then leveled off at what Bosch estimated was an elevation of about three hundred yards. In the yellow vision field he could now see the hacienda and the front of the bunker. He saw the other two helicopters, looking like black dragonflies, set down on their assigned sides of the house. Then he felt the Lynx pull up slightly as if hovering on an air pocket.
"One down!" a voice shouted in the headset.
"Two down!" came another.
Men in black began spilling from the side doors of the landed craft. One group of six went immediately to the front of the hacienda. The six-man group from the other helicopter moved toward the bunker building. Militia cars now began pulling into the field of view. Bosch saw more figures leap from the helicopters. That would be Ramos and the backup.
It all appeared surrealistic in the scope to Bosch. The yellow tint. The tiny figures. It seemed like a badly filmed and edited movie.
"Switching to ground com," Corvo said.
Bosch heard the click as the frequencies were switched. Almost immediately he began to pick up radio chatter and the heavy breathing of men running. Then there was a loud banging sound, but Bosch could tell it was not weapon fire. It was the ram used to open the door. Over the air there were now panicked shouts of "Policia! DEA!" Corvo's voice cut through a momentary lull in the shouting.
"Ground One, talk to me. What have we got? Let's talk to the mothership."
There was some static and then Ramos's voice came back.
"We have entry at Point A. We have—I'm going—"
Ramos was cut off. Point A was the hacienda. The plan had been to hit the hacienda and the bunker, Point B, at once.
"Ground Two, do we have entry yet at Point B?" Corvo asked.
No answer. It was a few long moments of silence and then Ramos came back up on the air.
"Air Leader, can't tell on Ground Two at this time. Target team has approached entry point and we—"
Before the transmission was cut off Bosch heard the unmistakable sound of automatic gunfire. He felt adrenaline begin to flood his body. Yet he could do nothing but sit and listen to the dead radio air and watch the murky yellow night vision display. He saw what he believed were muzzle flashes from the front of the bunker. Then Ramos came back up on the air.
"We're hot! We're hot!"
The helicopter lurched as the pilot took them up higher. As the craft rose, the night scope offered a larger view of the scene below. The entire PC became visible. Now Bosch could see figures on the roof of the bunker, moving toward the front of the structure. He pushed the switch on the side of his helmet and said into the mouthpiece, "Corvo, they've got people on the roof. Warn them."
"Stay off!" Corvo shouted. Then to below, he radioed, "Ground Two, Ground Two, you have weapons on the roof of the bunker. Count two positions approaching northside, copy?"
Bosch could hear no shooting over the sound of the rotor but he could see the muzzle flash from automatic weapons from two locations at the front of the bunker. He saw sporadic flashes from the vehicles but the militia was pinned down. He heard a radio transmission open and heard the sound of fire but then it was closed and no one had spoken.
"Ground Two, copy?" Corvo said into the void. There was just the initial strain of panic in his voice. There was no reply. "Ground Two, do you copy?"
A hard-breathing voice came back. "Ground Two. Yeah. We're pinned down in the Point B entry. We're in a crossfire here. Would like some help."
"Ground One, report," Corvo barked.
There was a long moment of silence. Then Ramos came on the air. His words were partially obscured by gunfire. "Here. We've . . . the house, . . . have three suspects down. No others present. Looks like they're . . . fucking bunker."
"Get to the bunker. Two needs backup."
"—that way."
Bosch noticed how the voices on the radio were higher and more urgent. The code words and formal language had been stripped away. Fear did that. He had seen it in the war. He'd seen it on the streets when he was in uniform. Fear, though always unspoken, nevertheless stripped men of their carefully orchestrated poses. The adrenaline roars and the throat gurgles with fear like a backed-up drain. Sheer desire for survival takes over. It sharpens the mind, pares away