WHAMWHAM!
The two explosions were almost simultaneous, and they were fucking loud. The grenades contain magnesium instead of explosives – high on noise, but low on destructive power. And the cast-iron body won't fragment, so there's no shrapnel, which is why you can safely use them in hostage situations.
Van Cleef, clutching the H amp;K against his chest, dived through the door. I couldn't see inside from where I was standing, but I've seen enough SWAT training to know that he would land face down, do a quick hip roll to the right, and come up on one knee, weapon ready to fire. The next man through the door would break left, then the others would follow, going alternately right and left. All of this usually took about three seconds.
Once the team was inside, I waited for the rattle of gunfire, but it never came. Instead, I could hear voices, one after another, yelling "Clear!" as each room was checked in turn.
Then there was silence for a little while, then Dooley appeared in the doorway. "Come on in," he said.
We followed him into the sparsely furnished living room, its cream-colored walls and modernist furniture now stained with soot from the grenades and damp from the holy water.
"Nobody home, Goldilocks," Dooley said to me. "You can have your choice of chairs, beds, and porridge."
The other team members, who were leaning against walls and doorjambs, laughed loudly. I didn't mind – they had a lot of tnsion to get rid of.
"So, no Longworth," I said. "I take it you guys didn't turn up any slumbering vampires, either."
"Not a one," Heidi Renfer said. "But there's a pretty nasty-looking mouse in the kitchen that you guys might be interested in."
More laughter.
Karl shot his cousin a dirty look, then said to Dooley, "Lieutenant, didn't you say that surveillance had reported Longworth coming in the building, and didn't see him leaving?"
"Yeah, you've got a point," Dooley told him. "I wonder if the guys watching this place fucked up, or… just a second."
He pulled the tactical radio from his belt and thumbed the switch. "S-4, this is S-1. Do you copy? Over."
"Loud and clear, skipper." Spencer's voice came through crisply. "Hell, I can even see you through the window. Got the crosshairs right on you."
"Make sure your finger's off the trigger, then," Dooley said. "Did you see anyone leave the building from your side since we went in?"
"Negative, skipper. Nobody in or out. What's up – you missing a suspect or two?"
"Stand by."
Dooley scratched his cheek. "I suppose he could've made us somehow, as we came up the stairs, and went up or down the front stairs to another floor. All the other condos are locked up tight, but nothing's stopping him from roaming the hallways – or even breaking into somebody else's place, if he's got the right tools and know-how. We didn't have the manpower to put a man on each floor, dammit."
Then I noticed that the Hellhound was acting strangely. She'd been sitting obediently next to Sam's leg, but now she was up, whining softly as her nose quested around the room.
"Daisy's got something, Loot," Sam said. "Don't know what it is, though."
"Look alive, people!" Dooley snapped. "There may be a bear at home, after all."
The rest of the SWAT team assumed alert postures, weapons ready. A couple of them started walking slowly around the big room, looking closely at the walls, the floors, the ceiling.
"Priest hole, do you think?" Garrett asked.
I knew the term. Used to refer to small hidden closets built in English houses during Henry VIII's time, after Catholic clergy were expelled from the country. Some stayed behind, and had to be hidden by Catholic families when Henry's goons came searching.
I wondered if Garrett the Jesuit saw the irony.
"I need him, or them, alive, if at all possible," I said, my own eyes roaming the room.
"It's always their choice," Dooley said softly. "Now shut the fuck up."
"You want us to check the other rooms again, boss?" Kyotake asked. He held the big samurai sword at guard, both hands on the custom grip.
"Let the dog show us where to go," Dooley said, and nodded toward Daisy's handler. "Sam."
The blond guy, still wearing his shades indoors, released his grip on the Hellhound's chain, which hit the carpet with a muffled clank.
Continuing to sniff the air, Daisy began moving around the room, dragging the chain behind her. Her nose led her toward the big window overlooking the street. She approached it slowly, then became still, growling softly – a sound that made my asshole pucker, even though I wasn't the focus of her attention.
Heidi Renfer was standing maybe ten feet from the window, with her back to it. I was looking in her direction when I saw the air ripple behind her, something that I wish I could say I'd seen onwalkin the movies.
Then a man was standing there, where nobody had stood an instant before. At the same moment he appeared, I heard a male voice I didn't recognize snarl, " Aw, shit! "
The bastard was fast, I'll give him that. As he materialized, his left arm snaked around Heidi's slim waist and pulled her right up against him, while his right hand brought a black-bladed knife up to the side of her long neck, the point an inch away from her flesh.
The young guy's face was flushed and sweaty and tight with tension, but I was pretty sure I recognized it from mug shots, as well as an evening I once spent in a certain warehouse.
It looked like Jamieson Longworth was home, after all.
For a few seconds, we all stood in a tableau, like wax figures at Madame Tussaud's – maybe an exhibit titled "Hostage Situation."
Then the Hellhound lowered her haunches, preparing to spring.
"Daisy!" Sam's voice was a whipcrack. "Sit!" Then: "Stay!"
The dog obeyed, but you could see she was reluctant, not understanding why she wasn't being allowed to tear the intruder's throat out.
I knew exactly how she felt.
"Everybody stay right where you are!" Longworth shouted – unnecessarily, since that's exactly what we were all doing.
I saw Heidi wince when he yelled that, since his mouth was just a few inches from her ear. In response, Longworth squeezed her even tighter. "Keep still, bitch!" Longworth gasped a couple of breaths, then said to her, "Keep hanging on to your gun, honey. But if I see that barrel move an inch, in any direction, you're fuckin' dead! Understand?"
"Yeah," Heidi said hoarsely. "I understand."
"Something all of you should know!" Longworth said, still gasping for breath. He must've had enough adrenaline rushing through him to fuel an Olympic track team. In an older man, I might have hoped for a heart attack. "This is a Death Dagger," he went on. "One scratch, anywhere on her, and she's dead meat."
I believed him. Putting a spell like that on a weapon was pretty basic black magic. He might've done it himself, or had Sligo do it for him – if Sligo had been here, and I was betting he had.
It also explained why Longworth didn't have the blade pressed against her flesh, the way they usually do in situations like this. He didn't want to kill her – by accident. The Prayer Team's efforts might have neutralized the effects of the dagger's magic – but I don't think there was a man in the room willing to gamble Heidi's life on it.
Sligo must have taught Longworth how to work the Tarnhelm Effect – an invisibility spell, and not easy to do. That one's not black magic, but it's still pretty good work for a novice. He had fooled us all – except for Daisy.
"Okay, we hear you," Dooley said – pretty calmly, under the circumstances. "We'll all get this worked out somehow. Just stay cool."
Cool? Longworth was being about as cool as the Fifth Circle of Hell. But Dooley was handling it right.