by Jay Giles
The side door slid open and men with the word POLICE in white on black bulletproof vests, helmets, and com sets filed out. There were eight in all. Some carrying rifles, some carrying boxes of gear. As soon as they were all in the door, the side door slid shut. The truck left.
Once their gear was stashed out of sight, all of us went on a quick orientation tour of the house. After we’d seen the entire second floor, Mackay picked out four rooms—one on each side of the house. “Here’s how we’ll man it. We’ll have a watcher with night vision goggles in each of these rooms. It’s just empty ground and weeds in all directions so there’s no way they can hide their approach to the house. As soon as you spot movement, count how many men they have, and report on where they’re likely to enter the house.”
He looked around at his group. “Remember, we want them alive. Once they’re in, we surround them and make it clear they have no choice but to surrender. Shoot only if they start shooting. Got that?”
“What if they come from several directions?” A thin guy chewing on a stirring stick asked.
“Same drill. Report what you see. We’ll divide up as needed.” Mackay looked at Orahood. “Any better intel on what time we might expect them?”
Orahood shrugged. “Hard to say. Her call went out around four. Depends on where these guys are, how fast they’re able to mobilize.”
“Doesn’t matter really, we’ve got to be prepared for them now,” Mackay said. “Ben, you, Jason, Jose, and Zane, take the first shift at the windows. We’ll change every hour.”
The group broke up. Mackay, Orahood, and I headed downstairs. Halfway down one side of the curved double staircase, Mackay turned to me and said, “If you want to search, do the first floor now. I don’t expect we’ll see these guys before dark. Once it’s dark, you’ll be safer on the second floor.”
“Okay. You still think this is one of those enemy attacks at dawn situations?”
He looked over, amused. “Well, not at dawn. That’s pretty old school. But with so much open ground around the house, they’d be smart to wait for the cover of darkness. At least, that’s what I’d do.” He glanced at his watch. “Gives you about three hours.”
I nodded and began a frantic ground floor walk through, opening random drawers, looking behind pictures, rummaging in closets. Of course I didn’t find anything, which only served to make me more frantic. Clearly this was not working. I forced myself to stop and take a deep breath. Focus, Will, focus.
At the moment, I was standing in the formal dining room, which was located on the front of the house. The room’s walls, above the natural wood wainscoting, were papered in a wrap-around scenic mural—a sepia rendition of huntsmen on a foxhunt. The ceiling featured dental crown molding and a three-tier brass chandelier with candle lights. A double-pedestal walnut table and ten shield-back chairs with burgundy brocade padded seats rested on a vintage oriental rug. An elaborate sideboard on spindly legs anchored the back wall. Above it, a large gold gilt mirror. It was all very Upstairs/Downstairs and totally out of keeping for an Italian palacio.
My gaze took in all those pieces. If I were Heather, where would I hide something in this room? Only two places got my attention: the sideboard and the seat cushions. Neither struck me as a great hiding place. I searched them anyway. Nada.
As I moved on to Heather’s kitchen—remember there were three kitchens in the house: Heather’s, Ban’s, and the cook’s—it occurred to me that there was a better way to look at this room: If I were Heather, where would I be afraid to hide something?
This kitchen had been designed with a Country Italian theme. It had a vaulted ceiling with fake wood beams. Cream cabinets—with beige antiquing around the edges of the door panels—wrapped around two of the inside walls. Over the LaCornue Chateau Series stove—a $40,000 appliance I bet had never been turned on—was a large hammered copper exhaust hood. The backsplash under the vent had tiles depicting Venetian gondoliers. The center island was the size of Key West with contrasting dark base cabinets. The floor tile came from Italy. I’d heard scuttlebutt that those 18-inch by 18-inch squares had been hand-cast at a cost of $324 each.
Two sets of French doors on the outside wall led to a patio. Through the glass I could see an outdoor table with a folded shade umbrella and chairs with light green and white striping.
If I’d been Heather, I wouldn’t have hidden the diamonds anywhere in this room. I’d have been too afraid some nosey potential buyer might open all the cabinet doors to see if they would all perfectly self-close. Neither would I have put the diamonds in a box of Birds-Eye Frozen Peas and hidden it in the room’s sub-zero commercial refrigerator/freezer. Too much chance someone would clean out the fridge.
As I was wondering about hollow spaces behind cabinets, a footfall sounded behind me. I turned to see if it was Orahood or Mackay, but just that quick a hand was over my mouth, a knife pressed tight to my throat.
“I warned you about going after my diamonds,” Super Mario hissed as he roughly yanked my head back, causing a long, shallow knife cut across my neck. “Where are they, Taggert?”
My heart was up in my throat; two hundred beats a minute. No way I could get a word out.
“I’m not asking again.” The knife slid lightly across my throat. Blood started to ooze. “Feel that? With a harder swipe, I can sever your head.”
I panicked. I had to say something. “They’re here. I don’t kn—”
“Move the knife away from his neck,” a voice said from behind us.
Mario hesitated. Then, thankfully, the knife’s pressure on my neck was gone.
“Easy, dude. Keep it where I can see it.”
I twisted out of Mario’s grip and saw one of Mackay’s men with the barrel of his black Glock pressed to the back of Mario’s head. “We heard this guy through your ear bud,” he said, grinning. They’d given me the ear bud, earlier, so they could tell me if all Hell was about to break loose. My hand darted to my throat. Hell had come pretty close. I felt the raised sides of the separated skin running across my neck. My hand came away bloody.
The rest of Mackay’s men began arriving, the room quickly filling with activity and noise. Two men had Mario by the arms. “Down on the ground,” one of them ordered. Mario didn’t move fast enough. They put him down, face first.
“You got this wrong,” he complained, shouting over the commotion, as his hands were zip cuffed over behind him. “I’m former Miami police. Working for De—”
There was the sound of glass breaking and a dull thud.
Somebody yelled, “Grenade.”
Chapter 21
The room went bright white with a bang so intense it fried my hearing. The concussive force of the blast knocked me off my feet and body slammed me into the back wall. I slid down that wall like a rag doll, ended sitting legs splayed, eyes shut, hands pressed to my ears, willing the pain to stop.
Sight came back first. Hearing was still a roaring hum. But from my vantage point on the floor, I could make out the glass in the French doors exploding. Mackay and two of his men—one with a buzz cut and a tattoo on his upper arm that said Semper Fi, the other with brown hair and a chin bigger than Jay Leno’s—were crouched behind the island for cover. The rest of the team hadn’t been as fortunate. I could see bodies sprawled on the floor. All I could see of one body was a pants leg and shoe. They looked like what I remembered Orahood wearing.
They’d hit us with a stun grenade and were riddling the room from outside with automatic fire. Chunks of plaster from the wall rained down me. Kitchen cabinets splintered and came apart. Slivers of granite countertop flew in all directions. A Keurig coffee maker jumped along the countertop like a tin can.
The firing was relentless. I was surprised Mackay and his men weren’t firing back. He had his hand cupped to his mouth and was shouting something to the two of them. Semper Fi nodded at him and crawled on his belly past me to the hallway that led to the cook’s kitchen. Mackay and Leno chin watched him go then took up positions wit
h their backs to the island, guns pointed in my direction. They were like cats, waiting for something. I had no idea what, until the firing stopped.
It turned out the pause in hostilities was only momentary.
Mackay and Leno chin opened up, firing into the doorway—just four feet to my left—that led to formal dining room. I jumped as a body, bleeding heavily from head and neck wounds, emerged from the doorway and fell in that awkward way that says the brain is no longer controlling what’s happening. His automatic rifle skittered across the floor and came to a rest next to my foot.
Leno chin was still firing into the doorway, but Mackay was now hand gesturing for me to leave via the doorway Semper Fi had taken. I started, stopped, reached back and got the automatic rifle.
In a moment, I’d crawled out of a war zone and back into a world of normalcy that would have earned Martha Stewart’s approval. This kitchen looked right out of her magazine. Not a bullet hole anywhere.
Mackay crab-walked in after me. He put his head close to mine and said, “Stay here. I’m going to find who else they’ve got in the house.” He nodded at the gun. “You know how to use that?”
“Point and shoot.”
He nodded again. “It’s got a kick.”
“I know,” I said, thinking back to my experience on the Venetian when Su and I fired on the pirates. “I’ve fired a gun before.”
Mackay gave me a look that said Really?
I didn’t elaborate. He went out through a door that led to the informal dining room. I tucked myself back in a corner and waited. I was still hearing background static, but I was beginning to be able to distinguish normal sounds. Gunfire being the normal sound.
This wasn’t the way I pictured this going. We were supposed to know when the bad guys were going to attack. I wondered why Mackay’s lookouts on the second floor hadn’t alerted us. I wondered, too, about Mario. Had he somehow been in cahoots with Moreno? It was just too coincidental, Mario’s attack on me. Moreno’s assault on the house.
My mind was wandering. One of them came through the doorway from the wrecked kitchen, gun raised.
Pico. Still wearing that stupid pork pie hat.
I saw the look of recognition on his face as he realized who was crouched down in front of him. He swung his rifle down to shoot, but I was already pulling the trigger on mine. Kick or no kick, I wasn’t about to miss the guy who killed Su. A line of bullets stitched his face, knocking him back through the doorway. The hat had the nerve to roll my way. I picked it up, threw it after him.
Gunfire continued elsewhere in the house. My hearing still wasn’t good enough to tell where. I waited, nervously alert for an attack from any direction. None came. After five minutes or so, the gunfire grew sporadic then stopped all together.
It was one of those good news, bad news situations: Good that the shooting had stopped, bad that I didn’t know who’d won. Not taking any chances, I backed into to a pantry off the kitchen where I hoped to be able to see the winner before the winner saw me.
I got there none too soon. As I ducked inside, rifle barrels appeared in the room I’d just left.
Chapter 22
I waited. Not moving a muscle. Breathing through my mouth. Gun aimed at the doorway. Whoever was out there, I couldn’t hear them moving. That worried me. Mackay knew where he’d left me. He’d be calling my name.
Seconds ticked by. Heart going double time. Nerves on overload. I tried to picture them moving out there, strained to hear a sound to help me. From the kitchen, I got nothing. From deeper inside the house, I heard a muffled clear. I waited, heard another clear that sounded louder.
The guns in the kitchen weren’t trying to sniff me out; they were waiting to ambush Mackay as he cleared the room.
Suddenly, I was no longer nervous. I’d moved on to panic. Mackay was about to walk right into them. I stood and shouted, “Mackay, they’re in the kitchen.”
I heard movement from the direction of the kitchen. They hadn’t known I was there, but now that I’d blown my location, they were moving my way.
I took a cleansing breath to steady myself, stepped into the hallway with my rifle at the ready, and saw there were two of them. One I recognized from our kidnapping in Salvador.
He gave me a wolfish grin.
I didn’t hesitate. I yanked the trigger. All I got was click, click, click. Empty.
Salvador’s grin broadened.
From the hall behind me, I heard Mackay and Leno chin’s footsteps getting closer. Didn’t matter. I was in the way of their shot.
“Adeus,” Salvador taunted.
Two quick bangs echoed behind him. His head jerked unnaturally, and he pitched forward face first, his friend followed him a second later.
Semper Fi appeared, stepped over the two bodies, lowered his gun. “Outside’s clear,” he told Mackay and Leno chin when they arrived.
“How many outside?” Mackay wanted to know.
Semper Fi looked troubled. “Two. Lot of ordinance out there, though.”
“We found four in the house.”
“Six guys did all this?” I asked incredulously.
“Seems that way,” Mackay said grimly. He nodded in the direction of the destroyed kitchen. “Pat and Trey are hurt; Orahood’s unconscious with a bad gash on his head. I’ve alerted MBI and called for ambulances. They should be here any minute. Zane, Ben, Jason, Jose, and Charlie—” His voice faltered. He let the emotion pass, before continuing. “—are dead.”
Four of those were the guys upstairs. Semper F’s eyes widened in disbelief. “How? That’s not possible.”
You could tell by the pain on his face Mackay didn’t understand, either. “I don’t know. I don’t have answers, yet. Crime scene guys are on their way. They’ll figure it out.” He looked at me. “I need to know if we got Moreno. Let’s look at their people, make sure we got him.”
We hadn’t.
Mackay shook his head, frustration evident on his face. “He should’ve been here. He shoulda.” He walked around in a little circle, head down. “Something this important, he’d want to be involved. Why wasn’t he here?”
If I were Moreno, no matter how loyal my men, I wouldn’t have left them alone with a hundred million in diamonds. Too much temptation to go off the reservation. Mackay was onto something.
Those thoughts were interrupted by approaching sirens. Had to be ambulances. Two or three. Mackay and I were on the house’s rear terrace, near the ruined French doors to Heather’s kitchen. Mackay took off in a loping stride around the side of the house to the front. I followed.
Two ambulances and a black and white patrol car pulled up to the front door. I watched as two EMTs, a thick-set woman with spiky brown hair and a middle-age guy with a ponytail, loaded Orahood, groaning and twitching, onto a stretcher. “He’s trying to come out of it,” the guy told us. “That’s a good sign.”
I said a quick prayer for Orahood and for the other guys, too. But especially for Orahood. I felt guilty about him. He’d done the heavy lifting to make this crazy idea of mine a reality and I was watching him being carted off to the hospital.
Leno chin had his hand holding Mario’s arm as they put Mario in the black and white. Mario hadn’t gotten a scratch. That really didn’t seem right. Once Mario was in the back, Leno chin slammed the rear door, opened the front passenger door, and got in.
The second ambulance was manned by a muscular black guy and a blond woman with a runner’s build. They loaded Trey first, Pat second. When both were in, Mackay hopped in with them, leaving Semper Fi in charge.
As that ambulance was pulling out the driveway, two MBI bureau cars and three vans was making their way thru the development.
A bull of a man got out of the lead car, once they were parked in front of The Castle. He had a barrel-chest, big upper arms, florid cheeks, a bushy moustache, and wavy hair too black not to have been dyed. He gathered together everyone who’d arrived with him and, like a football coach, gave a spirited pre-game talk. “This is a
multiple fatality crime scene, people. Have your kits organized. I will assign each of you an area. You will work that area and only that area, understood? I don’t want any accidental contamination because of the number of people working the scene. The medical examiner is on her way. I’m told she’s thirty minutes out. Let’s get as much photographic evidence as we can before she arrives. All questions, all coordination, all discoveries of importance, go through me and only me. Got that people?” He looked over my way. “You,” he said to make sure he had my attention. “You MBI?”
“No,” I admitted with a slight shake of my head.
“Then you don’t belong at my crime scene.” He looked around for someone to escort me away.
“He’s with me,” Semper Fi said in a voice that didn’t book any argument.
“And who the hell are you?”
“Lieutenant Billy Carlson, Sarasota Tactical Response, and this is my crime scene until I turn it over. Who the hell are you?”
That got him all huffy. “I’m Captain—” He put emphasis on his rank. “—Donald McGinnis. You’re out of your jurisdiction, Lieutenant. You’ll step aside.”
A slight smile appeared on Carlson’s face. “With all due respect, sir, this was organized above your pay grade. I’ll turn the scene over to you, but—” He gave McGinnis a red line look. “—we’ll continue to do our work with access to all parts of the house. Do we have an understanding, Captain?”
“We’ll see about that.” He got in his bureau car, slammed the door, and got on his cell.
When he exited the car five minutes later, his face was flushed, his hands balled at his sides. In quick strides he walked over to Carlson. “We have an understanding. Now, will you show me the scene so my techs can get to work?”
“Absolutely, Captain,” Carlson told him. Before he took McGinnis inside, in a low voice he said to me. “Wait here. Let me get him settled. I’ll be back for you.”