by Wesley Lewis
“Careful you don’t have a heart attack,” said Ilya as he took a seat on the bottom step.
Jesse used the support column to steady himself. “Don’t worry about me.” He took a couple of deep breaths. “How’d it go in the city?”
“Beautifully. I owe Volodya an apology for doubting his plan.”
Jesse wiped the sweat from his brow. “Does this mean we dodged the bullet with Las Víboras?”
Ilya leaned back against the steps. “By tomorrow morning, our accounts will be squared, and this nasty debacle will be behind us.”
The door at the top of the stairs swung open, pouring light down the steps.
Trooper Haley shouted, “Watch out below!”
Ilya glanced back. “I beg your pard—” He jumped to his feet and stepped to the side as a blue plastic barrel hurtled past.
The barrel reached the bottom of the stairs and rolled across the floor, passing between the support columns and stopping against the back wall.
Jesse laughed. “It’s like Donkey Kong.”
“Shut up,” muttered Ilya. He looked back up the stairs and yelled, “Haley!”
“What?” replied Haley.
“Get down here.”
“I have to go back for the other barrel.”
“Come here.”
The sound of footsteps on the stairs signaled Haley’s acquiescence. Crocker saw that the corrupt highway patrolman had taken the time to dress himself before returning with the barrel. He had on civilian clothes but wore both his gun and his badge on his belt.
Haley reached the bottom of the stairs. “What?”
Ilya pointed to the blue barrel lying on its side. “Pick that up, and set it out of the way.”
Haley gave a mock salute. “Yes, comrade.”
“How many empty drums are there?”
Haley picked up the barrel. “This one and one more.”
“Bloody hell. I guess we’re going to need the tools. I’d hoped to avoid that mess.”
“Want me to get them?” asked Jesse.
Ilya nodded. “Fetch the slag too. I want her to see what lies in store for her if she talks.”
“You mean the redhead?” asked Haley.
“Yes, young Ms. Scarlett, our lady of the night.”
“She left.”
Ilya’s face turned ashen. “What do you mean ‘she left’?”
“When I was walking back with the barrel, I saw her leaving in that yellow Corvette. She waved, but my hands were full, so I—”
“Goddammit!” yelled Ilya. “Jesse, come with me.” He pointed at Haley. “Stay here and watch them.”
He sprinted up the stairs. Jesse lumbered after him like an elephant ascending the Alps.
When both men were out of earshot, Haley muttered, “Weird-ass foreigner. It’s not my fault somebody left the keys in the car.”
“They didn’t leave the keys in the car,” said Larry, his voice wheezy. “Scarlett knows I keep a spare key inside the gas cap.”
Haley snorted. “It would serve them right if that crazy bitch took off with all their money.”
All their money, thought Crocker.
A ball of panic swelled in his throat. If Scarlett had all the money, she also had the tracking device. Had Special Agent Eastland’s team zeroed in on the safe house, or would they end up following Scarlett?
Through the open basement door, he heard his answer.
“What is that?” asked Haley. He climbed the first two steps and stared up at the door.
“Don’t ask me,” said Larry. “My ears have been ringing ever since that ‘crazy bitch’ kicked me in the head.”
Crocker felt a sudden surge of confidence. “Come on, Trooper Haley. Surely you’ve heard a helicopter before.”
Haley looked back at the hostages. “What helicopter?”
Crocker grinned. “HRT.”
It was a bit of an embellishment. He knew that Special Agent Eastland couldn’t have activated the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team on such short notice, but he also knew that law enforcement professionals held the initials HRT in the same high regard with which soldiers held the name SEAL Team Six. He wanted to put the fear of God into the corrupt officer.
Haley glanced at the door, then back at Crocker. “Bullshit.”
“You’re a trained law enforcement professional. Haven’t you seen those stacks of hundred-dollar bills with the hidden transmitters inside—the ones they use to track bank robbers?”
“Bullshit,” repeated Haley, with less conviction than before. “It’s probably one of those Grand Canyon tours or something.”
“If it is,” rasped Larry, “they’re way off course. The Grand Canyon is east of the city.”
“But if you’re so confident,” said Crocker, “go check for yourself.”
“I—”
Whatever Haley was about to say was cut short by an almost-deafening explosion upstairs.
Somewhere up there a voice called out, “FBI, get down on the ground!”
Another voice yelled, “Show me your hands!”
There was a loud burst of gunfire followed by a heavy thud.
Haley placed a hand on the butt of his gun.
“Is that really the play you want to make?” asked Crocker.
Haley removed his hand from the gun and hesitated.
The clatter of boots shook the floor above.
“Time’s almost up,” said Crocker.
Haley raised both hands above his head.
Crocker gave an approving nod. “Smart thinking.”
The dirty cop waited at the foot of the stairs with his hands in the air. The footsteps grew louder.
“Badge!” yelled Jennifer.
Crocker turned, surprised to hear her speak.
Her eyes were fixed on Haley. “Don’t forget to hold up your badge.”
As if under some sort of spell, Haley glanced down at the badge clipped beside his holster and grabbed for it.
Two shots rang out from the top of the stairwell.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Jennifer barely registered the object as it bounced off a step midway down the stairs and cartwheeled over Trooper Haley’s crumpled body. Only when it disintegrated in a deafening explosion did she realize it had been some sort of grenade.
Her eyes closed against the bright flash, but the light remained. She opened her eyes but still saw only white. She briefly considered the possibility that she’d died, but the stench of smoke and the painful ringing in her ears seemed to indicate otherwise.
A few seconds later, her vision began to adjust. The basement took shape. A number of dark figures passed in front of her.
Angels of death or agents of the law?
Her eyes focused on the figures—men in olive-drab uniforms, men with helmets and rifles, men with vests labeled fbi.
Crocker was telling the truth.
One of the FBI agents stopped in front of Crocker and leaned down. His lips moved as if he were speaking—no, shouting—but Jennifer heard only the incessant ringing.
Another agent, this one carrying a bag instead of a rifle, knelt in front of her and flashed a small penlight into her right eye. He watched intently from behind clear goggles, then flashed it into her left eye. When he’d seen whatever he wanted to see, he nodded and spoke words that Jennifer heard but didn’t understand. His muffled voice reminded her for some reason of the old Charlie Brown Christmas special.
The agent or medic or whatever he was raised his free hand in an “okay” gesture. He turned toward Crocker, saw that the other agent was now speaking directly into Crocker’s ear, and moved on to Larry, who already had two agents kneeling beside him.
As she watched
the agent speak into Crocker’s ear, Jennifer picked up the word officer. The agent pointed toward the foot of the staircase, where another agent was performing CPR on Officer Haley.
Jennifer focused on the agent speaking to Crocker and found that by watching his lips as she listened, she could piece together his words.
“The man with the badge,” he continued. “Is he a police officer?”
She shifted her gaze to Crocker’s lips.
“Highway patrol,” shouted Crocker, much louder than necessary.
He’s as deaf as I am.
Crocker continued, “On Dudka’s payroll. Said he couldn’t go to prison and reached for his gun.”
That last bit of unsolicited—and completely fabricated—information seemed to satisfy the agent. He stood and said something to the man performing CPR. The would-be lifesaver continued doing chest compressions but with less grim determination than before.
Jennifer wondered if the agent performing CPR had been the shooter. She felt a moment of sympathy for him, then pushed it away.
The impulse had come on so quickly, the idea so unexpectedly, that she’d acted without thinking. When she saw Haley about to surrender, her thoughts had skipped from the teenage girl with the bruised legs and doll-like eyes to Crocker’s account of his fiancée’s death. Before she’d realized what she was doing, she’d heard herself yell, “Badge!”
Watching the resuscitation effort, she felt a twinge of disappointment that she’d had to settle for the corrupt cop instead of that fat son of a bitch with the silver-tipped belt.
An agent knelt in front of her and studied some sort of digital tablet in his hand. He looked from her to the tablet, then from Crocker to the tablet. He repeated the sequence a couple of times before placing a hand to the headset microphone jutting from his helmet and saying, “Confirmed. Chappell, Crocker, and Williams have been secured. Dysart is still unaccounted for.”
Jennifer felt a tug on the handcuff chain behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see an agent kneeling there. A moment later, the left cuff sprang open and she was free.
♦ ♦ ♦
Crocker paused on the front porch and turned an ear to the sky, listening just long enough to confirm that a pair of helicopters were circling somewhere nearby. Special Agent Eastland may not have had time to activate Hostage Rescue, but he’d apparently called in every other resource at his disposal.
A pair of armored SWAT trucks sat on what used to be the front lawns of the two safe houses. A black command-and-control vehicle—the bastard child of an RV and a fire truck—occupied most of the street. Based on the number of people running around in tactical gear, it seemed that at least two additional waves of SWAT agents had backed up the air assault team.
Crocker heard the creak of door hinges and glanced back as Jennifer emerged from the house.
She stopped beside him. “Are you going to tell me how you pulled this off?”
“Me?” He watched the unfolding operation. “I’m not the one who slipped a note to the feds.”
“Note? You mean my note?”
“And all this time I thought I was being smart by staying out of Vegas’s panties.”
Their escort, a behemoth of an FBI agent, glanced back from the front walkway and yelled, “Keep up, you two. You’re too exposed out here.”
They followed the agent into the street and waited as he pounded on the back door of the large command-and-control vehicle. The door opened at the hand of a smartly dressed woman of perhaps fifty. An FBI badge hung from a chain around her neck.
“Are these our two troublemakers?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied the agent.
She turned her gaze to Jennifer and Crocker. “Get in here, both of you, before some sniper takes your heads off. I just told the director we’ve secured two key witnesses, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to call back and say, ‘Never mind.’”
Something about being called a key witness made Crocker uneasy, but he wasn’t about to stand around with his back exposed to fifty miles of desert. He helped Jennifer up the steps and followed her into what appeared to be a small conference room. The SWAT agent remained outside and closed the door behind them.
“Do either of you need medical attention?” asked the woman. “The tac medic obviously cleared you to walk, but I want you to tell me if anything hurts.” She looked at Jennifer. “You have blood on your legs. Do you want me to call up front for a paramedic?”
“No,” replied Jennifer, “I’m fine.”
Crocker glanced at the welts on the back of her legs. “Are you sure?”
She shot him an icy look. “I said I’m fine.”
He took a small step to the side, giving her a bit more room, and said, “I guess we’re okay for now.”
The woman nodded. “Once we get the two of you someplace safe, we’ll have you checked out by a doctor, but for now I think you’ll live.”
Jennifer said, “I appreciate your concern, but who are you?”
The woman smiled politely and extended a hand. “Madelyn Welch, special agent in charge, Las Vegas field office.”
After hesitating long enough that the moment threatened to turn awkward, Jennifer accepted the handshake. “Jennifer Williams.”
The woman’s smile widened. “Yes, Ms. Williams, I know who you are. Your note—or, rather, your method of delivery—is destined for a place in FBI history.”
“Won’t that be fun for my grandkids. Would you mind telling us what the hell is going on?”
“What’s going on,” said Welch, “is that an agent from our DC office woke me shortly after three this morning and informed me that he needed an immediate tactical response to a hostage situation and that we couldn’t involve local authorities.”
“You’re referring to Special Agent Eastland?” asked Crocker.
“Correct. That was”—she checked her watch—“six hours ago. Six hours that have probably taken six years off my life. This operation was fast and dirty, and a whole lot of people back in DC are waiting to hear whether it was a success.”
“I’d call this a success,” said Crocker. “Wouldn’t you?”
“The jury is still out. And the verdict may depend on how much you can help us. Do either of you know what Dudka’s people did with Ms. Dysart?”
“Who?” asked Crocker.
“Kathleen Dysart. We were led to believe she was taken hostage with the two of you and Mr. Chappell.”
Crocker shook his head. “It was just the three of us.”
Welch turned to Jennifer. “Ms. Williams?”
“Never heard of her.”
“All right,” said Welch, “I’ll double-check that information once Eastland arrives. Were we informed correctly that prior to being kidnapped you successfully negotiated the return of Ashley Thomas, the young woman who was taken from the La Condamine hotel two nights ago?”
“Yeah,” said Crocker. “We . . . uh . . . negotiated her return. She’s safe now.”
“And where is she?”
“She’s . . . uh . . .”
“We’re not currently at liberty to say,” said Jennifer.
Welch scowled. “We’ll revisit that later. What about Dudka himself? Do either of you know where we might find him or the rest of his crew?”
Jennifer shook her head. “I haven’t seen him in hours.”
“I haven’t seen him since we arrived at the house last night,” said Crocker. “How many of his thugs did you round up?”
“In the house where we found you, two suspects are dead, and one is in custody. I’m still waiting on a sitrep from the second house.”
“What about Ilya Boy . . . Boya . . .”
“Boystov,” said Welch. “We’ve tentatively identified the survivi
ng suspect as Ilya Boystov, but we won’t know for sure until we process him.”
Crocker thought he saw a hint of a smile form at the corners of Jennifer’s mouth but dismissed it as his imagination.
Why would she possibly be glad that Ilya is still alive?
He turned his attention back to Welch. “How is it that you’ve only accounted for three of Dudka’s men?”
“At this point, you know as much as—”
A knock at the door shook the vehicle.
“Come in,” called Welch.
The behemoth of a SWAT agent poked his head inside. “Ma’am, we’ve had two significant developments. First, we’ve discovered more than a dozen women locked up in the second house.”
“More than a dozen?”
“Fourteen, to be exact. None of them speak English, so information is still sketchy, but it definitely looks like a human-trafficking situation.”
“And all these women are alive and well?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s the good news.”
“There’s bad news?”
“Not so much bad as complicated. The second house also contains a modest-sized drug lab, which means we need to get everyone clear and bring in Hazards Response.”
“Okay,” said Welch, “get the women into the vans, and do a final sweep of the houses; then lock down the site until THRU arrives.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The agent disappeared, closing the door behind him.
“What is this place?” asked Jennifer. “Who builds two suburban-style homes in the middle of nowhere?”
“We’re working on that,” replied Welch. “Somebody is pulling the county assessor’s records as we speak, so—”
“Pyrite Valley Estates,” said Crocker.