“Mayberry doesn’t have a copter pad,” said Yardley Bell.
Nikki spread a map on the hood of her car. “No sweat. Gave us time to set up
logistics. We own the area, basically. State Police have closed this road to traffic
between Odell Avenue and Yonkers Yacht Club. To the west, it’s just railroad tracks
and river. East is woods and the trail up the hill, where we had our OP. Detective
Feller is up there maintaining surveillance.”
“Any sign?” asked Callan.
“Nothing. Car’s there, but that’s not definitive.”
Agent Bell asked, “What about his workplace?”
“Checked on that. I have excellent cooperation from local law enforcement,” Nikki
said, trying to push back on her Mayberry dig. “They drove my Detective Rhymer to
the institute, and he confirms Nikoladze is not there. They are remaining on-scene
in case he shows, and to make sure no calls go to him.”
Special Agent Callan nodded approval. “Very thorough—for a local.” He snuck Heat
a wink and asked, “How we going in?”
Heat opened up a sketch she had drawn of the compound on a blank sheet of printer
paper. Just as she pulled out her red Sharpie to mark arrows for the raid, Yardley
Bell interrupted. “Here, maybe this will be more helpful.” She unfolded a large,
color satellite photo of the property. “This was taken just after noon today.”
Rook tried to take the brittleness out of the air. “Noon, huh? Well, maybe we
should use Nikki’s since it was drawn ten minutes ago, so it’s more current.”
They took their positions on the road, behind bushes at the end of the driveway, and
at key locations in the woods flanking the land to the north and south. Another
contingent of State and Hastings police covered the railroad tracks behind the grove
of hardwoods, to close the back door. Detective Heat’s plan had been to approach on
foot in a platoon, using silence to provide surprise, with vehicles as backup to
create a tight perimeter. She got overruled. But before that, she got undermined.
“First thing, Detective,” said Bell, “too much exposure on foot. You may sadly
discover the surprise is yours.”
Callan became swayed. “Kinda ducks in a barrel, if he’s got a rifle.”
Before Heat could show where the cover would be and identify the house’s blind
spots she had located, Yardley rolled over her. “Shock and Awe. Ever hear of that?
There’s a reason… It works. Flip the plan, Detective. Roar in with the vehicles
first, deploy the foot soldiers. Shock and Awe.”
Much as Heat had seen all week, Callan let his subordinate steamroll him. “Shock
and Awe it is,” he said.
On Heat’s go signal they swarmed the place. SUVs and Crown Victorias with hell’s
roaring fire under the hood thundered up the driveway, kicking up pea gravel and
chewing lawn to the front door of the Victorian. Car doors flew open. Agents and
cops rolled out. Using the vehicles for cover, Heat, Roach, Callan, and the others
leapfrogged to the side of the house, squatting low as they moved along the
latticework of the gallery porch.
Agent Bell executed the same tactic across the lawn. An SUV and two cars scrambled
across the meadow to the kennel, depositing Bell and her team to hug the walls
there. That’s when things unraveled.
As soon as all the vehicles were in, the double doors to the kennel burst open and
ten Georgian shepherds ran out, barking and dashing in circles all over the
compound. In the instant of surprise and distraction, an engine howled to life and
an all-terrain vehicle screamed out of the building behind the cars and agents and
headed for the woods. Bell and the others raised their weapons, but by then Heat had
run across the grass from the house shouting, “Hold fire! Hold fire!” They had
discussed it going in: They needed Vaja alive.