Неизвестный - 5. Justice Served

With luck, the rear entrance wouldn’t be guarded, at least not on the basement level. She could only assume that was the case, since Irina apparently planned to let her into the building that way.

She checked her watch and peered into the gloom at the far end of the alley. She wondered where the lieutenant would set up the perimeter.

She was out there, she was conÞ dent of that. She couldn’t see her, or hear her, but she knew that the lieutenant and the rest of the team were behind her. She waited another minute, then got out of the car and carefully closed it as soundlessly as possible. She started slowly down the alley, scanning the rear of the buildings ahead. One light ß ickered twice in rapid succession, and, after counting down the row from the corner to identify which one it was, she whispered the location. Then she hurried toward it.

v

“Shh. You must be very quiet. The others are asleep.”

“Jesus, it’s dark down here.”

“Here. Take my hand.”

“Are you sure we won’t wake everyone up?”

“They are all upstairs. My room is on the Þ rst ß oor.”

“This is Frye,” Rebecca said into her radio. “Hold your positions until I give the word.” Then she switched channels. “Watts? You set?”

“I’m in the middle of the block facing the fronts of the buildings with two uniforms. Nothing happening. You?”

“Mitchell’s inside, eighth house from the corner. You go on my order.”

“Roger. Watch your ass.”

“Thanks. You too.” She clicked off her radio and turned to Sloan.

“I want to get closer to the building. I’ll take the receiver now.”

“Bullshit. I’m coming. You need your hands and your eyes clear.

I’ll monitor Mitchell’s transmissions.”

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“You can come down the alley, but you stay back when we go inside.”

“I’ve got a vest on. I can use a weapon.” Sloan’s voice held a challenge.

“And you’re a civilian—”

“I’ve got federal credentials,” Sloan said ß atly as she eased her car door open. “And you can use me. Let’s go.”

“All right,” Rebecca conceded, because Sloan was right. She wanted people she trusted to go in Þ rst. Any screwups could cost Mitchell. “But stay the hell behind me when we go through the door.”

Sloan grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

“How do you know they’re all asleep?”

“They are. Don’t worry.”

“So we’re Þ nally going to be alone? God, I want to feel your skin against me, all over me.”

“Mitch, there is someone else here. A man—”

“Christ, a boyfriend? Husband?”

“No, no Mitch. It is not like that.”

“What, then?”

“He…works here.”

“Where is he?”

“Come on,” Rebecca murmured, her eyes on the rear of the building. “Lay it out for us, Irina. Tell us where he is.”

“Is this going to be enough for probable cause?” Sloan asked.

“All she’s gotta do is give some indication that those girls are being detained against their will or that they’re here illegally. Either one will do it for us.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Rebecca met Sloan’s eyes head-on. “Mitchell’s inside. I’m not leaving her in there, so if we run into reception problems and I can’t tell what’s going on, I’m going to have to take the door. Whether you come along is up to you.”

“Let me know when you’re having trouble with the receiver, because I’ll be going in with you.”

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“He is upstairs. My room is down here, in the back…

come, Mitch, we are almost there.”

“Is he asleep?”

“No. He is watching.”

“Watching? Irina, watching who?”

“Don’t you know, new boy?”

“No. Irina, what—”

“Us. He watches us. So we stay . ”

“That’s good enough. Let’s put Clark to work rounding up the Port Authority suspects, then we go.” Rebecca thumbed her radio. “This is red team. Blue team, go.” She switched channels yet again. “Watts, there’s one guard, upper ß oor. The girls are up there too. We’ll go in silent from the rear, and once we’re in position, you’ll take the door.

Wait for my signal.”

“What about Mitchell?”

“Bedroom, Þ rst ß oor. Make sure she’s secure. Protect her cover if you can.”

“Okay, Loo.”

Rebecca glanced at Sloan. “Any good with locks?”

Sloan nodded, her eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Spycraft 101.”

“Let’s see just how slick you feds really are.”

v

Sloan picked the lock in under sixty seconds. She held the door open, and Rebecca led the way inside, weapon in hand, stepping carefully in the dark.

“Stairs,” Rebecca whispered.

A sliver of light at the top of the stairwell gave them direction as they moved stealthily upward. The house was dark and still, so still it was hard to believe that anyone inhabited it. Rebecca’s skin tingled, but her pulse was steady and slow. At the top of the stairs she stopped and edged her shoulder to the corner. “Take left.”

Without waiting for a response, Rebecca spun into the hallway, her gun arm extended. She had the sense of Sloan moving in tandem with her, facing the opposite direction. The rooms opposite them, their

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doorways little more than dark yawning mouths, appeared unoccupied.

Rebecca pointed with her left hand down the hallway where a staircase ascended to the second ß oor. Sloan nodded.

Rebecca saw no indication of motion sensors on the walls or ceiling, no cameras, no light beams crossing the hallways that might trigger an alarm if interrupted. Obviously, no one was expecting visitors. In all likelihood, the guard was there more for intimidation of the occupants than for security. Nevertheless, she approached the stairs carefully, her back to the wall, leading with her weapon as she carefully climbed upward. Two steps below the top, she stopped and pressed her radio to her mouth. “Watts, go.”

Silently, she counted to ten and then inched around the corner and into the upper hallway. A light shone from an open doorway halfway down, and the muted sound of a television drifted to her. She hand-motioned Sloan to stay behind and cover her. She had just reached the open door to the room when she heard the crack of the front door exploding open. With both arms extended, she swung into the open doorway and swept the room. She caught the blur of motion from the corner of her eye and pivoted in that direction, shouting simultaneously,

“Police! On the ß oor.”

She heard what sounded like a string of Þ recrackers on the Fourth of July at the same time as the Þ rst bullet struck. The impact knocked her back and she bounced off the opposite wall, lost her footing, and went down. She tried to raise her gun, but her right arm was numb. He was coming, the submachine gun pointed at her head.

Catherine, I’m sorry.

She heard the next shots too, but she didn’t feel a thing.

• 290 •

Justice Served

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Tuesday, 3:23 a.m.

The staccato sounds thundering in the air shook the walls and trembled through the ß oorboards.

“What is it?” Irina’s voice rose in terror.

The roar was replaced by ominous silence.

“Stay here,” Mitchell said sharply as she spun toward the closed bedroom door. Just as she reached it, she heard shouts, the words indecipherable above the crack of splintering wood from somewhere close by. She debated drawing her weapon, but instinct warned her to wait. Only the immediate team members knew she was an undercover cop, and getting shot in a case of mistaken identity would be just plain dumb. She pulled open the door and stepped out into the hall, her hands at shoulder level.

A chorus of voices screamed.

“On the ß oor! On the ß oor! Hands above your head. Police.”

When Mitchell caught sight of a uniformed ofÞ cer swinging a weapon toward her chest, she dropped facedown, her arms spread-eagled at her sides. “Irina, get down,” she yelled toward the bedroom as someone roughly jerked her arms behind her back and cuffed them.

“Got a gun here,” a female ofÞ cer yelled, adrenaline making her voice sharp and brittle.

“Give it here,” Watts said as the uniform pulled the revolver from Mitchell’s ankle holster.

“Civilian in the bedroom,” a male voice called simultaneously.

“You two! Get the civilian out of the building and call for more backup. Leave this one here for now.” As the two ofÞ cers half dragged Irina out the front door, Watts knelt by Mitchell’s side. “You okay, kid?”

“Yeah, but all hell’s breaking loose upstairs. Jesus.” Mitchell jerked her arms. “Get these off.”

• 291 •

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He keyed the cuffs and they both got to their feet. He handed Mitchell her weapon.

“Here. Clear the downstairs.” He hesitated. “And get your badge on before some eager uniform plugs you full of holes.”

“I’m coming up with you,” she insisted, digging deep into her front pocket for her badge.

“You ain’t wearing a vest, and the Loo said to protect your cover.

You stay down here for now.”

“You might need me.”

“I need you, I’ll holler.” He was already halfway to the stairs and didn’t look back.

v

The hall was Þ lled with the stench of cordite, the pungent smell of blood, and the screams of petriÞ ed girls. Watts saw the body on the ß oor, and the air gushed out of his lungs as if he’d been punched in the gut. Oh, fuck me, I’m not seeing that.

Sloan pivoted toward him, gun extended, and he yelled, “Police, police. Sloan, it’s Watts. Jesus.”

“I can tell who the hell it is, for Christ’s sake.” Sloan’s eyes were hard dark stones. “Clear downstairs?”

“Mitchell’s sweeping it.” Watts wasn’t looking at her, but at Rebecca slumped against the wall. “Jesus Christ.”

“Call for the ambulance and a coroner.” Sloan holstered her weapon and spoke in Russian to the group of young women huddled together at the far end of the hall. Most were garbed only in ß imsy sleepwear or T-shirts, all were barefoot, and all were clearly terriÞ ed.

“They say there’s no one else up here,” she called back to Watts, “but I’ll do a room-to-room. You stay with Rebecca.”

“Loo?” Watts knelt by Rebecca’s side. Her eyes were open but glazed. Blood shimmered down her face and neck. “Take it easy, Lieutenant. The ambulance will be here in a minute.”

He waited, holding his breath, but no answer came.

v

Catherine opened her eyes to darkness, her heart racing. The

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Justice Served

bedside clock read 4:26 a.m. She listened for the sound of the key in the lock, but there was only silence. She sat up and reached for her robe.

The feeling of foreboding was oppressive and heavy, a weight in her chest that squeezed the air from her lungs and turned her limbs to stone.

She forced herself from the bed and, after pulling the robe around her naked body, walked into the living room. When the knock came at the door she was not surprised. For seconds that felt like eternity, she did not move. In that instant she understood the true power of denial. If she did not open the door, she would not suffer the loss. If she did not hear the words, she would not experience the anguish. If she did not accept, it would not be true.

The quiet knock repeated.

Catherine steeled herself and opened the door. She hadn’t meant to speak, but when she saw Sloan’s face, she whispered an agonized no.

“She’s hurt, but she’s alive. She’s at University ER. Ali Torveau’s with her.”

“I’ll just be a minute,” Catherine said evenly, but when she turned, her legs were unsteady. She didn’t draw away when Sloan’s arm came around her waist.

“It’s going to be all right,” Sloan murmured as she walked beside Catherine back to the bedroom.

“Tell me what happened.”

Sloan averted her gaze as Catherine, apparently oblivious to Sloan’s presence, removed her robe and stood naked in front of the closet. “We took the stash house. The guard was armed.”

“Oh God.” Catherine closed her eyes and braced her hand against the closet door.

“She was wearing a vest, Catherine,” Sloan hurried on. “I couldn’t tell for sure, but I don’t think she took a body shot.”

“She would have called me if she could have. What aren’t you telling me?”

“There’s a head wound. I’m not sure how serious.”

Catherine gave a small cry before Þ ghting back the terror that threatened to immobilize her. Blanking her mind, she slipped into a blouse and slacks, heedless of the fact that she wore no underwear. She stepped barefoot into low-heeled boots and pulled a blazer off the rack.

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She walked determinedly toward the front door with Sloan in her wake.

“How could this happen? Who was with her?”

“I was.”

Catherine Þ nally looked directly at Sloan. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.”

“And the…person who shot her?”

“Dead.” Sloan pointed. “My car’s over here.”

“You killed him?”

“Yeah.” Sloan keyed the remote and opened the passenger door for Catherine.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Sloan handed Catherine into the car, pulled the seat belt across Catherine’s chest, and hooked it. “I’m just Þ ne.”

v

Catherine remembered nothing of the brief, rapid journey to the hospital. She was out of the car nearly before Sloan was able to halt the Porsche in front of the emergency room entrance. She rushed through the automatic double doors into the familiar chaos of the trauma admitting area. Tonight the waiting room was awash with a sea of blue.

Tonight, the PPD had turned out en masse in support of one of their fallen brethren. That realization passed quickly through Catherine’s mind as she grasped the arm of the Þ rst passing nurse. “Lieutenant Frye. Wounded police ofÞ cer. Where is she?”

“Trauma One, I think.”

“Thank you.”

Sloan caught up to Catherine before she was halfway down an adjacent hallway that sported curtained exam rooms along both sides.

“Maybe you should wait until I Þ nd Ali and get an update.”

“No. I want to see her now.”

“Okay,” Sloan relented. “I’ll see what I can Þ nd out.”

Before she could turn back to the crowded waiting room in hopes of Þ nding someone who would be willing to give her information, she heard the deep rumble of a familiar voice.

“Dr. Rawlings,” Captain Henry said in a surprisingly soothing tone of voice. “I’m sorry to see you again under these circumstances.

Can I get you anything?”

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Justice Served

“Where is she?” Catherine asked immediately.

“Radiology, at least the last I heard.” He slid an arm beneath Catherine’s elbow. “No one is telling us very much, but the doctors listed her in critical, but stable, condition. Why don’t you come sit down in the family waiting room.”