“Shots fired,” LaMoia reported into his headset. He told those in the van, “The spiders report hearing six to eight shots fired.”
There was no longer any need to await the AUSA’s warrant.
“Hampton and Stubblefield. Over the wall!” Rotem ordered. “NOW!”
All those in the back of the police van had spent the last ten minutes preparing for the raid. Hampton and Stubblefield, already having donned Kevlar vests and radio headsets, were handed white-phosphorus grenades and stun grenades by members of SPD’s elite ERT squad.
LaMoia said to Rotem, “Say the word and you’ve got twelve of our best special ops on the field with them and two sharpshooters with positions on the lodge.”
“How long?”
“Give me seven to ten minutes.”
“Okay, go, but I want no mistake. Your two spiders and three of my guys are going to be on the ground. No friendly fire. Positive makes or no shots.”
“Understood.”
Rotem also directed LaMoia to call up cruisers or patrol personnel and to seal every gate. Anyone attempting to flee was to be detained as a material witness.
Hampton and Stubblefield took off toward ladders set against the wall. Rotem’s phone rang, and he stuck it to his ear, too excited to hear at first, then stunned by the voice he heard on the other end. “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” he shouted, too loud for the small confines of the back of the truck. The men went immediately silent.
“It’s Larson,” he told the group. They’d heard the name bandied about, but probably did not understand the significance of the call.
“Go ahead,” Rotem barked into the phone, a trickle of sweat rolling down his cheek.