Through a rectangular window made of bulletproof glass, Bryce took in the glorious sunrise that speckled an otherwise bleak cityscape with bands of color. Early in the morning and he was dressed like Baltimore was Fallujah. He was not alone. Nine other guys were in the back of the BearCat, dressed similarly, but only three had body armor and tactical helmets marked with the U.S. Marshals stencil. For weaponry, Bryce had his M-4 long gun and Glock pistol snapped securely in its holster.
Based on Nadine’s information, they’d decided to hit the building at six in the morning. Tasha was out of immediate danger and Special Agent Curtis wanted to go in with a bit of daylight. At that hour, most everyone in the house would still be sleeping and the fewest civilians would be exposed to risk. Bryce agreed with the decision.
The multistory structure made entry a bit tricky, but again thanks to Nadine, Bryce knew where to look for Buggy. Ricardo and Casper shared an apartment on the first floor. When Buggy stayed over, which happened frequently, he preferred to crash in one of the makeshift rooms in the basement. Evidently Casper snored.
The plan was to breach the front entrance with overwhelming force, with local police assigned to watch the front and rear alley. If anyone tried to escape out back, they’d enjoy a short sprint at most before the manacles came on.
Two mobile command posts had been set up, one for the Marshals and one for the FBI. The law enforcement organizations could pretend to swim in the same pool, but it didn’t mean each wouldn’t try to piss in the other’s lane.
Glancing down the row of guys from the FBI dressed in tactical gear, Bryce smirked as he made eye contact with an agent seated on the bench across from him. “I’m surprised you guys didn’t bring a second BearCat to this shindig. Heck, I expected the whole fleet.” The FBI’s penchant for excessive personnel deployment was good fodder for the Marshals.
“Ha-ha,” the agent answered without smiling. “Very funny, Taggart.”
Bryce tightened the straps on his Kevlar vest and winked. Bryce had two guys from the Marshals with him, as well as two local cops whose loyalty was to the USMS. But it was still one fewer than the FBI had brought, so ribbing was allowed.
The agent Bryce had antagonized leaned forward in his seat. “Taggart, tell me. How does it feel to spend your career snatching low-hanging fruit like Buggy Gutierrez? I bet it gets pretty boring. If you ever grow a bigger pair, give us a call. I’m sure we can find an opening for you somewhere.” The special agent grabbed his crotch.
Bryce gave it some thought, but not for long. “Aren’t you guys the Blue Team?”
“Yeah, Red Team is taking down Markovich in DC.”
“Blue team, now that’s appropriate,” Bryce said.
The agent squinted. “Why’s that?”
“Because you got big blue balls, of course.” Bryce followed another wink with a rakish grin, then checked the time on his Casio watch. By now the Red Team had probably stormed into Ivan “Stinger” Markovich’s stylish DC residence, cuffed him, and read him his rights. His arrest was scheduled to go down around the same time as this one.
Red Team’s raid would be a bit blind because they didn’t have an inside source like Nadine feeding them information. She was a brave girl and proving to be a critical mission asset, which meant Angie and Mike were useful, too. Those two were parked safely inside the FBI’s mobile command post, tasked with getting intel from Nadine to send back to the tactical teams.
Bryce thought about checking in with Angie just because he wanted to hear her voice again. She intrigued him. She seemed smart, ambitious, and supremely capable, and he couldn’t help but notice her good looks and absence of a wedding ring. But his curiosity would have to wait until the after-bust party, which hopefully would take place at McSorley’s in eight or so hours.
The truck came to a hard stop.
“Let’s try to keep all our bullets in their respective guns,” Bryce said.
The crotch-grabbing FBI agent said, “We’ll go in first. You Marshal boys can follow.”
Bryce picked up a scaled-down pump action Remington shotgun he called Little Pig, as in the nursery rhyme “Little pig, little pig, let me come in.” He grinned. “You may have the bigger pair, but I got the gun.” He pushed opened the rear doors.
A rush of warm wind swept into the back of the truck. First out was Bryce. He jumped to the street and headed to the target building, followed closely by a processional of armed guys all dressed in black, wearing ear protection of some sort. Not that there was any noise to block out—not yet, anyway. Everyone kept silent as they got into position at the front door.
Bryce set the barrel of Little Pig against the door lock. His pulse hammered as his blood heated up. Anyone who said they didn’t get nervous before a job like this, who didn’t feel a tickle of fear, was either a psychopath or a liar, and not welcome on Bryce’s team. The jump in his heart was something he had come to accept. He used it as a reminder to put his training into practice.