“Wait,” Nick said.
Evans seemed confused. “Wait for what?”
Nick thought for a moment. “The lights,” he said. “There’s a reason all the lights are on.”
“You think they’re upstairs with night vision goggles?” Matt said. “We go charging in there and they shut off the electricity and ambush us with night gear.”
Evans radioed everyone to have their infrared gear ready.
Again Evans wanted to move and again Nick interrupted him.
“This is what they want,” Nick said. “There’s a reason my brother is allowed to move around in there. They’re using him as bait.”
This time Evans’ voice had an edge to it. “Listen, Bracco, we’ve got them surrounded and outnumbered. The longer we wait, the less chance we have of saving your brother.”
“Believe me, I want him out of there more than you know,” Nick said. “There’s something very wrong here. Just give me a minute.”
Evans eyes narrowed. For the first time since Nick had arrived in Las Vegas he considered who had rank. He could see that Evans was pondering the same question. Evans pushed the button on his radio while looking into Nick’s eyes. “Stand down,” he radioed. “We move in three minutes.”
Nick returned to the side of the house with Matt alongside. Jake was still playing with his fiber optic toy when Nick asked him to step aside. Without ceremony, Nick took the butt of his gun and busted a hole in the kitchen window. The soprano pitch from the glass shattering sprung a couple garage lights to life. Evans looked thoroughly disgusted as he radioed his team a play-by-play description so they understood the noises being made.
Nick slid the shade aside with the muzzle of his gun and caught a glimpse of his brother kicking his heel into the oven door.
“Phil,” Nick called.
Phil sat still, swinging his head from side to side, searching for the owner of the voice.
Nick said, “Phil, don’t move.”
Phil’s eyes frantically delivered the screams that he couldn’t get from of his taped mouth.
“Do you want me to come get you?” Nick asked.
Phil closed his eyes and shook his head violently.
“No?”
Again Phil shook his head. This time he arched his head toward the back door entrance to the kitchen.
“What?” Nick asked. “You want me to go through that door?”
Clearly frustrated, Phil glared at the door, desperately trying to draw Nick’s attention.
From Nick’s angle he couldn’t see the entire door. He asked Jake for the video device and Jake allowed him to slip the black tube into the opening of the window. Nick scrutinized the back door, but couldn’t see anything unusual. He looked back at Phil. “I don’t see a thing,” he said.
This time Phil motioned with his free leg. He seemed to sweep a straight line with his foot. An idea grew in Nick’s head.
“Matt,” he said, pointing to the fluorescent light hanging in the center of the kitchen. “Shoot out the light.”
This caused some curious looks, but no one ever had to ask Matt McColm twice to fire his weapon. Before a word was spoken, Matt lined up his pistol and fired two shots, knocking out both bulbs without wasting a bullet. The blasts caused shards of glass to rain over Phil’s head. Up and down the quiet neighborhood houses began to light up like an excited pinball machine. Evans feverishly broadcasted every move with the same tone used to announce the Hindenburg disaster. Once again Nick slipped the fiber optic tube into the darkened room and steered its gaze toward the kitchen door.
“There you are, you bastard,” Nick said.
Matt glanced down at the tiny screen and saw a thin stream of red light across the base of the door. “It’s booby-trapped,” he declared. “Call the Bomb Squad, this baby’s wired to blow.”
Evans saw the laser beam and immediately gave orders not to touch any doors or windows.
“Do you see anything around this window?” Nick asked Phil.
Phil’s shoulders hung low, his head moved side to side slowly, full of relief.
Nick curled his hand through the jagged opening in the glass and unlocked the latch. He slid open the window and with eight sets of hands training their weapons on the inside of the kitchen, Nick climbed into the house and quickly pulled the tape from his brother’s mouth.
“I’m sorry, Nick,” Phil pleaded.
Nick untied him. “Are they all upstairs?”
“I couldn’t tell, but it sounded as if they left. I heard a door slam shut.”
Nick hustled Phil back through the open window into Matt’s welcome arms, then followed him out of the house. “Nice to see you breathing,” Matt said with a wide grin.
Phil collapsed onto the lawn, which was moist from the morning dew. He took shallow breaths and hugged himself tightly, shivering from more than just the night air.
Nick crouched down over his brother. “You okay?”
Phil nodded. “They’ve been keeping me pretty doped up, but I think I’m all right.” He grabbed Nick’s arm. “I’m worried, Nicky. I kept hearing them talk about what you did to someone named Rashid. Did you arrest him or something?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, I think they’re holding a grudge against you.”
Evans barked out a name and instantly a young man in a blue FBI windbreaker emerged from the darkness. “Take this man over to Desert Springs, get him checked out.”
Nick tenderly slapped his brother’s face. “I’ll see you over there in a little while.”
While waiting for the Bomb Squad to show, Nick found a tree to sit under and leaned up against the trunk for support. Wiping his clammy hand on his pants, he forced himself to subdue the throbbing in his head. Two episodes in one night, not good. Worse yet, his stomach wanted to join the party. First a slight seasick sensation, then a full-out race for his throat. A couple of hard swallows later, Matt began running interference for him. He shuffled away anyone coming too close, citing flu-like symptoms to anyone who asked about Nick’s condition.
The bomb squad showed up wrapped in Kevlar and drew attention away from Nick. Matt, a veteran of bomb threats, knew that once the explosive experts arrived, they immediately gained custody of the crisis. Everyone else followed their lead except Matt, who had grown allergic to taking orders from strangers. Without ever taking his eyes off the bomb squad’s antics, he squatted next to Nick and said, “You want to tell me about it?”
“What’s to tell? I’m sick.”
“That’s obvious, but sick from what? You seemed perfectly fine a few minutes ago.”
Nick hesitated. “Well. . if you ask Dr. Morgan he’ll suggest Post-Traumatic-Stress Disorder.”
Matt rubbed the side of his face. “That’s just great.”
“Don’t give up on me,” Nick said, wanting to give hope. Wanting to believe it himself. “I could beat this thing.”
Nick’s phone rang. Walt Jackson was on the line. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,” Jackson said.
“Well I’ve got some good news,” Nick said.
“I’m all ears.”
“We’ve got Phil.”
There was a long pause. Nick could hear Jackson’s exhale turn into a faint whistle. Jackson’s voice obtained a smile that could be heard over the thousands of miles and three satellites used to transmit the highly secure conversation. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that,” Jackson said. “I underestimated the significance of transferring Rashid Baser to a minimum security site. Thirty minutes ago he escaped from Poplar Hill Pre-Release Unit. No guard tower. No razor wire fences. A real country club atmosphere and Rashid took advantage of the situation.”
“It wasn’t a fluke?”
“Oh no. They’ve had this set up all along. They never once thought we would release Baser, all they wanted was the opportunity to spring him. Anyway, Phil’s safe and that’s all that really matters.”
“That’s right.” Nick could see the first wave of bomb experts enter the house from the kitchen window. Matt stood next to Evans with his arms crossed, nodding at the occasional comment. “I’ve got to go, Walt. Bomb Squad just showed up. Matt’s over there right now telling anyone who’ll listen how arrogant those guys are.”