“This is Car Seven. We’re ready. K.”
Her earpiece clattered loudly. She turned the volume down. “Roger, Seven.”
Two plain-clothed detectives in an SUV marked with the logo of an actual real estate company were parked on Hudson, fifty feet away.
At Sachs’s word, they would drive up to the entrance of Hamilton and turn into the mouth of Hamilton, blocking the camera.
“Five Eight Eight Five,” she radioed. “Teams Two and Three, report. K.”
“Team Two. In position behind 208 Hamilton. Back entrance breached. Clear route to trailer.”
“Roger, Two. Three?”
“Three, we’re second floor 216 Hamilton. Clear view of target premises. Sniper and spotter in position.”
“Roger.”
She charged her M4. The weapon could be fired fully automatic, burst or semi, and she moved the selector to auto.
I’ll try to keep him alive, Rhyme. But I’m not risking a single soul on my teams.
Her heart tapped at just above normal velocity, and the slight elevation was not from concern about the operation itself or its success. It was the pleasure she felt at moments like this. The pure joy swelling within her just before a tactical operation. Her palms were dry and, for a change, she felt no urge to dig a nail into a cuticle or her scalp, a compulsive habit that persisted from her youth. Her nerves were presently at rest.
A deep breath. The faintest trace of congestion. Hardly noticeable.
You’re fine...
She glanced back at her team, two men, one woman. Younger than she. Their eyes still. Their bodies coiled. They crouched — and she envied them their youthful knees.
One of the men gripped his weapon with tight fingers. He was gazing at the ground, his lips pressed hard together — the only portion of his face, other than the eyes, that was visible, due to the Nomex hoods. He realized she was looking his way. When he met her gaze, she nodded.
And he came down from that troubled place where he’d momentarily perched. It would be his first time out.
“Three,” she called. “What do you see? K.”
“Shades are down. No visual. But we have a heat signature.”
“Human?”
“Likely. Right temp. And in motion.”
So, the Watchmaker was inside.
“K. Team Two, move to the front of 208. Advise. And, Zillow Girl, pull into position.”
A laugh from the detective in Car Seven. She said, “On the move.”
The SUV now drove past Sachs and Team One, then pulled into the mouth of the cul-de-sac, blocking the security camera. The stocky woman, made a bit stockier by the body armor under her floral dress, climbed out and grabbed a stack of file folders from the backseat. A prospective buyer of the property — also an ESU detective — stepped from the passenger side and looked around, as if assessing whether this was a place he wanted to sink half a billion dollars into.
“Three, any response to the presence?”
“Negative. He’s in the middle of the trailer. Not moving anymore. Maybe at a table.”
“Five Eight Eight Five to Two. We go in first, you’re behind.”
“Roger. K.”
“All teams. Remember the briefing. Special rules of engagement. One call to surrender, if it’s ignored and there’s the least threat signature, lethal force is authorized.”
They confirmed.
She took a deep breath, smelling wet stone and pungent exhaust from the SUV. Her weapon’s safety off, finger outside the trigger, muzzle aware.
“Team Two, we’re on the move.”
A glance behind her, nods from the team.
Then the four were out of cover and jogging toward the trailer, crouching.
“Three, heat signal?”
“Moved a foot or two. Away from the door. Slow. I don’t think he’s onto you.”
“K.”
Thirty feet from the door.
The Watchmaker, she was thinking... Would this be their last confrontation?
Twenty...
Team Two, led by Sharonne Brown, a woman she had worked with for years. The ESU officer was built like Sachs, slim and tall, one difference being that Brown was in the gym at least an hour a day and could bench-press two hundred pounds without shedding a drop of sweat.
Sachs nodded and Brown’s team fell in behind hers, staggered, for better firing coverage — and to minimize cluster damage from a shooter inside.
Ten feet away.
“Three, we’re here. Signature?”
“He’s moved a few feet again, but still not near any windows.”
She had a passing thought: Gilligan had stolen and delivered to the Watchmaker the DSE documents, some of them maps of underground passages, of which most in the city were here and farther south. Did he possibly have an escape route planned through a tunnel?
Maybe, but they had the element of surprise.
Anyway, there were no tactical variations possible, given the layout and the urgency.
Sachs pointed to the windows, and Brown directed two of her officers to cover them. Hale wouldn’t try to escape that way, but they were perfect firing stations. He might even have mounted steel plates behind the blinds and would fire from a small porthole.
Three reported, “Moved a few inches, but not toward the windows. He doesn’t know you’re there.”
Or he’s holding a submachine gun pointed at the door, waiting for the first person in.
Then they were at the trailer.
This was no-knock. The breaching officer moved up fast and quickly mounted a C4 charge on the lock plate. Double wad.
They each carried gas masks and neoprene smocks, to protect against HF acid and gas. But she had decided they shouldn’t wear the gear during the assault. That would be dangerous, limiting field of sight and movement of weapons. If he was inside, there wasn’t much risk of exposure to the stuff.
Even as she thought this, though, she pictured the construction worker lying in the tunnel at the first scene, his skin dissolving, blood bubbling. This image had replaced that of the gory rebar rods.
She scanned the team. They nodded. The breaching officer lifted the detonator pad, but refrained from a “Fire in the hole!” They didn’t want to give the Watchmaker the slightest indication of their presence.
Sachs nodded.
The packet exploded with a sharp crack, and she started forward.
53
Ron Pulaski unfolded the document Lyle Spencer had produced.
Spencer said, “I called in a marker, and got that. It’s a draft. They’re still working on it.”
Ron looked down at the sheet in his hand.
Throughout the interview, it appeared that Subject Pulaski—
“Subject?” he whispered. “That’s what they’re calling me?”
— had only a vague recollection of the accident, even though it just happened, and he admitted he’d been only lightly injured. He used the phrases “I don’t know” and “I don’t remember” frequently. He admitted he was not concentrating at the time of the collision...
On the goddamn phone call. That’s what I wasn’t concentrating on.
At one point in the interview he was staring into space and did not even hear the interviewer’s question.
Because I was looking at the picture of Garner’s family and thinking about my dead daughter...
He admitted to using drugs and admitted that they made him sleepy.
What the hell? Half a joint twenty years ago?