“And there, you shagging, cross-eyed whoremonger, I’ve got it.”
Half asleep, too used to his mutters to think anything of them—though whoremonger was new—she held out the water.
He flicked her away. “Not now. There it is. Hiding out, tucked away in a bunch of bollocks. Not clients, no, they’re fucking not clients.”
She heard it now—not frustration or inching progress, but pleasure edging toward triumph. “Who?”
“Not done. Quiet. It wants to go sick if I get too close, and we won’t have that. Standard virus is all it is. Just kill it, and then . . . There you are.”
“Who?” she demanded again. He shot whatever he’d found to a wall screen.
“Paul Rogan,” he read. “Along with his wife, his daughter—and considerable salient information. Then the same for Wayne Denby.”
“Target list, two more. Jesus Christ. Tyber Chenowitz—wife, six-year-old son. That address—”
“Is all but around the corner.”
“Send the second—Miller Filbert, Lower East—to Baxter. Now, now, now. How fast can you get me eyes and ears on Chenowitz?”
“I’ve what you need in the lab here.”
“Get it, then let’s move.”
As Roarke shot the data to Baxter, Eve dragged out her comm. “Alert Lieutenant Salazar,” she demanded on the move. “Two locations require E and B units.” She snapped information to Dispatch as she bolted down the steps, then contacted Baxter herself while she dragged on her coat.
He didn’t bother to block video, so she got a good shot of his bare ass—not bad—as he scrambled out of bed.
“Got the address. On my way in five.”
“Get Trueheart, get there. Tag Feeney for eyes and ears. I’ve got another one I’m handling. Salazar’s alerted. Wear vests and helmets. I’m sending uniforms, both locations. The van’s a black Essex Sprinter, new model. Echo - Zulu - Baker - Five - Seven - Eight. Watch for it. Do not enter until Salazar’s team clears. That’s an order. Move.”
She turned when Roarke jogged down to her with a field bag.
“I can get your eyes and ears, and I can scan for explosives.”
“Even better.” She ran outside, jumped in the car. “Here’s what we do. Go fast, but quiet. If he’s there, if he has them, sirens might make him cut his losses. If he’s crazy enough to hit another without Iler, knowing how close we are, he’s crazy enough to kill the family. He’ll sure as hell try to use them as shields.”
Roarke punched into vertical rather than waiting for the gates to open fully.
“I think I know the house. It’s back off the street and gated, like ours. I’ll need to bypass the security as, again, if he’s there, he may have reset it as a precaution.”
It took under two minutes to get there. Roarke pulled up out of the range of the gate cameras.
“I’m going to jam them long enough for me to bypass. We’ll go over the gate, then I’ll reset.”
When he got out, she contacted Dispatch, ordering backup to wait outside the gate until she cleared them through.
“Done.” Roarke slid behind the wheel again, took vertical over the iron gates. Reengaged the gate system.
He stopped in the shadows.
The house, about twenty feet back from the gates, stood three stories, with pillars framing a wide front porch. A large section of the roof jutted out, flattened. She could see in the security lights the rise of dwarf trees.
She’d seen that roof garden, she realized, from the roof dome of their own house. A spilling water feature down the west wall, a kind of fancy shed she imagined held tools for the raised wooden beds full of growing things and color in the spring and summer. Chairs and umbrella tables in season, too, so to enjoy the views in the garden and beyond. Big colorful pots to hold the trees and viney things winding up decorative supports.
No lights on the roof now, or on the main floor. But she noted them filtering through some of the windows on the second floor.
“There’s a vehicle around the side—I can see the lights bouncing off the chrome bumper, but I can’t get a good look. Work on the alarms, the eyes and ears. I’m going to move closer, check it out.”
She got out of the car, eased the door shut. Keeping low, weapon drawn, she jogged toward the house.
The black panel van sat close to the side of the house, out of sight from the street. She shined her penlight over the tags for confirmation.
She jogged back to Roarke.
“He’s in there. Get those eyes in, tell me where.” Once again, she pulled out her comm.
“Salazar.”
“My location. His van’s outside this location. Lights second-floor windows. I’ve got an e-man getting me eyes.”
“I’m heading to you. Don’t enter until we clear.”
“We can scan for boomers. He’s got three people inside. What’s your ETA?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Don’t take the gate until we give the green. Contact Baxter, tell him it’s going down here.”
“Ten minutes, Dallas.”
She clicked off. “Roarke.”
“Four in the room directly above, with the lights on. One has to be the child from the size of the heat read. One is sitting, one is lying down. One’s standing—moving, back and forth.”
“Get us in there, quiet.”
“Scanning first. Because if it’s wired, it won’t be quiet at all. The door’s clean. Another moment or two on the rest.”
“Be ready. We get upstairs—quiet. If I can take him out without endangering the civilians, I will. I need you to hang back in case I can’t. Let him think I’m alone. If and when I lower my weapons, it’s a signal you’ve got a shot. Take it.”
“All right, we’re clear. I’ll be scanning as we go. He may have set booby traps.”
She went in low, Roarke high. The moment they crossed the threshold, a light in the wide foyer flashed on.
She swung around, back-to-back with Roarke, weapon sweeping.
“Motion lighting,” he whispered. “Fuck me. It’s not to do with the alarm. It’s set up so if someone comes in late, or goes down in the night, the light comes on for them.”
“If he sees it—”
A scream, agonized, ripped out. As Eve bolted toward the stairs, a woman’s terrified voice shrieked, “No! No! Please, don’t hurt my baby!
A man’s voice joined it, and a child’s desperate calls for his mother.
She caught the sound of running footsteps, and the child’s sobs overhead, swung first to the right and the master.
The woman struggled desperately against the binds that tied her to the bed. Blood seeped from her nose; her right eye was blackened, swollen closed. The man, equally bloodied, twisted against the ropes as he tried to worm his way across the floor to his wife.
He wore a suicide vest.
“Help us!” The woman wept as she scraped her wrists and ankles raw. “He has my baby. He took our son. Help us.”
“Get her out.” On the floor, the man stared up at Eve with pleading eyes. “Get my wife out, save our boy. He’s got the detonator. There’s no time.”
“Get her out,” Eve ordered Roarke, punching her comm to give Salazar and the backup the green. “If you can do anything about the vest, do it. Otherwise, just get her out, wait for Salazar.”
She rushed the steps, weapon sweeping—heard a door slam. On the third floor, she paused, checking right, left. Family area, she noted, but two doors to the left, one to the right, all closed.
She drew a breath, held it. Listened while trying to tune out the weeping, begging rising up from the second floor.
She heard it, muffled, distant, but she heard the boy call out, again, for his mother.
Up, she realized. Roof garden.
She sidestepped left, angled to the first door, went in low.
Bathroom, clear. Moved to the next.
Another set of stairs, straight up with a door at the top. She eased her way up, thinking of the man with the detonator. Nothing to lose now, no way out now. He’d press the button if she played this wrong.
She hit the door, swept, and caught sight of him through the denuded branches of ornamental trees, the kid flailing against him. He swung around, laid a combat knife against the boy’s throat.