was in there, and when I reached the sidewalk, I understood why.
Money was flying everywhere, drawing a small crowd of people between us and a fleeing Sandell. He had cash in the bag—quite a bit, by the look of it—and now he was letting the bills loose on the breeze, and having them flutter all over the street was a great diversionary tactic that would slow us down considerably.
“Jones, I’m going to switch over to dispatch,” Morgan said, breaking past the crowd. “Try to keep up. Dispatch, do you read me?”
And we started to run.
We had to leave the sidewalk, which became too clogged with people trying to get ahold of the cash floating in the sunshine. It was a madhouse.
“Fuck,” Morgan swore, a resigned tone to his growl. “Dispatch, do you have my position? Need backup. Tenderloin. Suspect is on foot. Heading towards Taylor. Carrying a black duffel and—”
I knew we’d hoped to keep things quiet, but it had just blown up. There was no way Sandell was going to simply stop running and turn himself in, and he was probably calling for reinforcements himself. So Morgan was making sure we weren’t alone, waiting to get picked off.
“—going to intercept,” he continued, because that told dispatch we were moving, not waiting on anyone to breach or take a suspect, instead already engaged. He was hearing the whole unit’s advised talk-track, and he was answering questions about where we were, giving them coordinates as he ran so that everyone was in sync. Because neither he nor I was in uniform, and we didn’t want to get shot by accident.
“Suspect is armed,” Morgan confirmed.
More money lay scattered on the concrete, a trail of green crumbs for us to follow, and Morgan took the corner in a sharp leap.
As we charged across Eddy Street in the Tenderloin, I had a moment to appreciate the ridiculousness of my situation as Morgan slid over the hood of a car Dukes of Hazzard–style and kept running, never slowing, never losing concentration, nothing. Ian was fond of that maneuver; I, on the other hand, had never been a fan.
“We could go around!” I yelled, swerving to miss the parked Lexus. “There’s no problem with missing the goddamn car!”
Morgan ran on, which was impressive considering how long we’d been at it—at least ten minutes running flat out at full speed—and he’d gone down six flights of fire escapes while I took the stairwell inside Hein’s building. Normally Ian and I switched it up, but clearly Morgan was used to being the alpha doing all the high-wire work.
A bullet hit a car window, shattering it, and he shouted, “Watch your back.” I ran by, and another made a divot in the brick wall in front of me.
“Somebody’s shooting at us,” I cautioned.
“No shit,” he thundered. “Keep moving. Harder to hit.”
Even though I was grateful for the laws of physics, we couldn’t keep hoping our luck would hold.
I wove as I ran, yelling, “We need to get off the main street.”
“Tell him, not me.”
Barreling around the corner onto Taylor heading north toward Ellis—I only knew that because Morgan was giving a running commentary on our location to dispatch—Sandell darted through the intersection, only to be cut off by a cherry-red Trans Am. He couldn’t stop—he was running too fast, flat out, and he ended up sprawled halfway across the hood. Morgan pulled up, allowing me to finally catch up with him, and I stood there at his side, panting, then bent over and trying not to hurl as I heard other cars come to screeching halts close to us.