by J. D. Robb
“Some smooth ride you scored this time, Dallas.”
Baxter. He was nice, funny. He wouldn’t be too mad if they found her.
“Don’t play with my controls. When we’re done with this, I need you to hook up with Peabody, keep pushing the property angle. We’re going to find them Upper West. Shit, they could be a fucking block away.”
“There goes the neighborhood. We scattering for the night because of the IAB hound?”
“Webster’s okay—but if I’ve got the team officially on the clock, and working out of my home, it’s a gray area. Politicians grumbling, and they don’t like gray unless they’re painting it. We got dead cops, we got injured cops, we’re poking into other cops’ cases—one of them closed with a guy doing cage time for it. And I’m not shutting it down fast enough to suit them. I’m not going to give them a reason to pull me off.”
“Taking the kid into your place opened you up to it.”
“I know it.”
“It was the right thing, Dallas. The right thing for her. Kid didn’t just need protection. She needed . . . comfort.”
“She needs me to close this thing, and I can’t if I get jammed up with bullshit. So we straddle the line, and Webster will keep the brass off our ass until we do. There’s the black-and-white. Let’s get this done.”
Eve strode to the two uniforms. “Either of you go inside?”
“No, sir. We were ordered to hold. Light was on up there, right front window, second floor.” One of them nodded toward the house. “Switched off when we pulled up. No one’s come out.”
“You check the back?”
“We were told to hold.”
“Jesus, don’t either of you have possession of a brain today? Kids’ve probably scrambled. Baxter, go around the back. I’ll take the front. The two of you stand here and give the appearance of being cops.”
She approached the front entrance, examined the seal and lock. Both had been hacked and mangled. It screamed kids, but she followed the suggestion of the tingle at the base of her spine and drew her weapon before she booted the door.
She swept, center, right, left, back to center. Called for lights and listened.
There was some debris scattered around. Home brew bottles, bags of soy chips. Snack food littered the floor, and had been crushed underfoot. It all said kids, disrespect, party.
When she heard a soft creak overhead, she crossed to the stairs.
Because she couldn’t hear anything, Nixie risked easing her head up, peeking out the window. She saw the two policemen and bit her lip when her eyes welled with tears. They wouldn’t let her go inside. If she tried to, they’d see her.
Even as she thought it, there were two bright flashes, and the policemen flew backwards and fell down the steps to her mother’s office. So quickly it seemed like pretend, two figures in black ran across the sidewalk and into her house.
The shadows.
She wanted to scream, to scream so loud, but nothing came out of her throat as she squeezed her body down onto the floor again. The shadows would kill Dallas and Baxter, just like they’d killed everybody. While she hid. They would cut them up while she hid.
Then she remembered what was in her pocket, and fumbled out the ’link Roarke had given her. She pushed the button, hard, and began to weep as she crawled out of the car. “You have to come, you have to help. They’re here! They’re going to kill Dallas. Hurry and come.”
Then she ran home.
At his desk Roarke felt the cool satisfaction of outwitting a foe. He was peeling away layers. He didn’t have the core yet, not yet, but it was only a matter of time. Dig deeply enough, and there were always footprints under the muck. He could follow them now. Triangle to Five-By, Five-By to Unified Action—another military term. And all the crisscrossing threads between. He came across the name Clarissa Branson, listed as president of Unified. Jolt from the past, he thought. One of Cassandra’s top-level operatives.
Eve had caught her, he remembered, before the crazy bitch could kill them both and blow up the Statue of Liberty for good measure. Clarissa and William Henson, the man who’d trained her. Both dead now. But . . .
He pulled up another program and ordered a search for New York properties under Clarissa Branson, William Henson, or any combination thereof.
He checked the time, judged Eve would have arrived at the Swisher house. No point in interrupting her fun, he decided. Which she would gain, whatever she said, from busting down on a bunch of foolish kids.
“Ah, well now, there you are you shagging bastards. Branson Williams, West Seventy-third. My cop’s right again. Best interrupt her after all.”
“Roarke.” Summerset, normally the most restrained of men, rushed into the office without knocking. “Nixie’s missing.”
“Be specific.”
“She’s not in the house. She took off the homer, put it on the boy. She told him she wanted to talk with the lieutenant, and left him in the game room. I’ve checked the scanners. She’s not in the house.”
“Well, she could hardly get off the property. Likely she’s just . . .” He thought of Eve leaving with Baxter. “Oh bloody hell.”
As he swung to his desk ’link, the one in his pocket signalled. He yanked it out, heard the child’s voice.
“Call for backup,” he snapped out and uncoded a drawer. “Contact Peabody and the rest, give them the situation.”
“I’ll do it on the way. I’m going with you. That child was my responsibility.”
Rather than argue, Roarke checked the weapon he’d taken out, tossed it to Summerset, and chose another. “You’ll have to keep up.”
23
AS SHE REACHED THE STEPS, EVE EASED HER communicator out of her pocket. She keyed in a code, ordering Baxter in as backup. When there was no response, she let the curses roll in her head. She tapped into Dispatch, keyed in for officer-needs-assistance. If it was kids playing hide-and-seek upstairs, she’d live down the humiliation.
She backed down, made her way quietly toward the rear of the house. She’d call Baxter again, and she’d use the domestic’s steps.
She’d reached the kitchen when the lights shut off.
She crouched in the dark, and though her heart gave three solid bumps, her mind stayed cool. They’d sprung a trap before she did, but it didn’t mean she’d wouldn’t take the cheese and walk away.
She keyed her communicator again, intending to order armed response, and found it dead in her hand.
Jammed all electronics. Smart. Goddamn smart. Still, they had to find her before she found them. She thought briefly of Baxter, and blocked emotion. He was down, no question. The cops out front, too.
Just me and you, then. Let’s see who brings it first.
She stayed low, and with her eyes adjusting to the dark, slipped toward the domestic’s quarters. A movement from behind had her swinging around with her finger trembling on the trigger.
She recognized Nixie by scent almost before she recognized the small shape of girl. Biting off curses, she slapped her hand over Nixie’s mouth and dragged her into Inga’s parlor.
“Are you fucking crazy?” Eve whispered.
“I saw them, I saw them. They came in the house. They went up the stairs.”
No time for questions. “You listen to me. You hide in here, you hide good. You don’t make a sound, not a fucking sound. You don’t come out until I say so.”
“I called Roarke. I called him on the ’link.”
Oh Christ, what was he walking into? “Fine. Don’t come out until one of us says so. They don’t know you’re here. They won’t find you. I’ve got to go up.”
“You can’t. They’ll kill you.”
“They won’t. I’ve got to go up, because my friend’s hurt.” Or dead. “Because it’s my job. You do what I tell you, and you do it now.”
She half-carried Nixie across the room, shoved her under the sofa. “Stay there. Stay quiet, or I’m going to beat the crap out of you.”
Eve eased ope
n the door to the stairs, breathing again when she found the housekeeper had kept the hinges well-oiled. Take it to the second floor, she thought. Away from the kid. Take it to them.
Roarke would get backup, she could trust him for that. Just as she could trust he was already on his way—fighting back worry for her. And he might not fight it off well enough.
She slipped up the steps like a shadow, and listened at the door.
Not a sound, not a breath. Night-vision, certainly. They’d spread out now, looking for her. Cover the exits, sweep room by room. She’d lied to Nixie. They’d find her. They’d find her because they were looking for a cop, and they’d look everywhere.
Unless she showed herself.
They thought she was looking for kids, so they wouldn’t expect she’d have her weapon out—or even so, that she’d be primed.
Time she gave them a surprise.
She rolled her shoulders and, laying down a stream right and left, went through the door.
There was answering fire from her left, but it was high and she was already down and rolling. She was blasting in the direction of the returning stream.
She saw the shadow, heard the thud of it when the blast kicked it back against the wall.
She leaped forward. One of the males—she couldn’t tell which. Good and stunned. She ripped off his night goggles, grabbed both his blaster and his combat knife. And was running for cover when footsteps pounded up the stairs.
She fixed on the goggles, and it was light, that faint green tinge that made everything look surreal. She slipped the knife into her belt, gripped both blasters, and came out firing.
She barely made the movement behind her, was able to pivot, but not quickly enough to avoid the knife. It sliced through the leather of her jacket, missed the vest, and ripped into her shoulder.
Using momentum and pain, she swung, back-fisted, and heard the satisfying crunch of cartilage.
She blasted toward the main steps again—keep him off me!—as her assailant leaped at her again.
The kick landed in Eve’s sternum, stole her breath, and had the blasters squirting out of her fingers like soap.
She could see Isenberry, blood streaming out of her nose, grinning. Her blaster was holstered, her knife in combat grip.
Likes to party, she thought. Likes to play.
“Unfriendlies approaching!” Isenberry’s cohort shouted from downstairs. “Abort!”
“Like hell. I’ve got her.” The grin widened. “I’ve been looking forward to this. Get up, bitch.”
Drawing the knife out of her belt, Eve pushed through the pain and rose. “Lieutenant Bitch. I broke your fucking nose, Jilly.”
“Going to pay for that now.”
She came in with a swipe, spun, and missed Eve’s face with a vicious back-kick by a breath. The knife slashed down toward Eve’s chest, ripped cloth, and skidded over shield.
“Body armor?” Isenberry spun back, planted her feet. “Knew you were a pussy.”
Eve feinted, jabbed, then rammed her fist into Isenberry’s grin. “Sticks and stones.”
In fury, Isenberry reached for her blaster. Eve rose on her toes to leap. And the lights flashed on, blinding them both.
Roarke came in the front like lightning, rolled to his left an instant before the blast hit—two instants before Summerset engaged the lights.
He saw the man ripping off goggles, pivoting behind a doorway.
He could hear the sound of combat up the stairs. She was alive, and she was fighting. The cold fear that had squeezed his heart loosened. He sent out another blast, rolled in the opposite direction.
“See to Eve!” he ordered Summerset and bolted through a doorway to intercept his quarry.
The lights were bright now, and he listened for any sound. There might have been sirens, far off yet. It was best to wish for them, he knew. But there was that cold, hard center of him that wanted the fight, and the blood.
Leading with his weapon, he started to ease around a corner when the scream, the sound of tumbling bodies, broke his concentration for an instant.
In that instant the blast seared across the top of his shoulder, singeing skin, tearing pain. He smelled blood, burned flesh, and—gripping the weapon in his left hand now—shot out streams, somersaulting under them.
Glass imploded. Shards flew. He saw a blast knock his opponent back, and was on him like a dog.
Eve lay at the base of the steps in Inga’s parlor, body vibrating with pain, hands slick with blood. The knife was still in her hand, gripped as if her fingers had welded around it. Isenberry was beneath her, their faces so close Eve could see the life drain out of her eyes.
She heard the child under the sofa whimpering, but it was like a dream. Blood, death, the knife hot in her hand.
She heard footsteps rushing down the stairs and forced herself to roll off Isenberry.
Pain screamed through her arm, her shoulder, so her vision wavered. She saw a room washed with red light, heard herself pleading for mercy.
“Lieutenant.” Summerset crouched until she saw his face. “Let me see where you’re injured.”
“Don’t touch me.” She lifted the knife, showed him the blade. “Don’t touch me.”
She saw the child huddled under the sofa, face white. White so that some of the blood that had spilled on the fall dotted it like red freckles.
She saw the eyes, glassy with shock. Somehow they were her own eyes.
She pushed herself up, stumbled into the kitchen.
He was alive. Blood on him, too. Well, there was always blood. But Roarke was alive, standing up now, turning toward her.
She shook her head, dropped to her knees as her head spun and her legs trembled. And crawled the last few feet to where Kirkendall was sprawled.
Blood on him, too. But he wasn’t dead. Not yet. Not yet. She turned the knife in her hand, gripping it blade down.
Was her arm broken? Had she heard it snap? The pain was there, but it was like a memory. If she put the knife in him, if she drove it through him, again and again, knowing what she did, feeling what she did, would the pain go away?
She watched the blood drip from her fingers and knew she could do it. She could, and maybe it would end.
Killer of children, raper of the weak. Why was a cage good enough?
She laid the point over his heart and her hand shook. It shook until her arm shook, until her heart shook. Then she drew it back.
Pushing up to her knees, she managed to shove the knife into her belt. “I’ve got men down. We need the MTs.”
“Eve.”
“Not now.” There was a sob—or it might’ve been a scream—trying to claw out of her throat. “Baxter went around back. He’s down. I don’t know if he’s still alive.”
“Cops out front were stunned. I don’t know how bad, but they were alive.”
“I need to check on Baxter.”
“In a minute. You’re bleeding.”
“He—” No, no not he. “She caught me a little. The fall was worse. I think I dislocated the shoulder.”
“Let’s have a look.” He was gentle, helping her to her feet, and still she went pale.
“Get a good hold,” she told him.
“Baby, you’d do better with a blocker first.”
She shook her head. “Get a good hold.” She got a strong grip on him as well, hissing out three readying breaths as she stared into his eyes.
Wild blue eyes, concentrate.
And with a jerk, one that brought her stomach to the base of her throat, turned her vision bright white, he snapped the shoulder back in place.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” She caught her breath, nearly nodded, and was grateful he was holding her upright. “Okay. That’s okay. It’s better.”
And she’d needed the jolt, she thought, not just to dull the pain in the shoulder, but to bring her back, fully, to where she was.
“The kid,” she began.
“Summerset.”
He came out with Nixie clin
ging to his neck. “She hasn’t been hurt.” There was the faintest of tremors in his voice. “Only frightened. She needs to be taken out of here.”
“I want to see him.” Nixie’s voice was thick when she lifted her face from Summerset’s neck. Her cheeks were wet, her eyes still streaming. But they met Eve’s. “I want to see who killed my family. Dallas said I could.”
“Bring her over here.”
“I don’t think—”
“I’m not asking you to think.” Eve crossed over herself, and when she wiggled down, took one of Nixie’s hands in her bloody one. “The woman’s dead,” she said flatly. “Neck snapped when we took that header down the steps.”
Not my arm, Eve thought, though it ached like a rotten tooth.
“There’s another upstairs.”
“He’s unconscious, unarmed, and restrained,” Summerset said.
“This one’s hurt bad,” Eve went on. “But he’ll live. He’ll live a long time—the longer the better—because he’ll never be free again. He’ll eat and piss and sleep where and when he’s told. Where he’s going . . . you getting this, Kirkendall?” she demanded. “Where he’s going, it’s like death. Only you live through it, day after day after day.”
Nixie looked down, and her fingers tightened on Eve’s. “She’s going to put you in a goddamn cage,” she said, clearly now. “Then, when you die, you’re going to hell.”
“That’s quite right.” Summerset went to Nixie again, picked her up. “Now let’s go outside and let the lieutenant do her job.”
Peabody rushed in, a few strides ahead of an army of cops. “Jesus loving Christ.”
“Baxter’s down. Out in the back most likely. See if he’s alive.” She turned to a uniform as Peabody raced out. “One suspect down on the second floor, unconscious and restrained. A second in that room over there, dead. This one makes three. I want MTs, CSU, the ME, sweepers, and Captain Feeney from EDD.”
“Sir, you don’t look so good yourself.”
“Get that going, I’ll worry about how I look.” She started to go out to check on Baxter herself, and saw him being helped toward the house by Peabody.