Leverage in Death

by J. D. Robb

  We’ll consider that a downpayment. You’ve got a week to come up with the rest. Bring it to the party.

  I certainly will not. I still have to get it, and I won’t be seen with you. Our friendship’s over, Jordan. I’ll meet you at three A.M., Central Park. By the JKO.

  Dramatic! I love it. See you then—have the money. Oh, and Lucius? We were never friends.

  “Idiots,” Eve said and shook her head. “Both of them. Banks threatens Iler with exposure, then meets him, middle of the night, middle of the damn park. And Iler doesn’t throw his ’link in the damn river after beating it with a hammer.”

  “Custom ’link, platinum casing. Cost him about ten thousand.”

  “Which makes him an idiot on that, too. This is going to wrap him, at least on Banks.” As she spoke, she copied the transmission, sent it to Reo.

  “You’re not overly worried about wrapping Iler. You know you’ll break him. And you know you’ll get him to flip on Silverman eventually. It’s the eventually that worries you. It’s the thought you might have to put others on your board before the eventually that worries you.”

  “I’m hamstrung until the damn Earth rotates. But we’ve got the vehicle ID’d, we’ve got a location on the garage, and we might find something there that points to the other targets. Maybe there aren’t other targets.”

  “You’re saying that to not add pressure on me.” He bent over, kissed the top of her head. “I’ll get back to it.”

  “Listen, I suck at the e-stuff, but I can follow directions. I’ve run out of what I can do here.” Frustration rippled as she look around her command center. “If they find anything at the garage, I’ll hear about it. If they find the vehicle, I’ll hear about it. I’ll work with you until I do. I can do drone work.”

  “I’d say you’d be better off trying for at least a couple hours sleep, but you won’t. All right then, if I can be your Peabody, you can be my drone.”

  It didn’t take long for her to figure out he tossed her busywork. Still, he kept her busy, and maybe it saved him some time and trouble.

  She knew when he had the bit between his teeth because he muttered, swore, and his Irish thickened.

  For herself she settled into the mind-numbing job of scanning codes, looking for—or waiting while the computer looked for—matches or patterns.

  If one popped, she toggled it to Roarke so he could do whatever came next. She had no idea what the whatever might be, but a few times when she toggled something over, Roarke made the kind of noises she interpreted as progress.

  She wondered if brains actually could spill out of the ears, and she sent Roarke another section.

  “Ah well now, that could be useful,” he mumbled. “Pry this bleeding bitch open just a bit more. Aye, that’s clever, but not fecking clever enough, is it then?”

  She rose, turned to the friggie because she realized she’d finally hit a point she’d never believed possible to hit. She couldn’t handle more coffee.

  She got water for both of them.

  “And there, you shagging, cross-eyed whoremonger, I’ve got it.”

  Half asleep, too used to his mutters to think anything of them—though whoremonger was new—she held out the water.

  He flicked her away. “Not now. There it is. Hiding out, tucked away in a bunch of bollocks. Not clients, no, they’re fucking not clients.”

  She heard it now—not frustration or inching progress, but pleasure edging toward triumph. “Who?”

  “Not done. Quiet. It wants to go sick if I get too close, and we won’t have that. Standard virus is all it is. Just kill it, and then . . . There you are.”

  “Who?” she demanded again. He shot whatever he’d found to a wall screen.

  “Paul Rogan,” he read. “Along with his wife, his daughter—and considerable salient information. Then the same for Wayne Denby.”

  “Target list, two more. Jesus Christ. Tyber Chenowitz—wife, six-year-old son. That address—”

  “Is all but around the corner.”

  “Send the second—Miller Filbert, Lower East—to Baxter. Now, now, now. How fast can you get me eyes and ears on Chenowitz?”

  “I’ve what you need in the lab here.”

  “Get it, then let’s move.”

  As Roarke shot the data to Baxter, Eve dragged out her comm. “Alert Lieutenant Salazar,” she demanded on the move. “Two locations require E and B units.” She snapped information to Dispatch as she bolted down the steps, then contacted Baxter herself while she dragged on her coat.

  He didn’t bother to block video, so she got a good shot of his bare ass—not bad—as he scrambled out of bed.

  “Got the address. On my way in five.”

  “Get Trueheart, get there. Tag Feeney for eyes and ears. I’ve got another one I’m handling. Salazar’s alerted. Wear vests and helmets. I’m sending uniforms, both locations. The van’s a black Essex Sprinter, new model. Echo - Zulu - Baker - Five - Seven - Eight. Watch for it. Do not enter until Salazar’s team clears. That’s an order. Move.”

  She turned when Roarke jogged down to her with a field bag.

  “I can get your eyes and ears, and I can scan for explosives.”

  “Even better.” She ran outside, jumped in the car. “Here’s what we do. Go fast, but quiet. If he’s there, if he has them, sirens might make him cut his losses. If he’s crazy enough to hit another without Iler, knowing how close we are, he’s crazy enough to kill the family. He’ll sure as hell try to use them as shields.”

  Roarke punched into vertical rather than waiting for the gates to open fully.

  “I think I know the house. It’s back off the street and gated, like ours. I’ll need to bypass the security as, again, if he’s there, he may have reset it as a precaution.”

  It took under two minutes to get there. Roarke pulled up out of the range of the gate cameras.

  “I’m going to jam them long enough for me to bypass. We’ll go over the gate, then I’ll reset.”

  When he got out, she contacted Dispatch, ordering backup to wait outside the gate until she cleared them through.

  “Done.” Roarke slid behind the wheel again, took vertical over the iron gates. Reengaged the gate system.

  He stopped in the shadows.

  The house, about twenty feet back from the gates, stood three stories, with pillars framing a wide front porch. A large section of the roof jutted out, flattened. She could see in the security lights the rise of dwarf trees.

  She’d seen that roof garden, she realized, from the roof dome of their own house. A spilling water feature down the west wall, a kind of fancy shed she imagined held tools for the raised wooden beds full of growing things and color in the spring and summer. Chairs and umbrella tables in season, too, so to enjoy the views in the garden and beyond. Big colorful pots to hold the trees and viney things winding up decorative supports.

  No lights on the roof now, or on the main floor. But she noted them filtering through some of the windows on the second floor.

  “There’s a vehicle around the side—I can see the lights bouncing off the chrome bumper, but I can’t get a good look. Work on the alarms, the eyes and ears. I’m going to move closer, check it out.”

  She got out of the car, eased the door shut. Keeping low, weapon drawn, she jogged toward the house.

  The black panel van sat close to the side of the house, out of sight from the street. She shined her penlight over the tags for confirmation.

  She jogged back to Roarke.

  “He’s in there. Get those eyes in, tell me where.” Once again, she pulled out her comm.

  “Salazar.”

  “My location. His van’s outside this location. Lights second-floor windows. I’ve got an e-man getting me eyes.”

  “I’m heading to you. Don’t enter until we clear.”

  “We can scan for boomers. He’s got three people inside. What’s your ETA?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Don’t take the gate until we give the gr
een. Contact Baxter, tell him it’s going down here.”

  “Ten minutes, Dallas.”

  She clicked off. “Roarke.”

  “Four in the room directly above, with the lights on. One has to be the child from the size of the heat read. One is sitting, one is lying down. One’s standing—moving, back and forth.”

  “Get us in there, quiet.”

  “Scanning first. Because if it’s wired, it won’t be quiet at all. The door’s clean. Another moment or two on the rest.”

  “Be ready. We get upstairs—quiet. If I can take him out without endangering the civilians, I will. I need you to hang back in case I can’t. Let him think I’m alone. If and when I lower my weapons, it’s a signal you’ve got a shot. Take it.”

  “All right, we’re clear. I’ll be scanning as we go. He may have set booby traps.”

  She went in low, Roarke high. The moment they crossed the threshold, a light in the wide foyer flashed on.

  She swung around, back-to-back with Roarke, weapon sweeping.

  “Motion lighting,” he whispered. “Fuck me. It’s not to do with the alarm. It’s set up so if someone comes in late, or goes down in the night, the light comes on for them.”

  “If he sees it—”

  A scream, agonized, ripped out. As Eve bolted toward the stairs, a woman’s terrified voice shrieked, “No! No! Please, don’t hurt my baby!

  A man’s voice joined it, and a child’s desperate calls for his mother.

  She caught the sound of running footsteps, and the child’s sobs overhead, swung first to the right and the master.

  The woman struggled desperately against the binds that tied her to the bed. Blood seeped from her nose; her right eye was blackened, swollen closed. The man, equally bloodied, twisted against the ropes as he tried to worm his way across the floor to his wife.

  He wore a suicide vest.

  “Help us!” The woman wept as she scraped her wrists and ankles raw. “He has my baby. He took our son. Help us.”

  “Get her out.” On the floor, the man stared up at Eve with pleading eyes. “Get my wife out, save our boy. He’s got the detonator. There’s no time.”

  “Get her out,” Eve ordered Roarke, punching her comm to give Salazar and the backup the green. “If you can do anything about the vest, do it. Otherwise, just get her out, wait for Salazar.”

  She rushed the steps, weapon sweeping—heard a door slam. On the third floor, she paused, checking right, left. Family area, she noted, but two doors to the left, one to the right, all closed.

  She drew a breath, held it. Listened while trying to tune out the weeping, begging rising up from the second floor.

  She heard it, muffled, distant, but she heard the boy call out, again, for his mother.

  Up, she realized. Roof garden.

  She sidestepped left, angled to the first door, went in low.

  Bathroom, clear. Moved to the next.

  Another set of stairs, straight up with a door at the top. She eased her way up, thinking of the man with the detonator. Nothing to lose now, no way out now. He’d press the button if she played this wrong.

  She hit the door, swept, and caught sight of him through the denuded branches of ornamental trees, the kid flailing against him. He swung around, laid a combat knife against the boy’s throat.

  “I’ll slice him. You hit me with a stream, I’ll still slice him.”

  All in black, but he hadn’t bothered with the mask this time. Why bother? she thought as she set. He’d intended to kill them all anyway.

  “There’s no way out, Sergeant.”

  “I’m taking the fire stairs down.”

  “Not with the kid, not with the detonator.”

  The boy stopped fighting, stopped crying. His eyes went wide and blank as a thin dribble of blood slid down his neck.

  “I’ll slice the kid, blow up the other two. Or I take him down with me. He lives, they live. I go.”

  Riot gear, neck to boots. Even with full stream, she wouldn’t take him down with one, maybe not two. And if she tried, the kid was done. She could see that in Silverman’s eyes.

  “Is this what Captain Iler stood for?”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  She eased closer, eyes locked. “Is this what he died for?”

  “He died for nothing! I served, I damn near died, and what did I get for it? Thanks for your service, you’re finished. Do you want to see him bleed out?” he demanded as she took another step.

  Once, she’d been too late to save a child from the knife. Not this time. Goddamn it, not this time.

  She heard the sirens—backup coming in hot—and so did he. When his grip shifted on the knife, she aimed there.

  The stream caught the kid—just the outer edge of it. His body jerked. As Silverman fought to control it and his shaking knife hand, Eve charged.

  He dropped the boy, turned into the attack, tossing the knife to his left hand, slashing. When the knife skidded off the coat, she tried for a headshot, took a hard left jab in the face. He followed through, knife and fist, taking them both down in a bone-rattling heap.

  She lost her grip on her weapon, rolled to clamp both hands around the wrist of his knife hand before he stabbed the toothed blade into her face. Breath whistling, she got a knee into his gut, used momentum to roll him off. As he sliced down again, she got a kick into his shoulder, sprang up, leaped over his sweeping leg as he did the same.

  The boy lay in a trembling heap as they circled each other. She judged her weapon somewhere to the left, and her clutch piece useless. If she tried for it, he’d be all over her.

  She danced back as he crouched, passing the knife from hand to hand. Danced back, away from the kid with Silverman’s eyes gleeful on hers.

  “You should’ve let me go. Now I’m going to stick this knife in your guts, rip it through, and spill them out.”

  She swung into a back kick, vaulted over a raised bed that smelled of earth and green. As she landed, she grabbed a pot with something spearing up hopefully through the dirt, flung it at him. Though he danced aside, it caught his cheek on the fly, left a raw scrape before it hit the painted concrete and shattered to shards.

  The sirens screamed closer. Did he hear them? she wondered. She didn’t think so. He was in the zone now. The killing zone.

  She leaped onto another bed, pushed off, leading with her feet. Both landed, a human battering ram, center mass. The force sent him staggering back, the knife clattered away across the concrete, balancing the odds. Still he shook off the blow, came at her.

  He had her by maybe seventy pounds, a combat-trained vet. He aimed a fist at her throat; she dodged, took it on the shoulder. Pain rang down her arm in clambering bells.

  She stopped feeling the blows—the ones delivered, the ones suffered. As she blocked, punched, she tasted her own blood, smelled his. Then he threw her back, slammed her into the trunk of one the trees. Her vision grayed for just an instant, and she saw him yank the detonator out of his pocket.

  He grinned as she leaped up, as she gathered to charge. And pressed the button.

  Eve, already in motion saw the shock on his face as nothing happened. She rammed him like a bull, grappled with him, then flipped herself back.

  Now, she thought, blood in her throat. Fucking now.

  She balanced on one leg, shot up with the lifted one to slam two rapid kicks into his jaw. As he stumbled back, she leaped up with the other, plowed it into his midsection.

  Mouth bloody, he came at her, and with her muscles relaxed, she whipped kicks at his shins, knees. She heard feet pounding up the stairs, ignored them as she used stiffened fingers, clenched fists to punish soft tissue—ears, eyes, throat.

  It rushed through her, the power, the pain, the punishment.

  “Get the kid,” she called out to whoever rushed up behind her. “I’ve got this.”

  As she coiled to finish it, Silverman made a desperate leap for the wall of the rooftop. Eve lunged forward, grabbed his wrist, slippe
ry with sweat and blood, with both hands.

  He dangled there while her muscles screamed in protest. Four stories up. It might not kill him, but she wasn’t going to risk it.

  “You don’t get off this easy.”

  “I’ll take you with me.” Throwing up a hand, he grabbed her arm, dragged.

  She dug in as the toes of her boots slammed the wall. She wouldn’t go over, she would not, but she wouldn’t be able to hold him much longer.

  Roarke reached down beside her, adding his weight, his muscle. When Silverman continued to pull, to fight, Roarke ended it with a vicious, short-armed punch.

  As he went limp, they hauled Silverman back over the wall.

  Adrenaline gone, pain blooming everywhere, she slid to sit, back to the wall. Her breath whistled harsh out of aching lungs.

  Roarke knelt beside her.

  “Ten minutes,” he said. “It couldn’t have been ten minutes before I got up here, and look at you.”

  “Yeah, well.” She swiped at the blood dripping out of her nose. “Look at him.”

  She did. He lay dazed, surrounded by a half dozen cops all with weapons drawn.

  “The kid,” she said when Baxter crouched in front of her.

  “Trueheart’s got him, taking him down to Mom and Dad. He’s fine. Got a scratch. Just a scratch, some bruises.”

  “He caught the edge of my stream.”

  “He’s fine, LT. Lucid, a little shocky, scared. But he’s fine. Now you? Ouch. Do you want to wrap him up?”

  She shook her head, winced when it spun a little. “You take him. He’s going to need medical, then he’s in a cage until I’m ready for him. My weapon—”

  Baxter handed it to her. “We’ll bag his knife. You cut any?”

  “No. I don’t think. Wrap him up, Baxter.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  “Magic coat,” she murmured to Roarke as Baxter moved away. “I don’t think he even noticed the blade wasn’t getting through.”

  He dropped his brow to hers a moment. She let him have the moment, took it for herself. But pushed back when he started to lift her.

  “You’re not carrying me out of a scene loaded with cops.”