Lincoln Rhyme: The Kill Room Part 51

As Sachs and Pulaski approached the large Colonial they paused, looking around the trim lawns, surrounding woods, molded shrubbery and gardens lovingly, almost compulsively, tended.

The young officer was breathing even more rapidly now.

You nervous?...

Sachs noted that he was absently rubbing a scar on his forehead. It was the legacy of a blow delivered by a perp on the first case they'd worked together, a few years ago. The head injury had been severe and he'd nearly given up policing altogether because of the incident-which would have devastated him; policing was a core part of his psyche and bound him closely to his twin brother, also a cop. But thanks largely to the encouragement and example of Lincoln Rhyme he'd gone through extensive rehab and decided to remain on the force.

But the injury had been bad and Sachs knew that the post-traumatic stress continued to snipe.

Can I handle it? Will I fold under pressure?

She knew the double-tap answers to those questions were, in staccato order, yes and no. She smiled. "Let's go bust a bad guy."

"Deal."

They made their way quickly to the door, bracketing it, hands near but not touching their weapons.

She nodded.

Pulaski rapped. "NYPD. Open the door!"

Sounds from inside.

"What?" came the voice. "Who is that?"

The young officer persisted. "NYPD! Open the door or we'll enter."

Again from inside: "Jesus."

A moment pa.s.sed. Plenty long enough for Boston to grab a pistol. Though their calculations were that he would not do so.

The red wooden door opened and the distinguished, gray-haired man peered out through the screen. He absently stroked the most prominent crease in his dry, creased face.

"Let me see your hands, Mr. Boston."

He lifted them, sighing. "That's why Shreve called me. There's no meeting, is there?"

Sachs and Pulaski pushed inside and she closed the door.

The man brushed a hand through his luxuriant hair then remembered he should be keeping them in view. He stepped back, making clear he was no threat.

"Are you alone?" she asked. "Your family?"

"I'm alone."

Sachs did a fast sweep of the house while Pulaski stayed with the whistleblower.

When she returned Boston said, "What's this all about?" He tried to be indignant but it wasn't working. He knew why they were here.

"Leaking the STO to the DA's Office. We checked flight records. You were on vacation in Maine on the eleventh of May but you flew back to New York in the morning. You went to the Java Hut with your iBook. Uploaded the scan of the kill order to the DA. And flew back that afternoon." She added details about tracing the email, the tea and Splenda and the blue suit. Then: "Why? Why did you leak it?"

The man sat back on the couch. He slowly reached into his pocket, extracted and clumsily ripped open a pack of antacid tablets. He chewed them.

Reminiscent of her Advil.

Sachs sat across from him: Pulaski walked to the windows and looked out over the manicured lawn.

Boston was frowning. "If I'm going to be prosecuted it'll be under the Espionage Act. That's federal. You're state. Why did you come?"

"There are state law implications," she answered, intentionally vague. "Now tell me. Why'd you leak the STO kill order? Because you thought it was the moral thing to do, telling the world that your organization was killing U.S. citizens?"

He gave a laugh that was untidy with bitterness. "Do you think anybody really cares about that? It didn't hurt Obama to take out al-Awlaki? Everybody thinks it's the right thing to do-everybody except your prosecutor."

"And?" she asked.

He rested his face in his hands for a moment. "You're young. Both of you. You wouldn't understand."

"Tell me," Sachs persisted.

Boston looked up with burning eyes. "I've been at NIOS from the beginning, from the day it was formed. I was army intelligence, I was CIA. I was on the ground running a.s.sets when Shreve Metzger was having keg parties in Cambridge and New Haven. I was key in our resisting the Pink Revolution-the socialists in the nineties and oughts. Hugo Chvez in Venezuela, Lula in Brazil, Nestor Kirchner in Argentina, Vzquez in Uruguay, Evo Morales in Bolivia." He regarded Sachs coldly. "Do you even know who those people are?"

He didn't seem to expect an answer. "I orchestrated two regime changes in Central America and one in South. Drinking in s.h.i.+tty bars, bribing journalists, sucking up to mid-level politicos in Caracas and BA. Going to the funerals when my a.s.sets got accidentally on purpose killed in a hit-and-run, and n.o.body could know what a hero they'd been. Begging Was.h.i.+ngton for money, cutting deals with the boys from London and Madrid and Tokyo...And when it came time for a new director at NIOS, who'd they pick? Shreve Metzger, a f.u.c.king kid with a bad temper. It should've been me. I've earned it! I deserve it!"

"So when you realized Shreve had made the mistake with Moreno you decided to use that to bring him down. You leaked the kill order and the intel. You expected you'd be his replacement."

He muttered angrily, "I could run the place a hundred times better than he could."

Pulaski asked, "How'd you beat the polygraph?"

"Oh, that's tradecraft one-oh-one. See! That's my point. This business isn't about pus.h.i.+ng b.u.t.tons and playing computer games." He sat back. "Oh, h.e.l.l, just arrest me and have done with it."

CHAPTER 87.

SCANNING," THE VOICE HISSED through an earbud. "No transmissions, no signals."

The whispering probably wasn't necessary. The men were in a wooded area well out of earshot of anyone in Spencer Boston's house.

"Roger that," Jacob Swann acknowledged, thinking the phrase sounded somewhat ridiculous.

No transmissions, no signals. This was good news. If there had been other officers around to back up Boston's arrest, the chatter would have shown up on Bartlett's scanner. Bartlett, a mercenary, was as dull as a slug but he knew his equipment and could find a microwave or radio transmission inside a lead box.

"Any visuals?"

"No, they came alone. The woman detective-Sachs-and the uniform with her."

Made sense, Swann reflected, only these two and no backup. Boston was a whistleblower and possibly a traitor but he wasn't dangerous in the resisting-arrest sense. He'd kill you with a h.e.l.lfire in Yemen or ruin your political career by planting rumors that you were gay in an ardently Catholic South American country. But he probably didn't even own a gun; two NYPD cops would be plenty to bring him in.

Swann moved in closer, through the woods to the side of Boston's house, keeping clear of the windows.

He now checked his Glock, which was mounted with a suppressor, and the extra mags, inverted, in his left cargo pants pocket. On his utility belt, of course, his Kai Shun chef's knife. He pulled down his black Nomex tactical face mask.

Nearby a commercial tree service was chipping a tree they'd just taken down. The roar and grind were loud. Jacob Swann was grateful for the noise. It would cover the sound of the a.s.sault; while he and his team had sound suppressors, it wasn't inconceivable that one of the cops inside might get off a shot before they died. He transmitted, "Advise."

"Position," Bartlett said, and the same message was delivered a moment later by the other member of the team, a broad-shouldered Asian American named Xu, whose only substantive comment since they'd rendezvoused had been to correct Jacob Swann's p.r.o.nunciation of his name.

Xu.

"Like Shoe."

I'd change it, thought Swann.

"Scan, interior," Swann said to Bartlett.

A moment later: "Have three souls, all ground floor. Right of the front door, six to eight feet, sitting. Right of the front door, four to five feet, sitting. Left of the front door, four to five feet, standing." Their electronic expert was scanning the house with an infrared sensor and SAR.

Swann asked, "Any visuals, surrounding premises?"

"Negative," transmitted the Shoe. The houses on either side of Boston's were out of range of the infrared but they were dark and the garage doors were closed. This was afternoon in suburbia. Children in school, moms and dads at work or shopping.

Another convenient roar of the chipper.

"Move in," Swann commanded.

The others acknowledged.

Bartlett and Swann were going through the front door. The Shoe, the rear. The approach would be a dynamic entry, shoot on sight. This time Amelia Sachs would have to die, not just join Rhyme in the world of paralysis. If she'd cooperated earlier at least she would have survived.

Leaving his backpack in the bushes, Jacob Swann stepped onto the lawn, crouching. Bartlett was twenty feet away, closer to the house. His mask was down too. A nod.

Fifty feet from the house, then forty.

Scanning the windows. But the attack team was to the side and couldn't be seen from where Bartlett had a.s.sured him the occupants were sitting and standing.

Thirty feet.

Looking around the lawn, the houses.

n.o.body.

Good, good.

Twenty-five feet.

He would- And then the hurricane hit.

A ma.s.sive downwash of breathtaking air slammed into him.

What, what, what?

The NYPD chopper swept in fast, dropping, cantilevering to a stop over the front yard.

Swann and Bartlett froze as the lithe aircraft spun broadside and two Emergency Service officers trained H&K automatic weapons on the men.

The wood chipper. Oh, h.e.l.l. The police had ordered it-to obscure the sound of the helicopter.

G.o.dd.a.m.n.

A setup. They knew all along we were coming.

CHAPTER 88.

DROP YOUR WEAPONS! Lie facedown. Or we will fire."

The voice was clattering from a speaker on the helicopter. Or maybe from somewhere on the ground. Hard to tell.

Loud. And no nonsense. The commander meant what he was saying.

Swann noticed that Bartlett complied at once, flinging his own H&K away, lifting his hands and practically falling to the ground. Jacob Swann looked past him and saw that the upstairs window of the house behind Boston's was open and a sniper was aiming into the backyard. He would have the Shoe covered.

The voice from on high: "You, on your feet. Drop your weapon and lie facedown! Do it now!"

A debate.

Swann looked at the house.

He tossed his gun to the ground and got down on his belly, smelling the piquant scent of gra.s.s. It reminded him of Chartreuse, the strident liquor that he used in one of his few desserts-peaches in Chartreuse jelly, part of the tenth, and last, course on t.i.tanic's first-cla.s.s menu. As the helicopter lowered he gripped the key fob he'd been holding. He pressed the left b.u.t.ton once and then the right for three seconds. And closed his eyes.

The explosive in the backpack, which he'd hidden nearby, detonated with more force than he'd expected. It was a diversionary charge only-for eventualities like this, to draw an enemy's attention, get them to turn away momentarily. But this charge, right at the edge of the trees, exploded in a ma.s.sive fireball, pitching the helicopter sideways a foot or two. The craft wasn't damaged and the pilot controlled it immediately but it had bobbled enough that the gunmen lost their targets.

Jacob Swann was on his feet in an instant, leaping over the p.r.o.ne Bartlett and charging for the house, a smoke grenade in his hand. He flung the compact cylinder through the front window, shattered by the backpack bomb, and leapt through the frame after it.

INSIDE, SWANN SLAMMED into a coffee table, scattering candy bowls, statuettes and framed pictures, and he rolled onto the floor.

The explosion had surprised Boston, Sachs and the other cop and when the smoke grenade bounced into the room they'd scrabbled away for cover, apparently expecting not covering haze but another bang.