That was good news, thought Dance. A naked suspect is a vulnerable suspect.
On the phone with the manager, she asked about the rooms next to Pell’s. The one to his left was empty; the guests had just left with fishing tackle, which meant they wouldn’t be back until much later.
Unfortunately, though, as for the room on the other side, a family appeared to be still inside.
Dance’s initial reaction was to call them and tell them to get down on the floor in the back. But they wouldn’t do that, of course. They’d flee, flinging open the door, the parents rushing the children outside.
And Pell would know exactly what was going on. He had the instincts of a cat.
Imagining them, the others in the rooms nearby and the housekeeping staff, Kathryn Dance thought suddenly, Call it off. Do what your gut tells you. You’ve got the authority. Overby wouldn’t like it—that would be a battle—but she could handle him. O’Neil and the MCSO would back her up.
Still, she couldn’t trust her instinct at the moment. She didn’t know people like Pell; Winston Kellogg did.
He happened to arrive just then, walking up to the tactical officers, shaking hands and introducing himself. He’d changed outfits yet again. But there was nothing country club about his new look. He was in black jeans, a black shirt and a thick bulletproof vest, the bandage on his neck visible.
TJ’s words came back to her.
He’s a bit of a straight arrow but he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty….
In this garb, with his attentive eyes, he reminded her even more of her late husband. Bill had spent most of his time doing routine investigations, but occasionally he’d dressed for tactical ops. She’d seen him once or twice looking like this, confidently holding an elaborate machine gun.
Dance watched Kellogg load and chamber a round in a large silver automatic pistol.
“Now that’s some weapon of mass destruction,” TJ said. “Schweizerische Industries Gesellschaft.”
“What?” Impatient.
“S-I-Gas in SIG-Sauer. It’s the new P220. Forty-five.”
“It’s forty-five caliber?”
“Yup,” TJ said. “Apparently the bureau’s adopted a
let’s-make-sure-they’re-never-getting-up-ever-ever-again philosophy. One I’m not necessarily opposed to.”
Dance and all the other agents at the CBI carried only 9mm Glocks, concerned that a higher caliber could cause more collateral damage.
Kellogg pulled on a windbreaker advertising him as an FBI agent and joined her and O’Neil, who was today in his khaki chief deputy uniform—body armor too.
Dance briefed them about the rooms next to Pell’s. Kellogg said when they did the kick-in, he’d simultaneously have somebody enter the room next door and get the family down, under cover.
Not much, but it was something.
Rey Carraneo radioed in; he was in a surveillance position on the far side of the parking lot, out of sight, behind a Dumpster. The lot was empty of people at the moment—though there were a number of cars—and the housekeepers were going about their business, as Kellogg had instructed. At the last minute, as the tac teams were on their way, other officers would pull them to cover.
In five minutes the officers had finished dressing in armor and checking weapons. They were huddled in a small yard near the main office. They looked at O’Neil and Dance but it was Kellogg who spoke first.
“I want a rolling entry, one team through the door, the second backup, right behind.” He held up a sketch of the room, which the manager had drawn. “First team, here to the bed. Second, the closets and bathroom. I need some flash-bangs.”
He was referring to the loud, blinding hand grenades used to disorient suspects without causing serious injury.
One of the MCSO officers handed him several. He put them in his pocket.
Kellogg said, “I’ll take the first team in. I’m on point.”
Dance wished he wouldn’t; there were far younger officers on the Monterey SWAT team, most of them recent military discharges with combat experience.
The FBI agent continued, “He’ll have that woman with him, and she may appear to be a hostage but she’s just as dangerous as he is. Remember, she’s the one who lit up the courthouse and that’s what killed Juan Millar.”
Acknowledging nods from them all.
“Now, we’ll circle around the side of the building and move in fast along the front. Those going past his window, stay on yourbellies. Don’t crouch. As close to the building as you can get. Assume he’s looking out. I want people in armor to pull the housekeepers behind cars. Then we go in. And don’t assume
there are only two perps in there.”
His words put in mind Dance’s conversation with Rebecca Sheffield.
Structure the solution…
He said to Dance, “That sound okay to you?”
Which wasn’t really the question he was asking.
His query was more specific: Do I have authority here?
Kellogg was being generous enough to give her one last chance to pull the plug on the op.
She debated only a moment and said, “It’s fine. Do it.” Dance started to say something to O’Neil but couldn’t think of any words that conveyed her thoughts—she wasn’t sure what those thoughts were, in any case. He didn’t look at her, just drew his Glock and, along with TJ and Stemple, moved out with a backup team.
“Let’s get into position,” Kellogg said to the tactical officers.
Dance joined Carraneo by the Dumpster and plugged in her headset and stalk mike.
A few minutes later her radio crackled. Kellogg, saying, “On my five, we move.”
Affirmative responses came in from the leaders of the various teams.
“Let’s do it. One…two…”
Dance wiped her palm on her slacks and closed it around the grip of her weapon.
“…three…four…five, go!”
The men and women dashed around the corner and Dance’s eyes flipped back and forth from Kellogg to O’Neil.
Please, she thought. No more deaths…
Had they structured it right?