Неизвестный - 5. Justice Served

“Bastard!”

“Oh, come on, baby, just think about me inside you,

how good it will be.”

“I don’t know— ”

“They’ll be closing here in twenty minutes. I’ll just follow you home.”

“No.” Firm and sharp. “No, they will be watching for that.”

“Who? Who will be watching?”

“It is not important. You come in an hour.”

“An hour’s a long time to wait when I’m this hard.”

Laughter, light and relaxed. “Then you’ll be sure to come, no?”

“Oh yeah, baby. I’m going to come all right. And so are you.”

v

Five minutes later, Jasmine exited the club and walked at a leisurely pace down the street. No one followed, and after one quick scan of the street, she crossed directly to Watts’s vehicle and got in the passenger side. Ten minutes later, Mitch came out the door and strode directly to the car that he and Jasmine had arrived in.

“He’s got the address,” Sloan said with satisfaction.

Mitch’s voice came through the speaker clearly. “I’m supposed to

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park in an alley behind the 500 block of Levick in North Philly. She’s going to let me in the back door in an hour. She didn’t give me the exact address but said she’d ß ick the light over the door twice when she was ready to open it. She’s careful.”

“Too careful to be taking a stranger into the stash house,” Rebecca said with a frown, frustrated by the lack of two-way communication.

“And that’s what’s worried me the whole time about this setup. Why the hell would she risk it?”

“Mitch isn’t exactly a stranger. He came with the regulars, and that made him part of the scene. And let’s face it. He’s got her hooked so bad, she’s not thinking straight.” Sloan laughed softly. “Jesus, he’s dangerous.”

“Still, I wish I could talk to him.”

“Mitch knows the plan. He’ll be Þ ne, because we’ll be right behind him.”

“Let’s make sure we are.” Rebecca checked her watch. “We’ll wait another twenty minutes to make sure Irina and the girls are gone.

Then we’ll drive ahead and set up a perimeter around that block.”

“Black-and-whites?”

“I don’t see any reason for an assault team at this point. They’ll just—”

Mitch’s voice cut in. “I’m going to drive around for a while, because I don’t want anyone who might be looking to see me hanging out here.” There was a beat of silence. “See you when it’s over.”

Rebecca watched Mitch’s car pull away, then reached for her two-way. “This is Detective Lieutenant Rebecca Frye, requesting backup at the following location.”

Her mind was clear, her focus sharp. It had begun.

Tuesday, 2:46 a.m., North Philadelphia

Mitchell sat in the car in the dark in the narrow alley that ran behind a series of opposing row houses identical to those that lined every block in North Philadelphia like so many Monopoly houses arranged on a board. Every fourth or Þ fth building showed a light burning somewhere, but less than a handful had the single lamp adjacent to the rear door

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lit. Ground-ß oor garages opened onto the alley with narrow second-

ß oor decks jutting out over them. The back door was tucked beneath the overhang adjacent to the garage. She guessed that the door opened into a room or hallway that led to the stairs to the rest of the house.

With luck, the rear entrance wouldn’t be guarded, at least not on the basement level. She could only assume that was the case, since Irina apparently planned to let her into the building that way.

She checked her watch and peered into the gloom at the far end of the alley. She wondered where the lieutenant would set up the perimeter.

She was out there, she was conÞ dent of that. She couldn’t see her, or hear her, but she knew that the lieutenant and the rest of the team were behind her. She waited another minute, then got out of the car and carefully closed it as soundlessly as possible. She started slowly down the alley, scanning the rear of the buildings ahead. One light ß ickered twice in rapid succession, and, after counting down the row from the corner to identify which one it was, she whispered the location. Then she hurried toward it.

v

“Shh. You must be very quiet. The others are asleep.”

“Jesus, it’s dark down here.”

“Here. Take my hand.”

“Are you sure we won’t wake everyone up?”

“They are all upstairs. My room is on the Þ rst ß oor.”

“This is Frye,” Rebecca said into her radio. “Hold your positions until I give the word.” Then she switched channels. “Watts? You set?”

“I’m in the middle of the block facing the fronts of the buildings with two uniforms. Nothing happening. You?”

“Mitchell’s inside, eighth house from the corner. You go on my order.”

“Roger. Watch your ass.”

“Thanks. You too.” She clicked off her radio and turned to Sloan.

“I want to get closer to the building. I’ll take the receiver now.”

“Bullshit. I’m coming. You need your hands and your eyes clear.

I’ll monitor Mitchell’s transmissions.”

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“You can come down the alley, but you stay back when we go inside.”

“I’ve got a vest on. I can use a weapon.” Sloan’s voice held a challenge.

“And you’re a civilian—”

“I’ve got federal credentials,” Sloan said ß atly as she eased her car door open. “And you can use me. Let’s go.”

“All right,” Rebecca conceded, because Sloan was right. She wanted people she trusted to go in Þ rst. Any screwups could cost Mitchell. “But stay the hell behind me when we go through the door.”

Sloan grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

“How do you know they’re all asleep?”

“They are. Don’t worry.”

“So we’re Þ nally going to be alone? God, I want to feel your skin against me, all over me.”

“Mitch, there is someone else here. A man—”

“Christ, a boyfriend? Husband?”

“No, no Mitch. It is not like that.”

“What, then?”

“He…works here.”

“Where is he?”

“Come on,” Rebecca murmured, her eyes on the rear of the building. “Lay it out for us, Irina. Tell us where he is.”

“Is this going to be enough for probable cause?” Sloan asked.

“All she’s gotta do is give some indication that those girls are being detained against their will or that they’re here illegally. Either one will do it for us.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Rebecca met Sloan’s eyes head-on. “Mitchell’s inside. I’m not leaving her in there, so if we run into reception problems and I can’t tell what’s going on, I’m going to have to take the door. Whether you come along is up to you.”

“Let me know when you’re having trouble with the receiver, because I’ll be going in with you.”

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“He is upstairs. My room is down here, in the back…

come, Mitch, we are almost there.”

“Is he asleep?”

“No. He is watching.”

“Watching? Irina, watching who?”

“Don’t you know, new boy?”

“No. Irina, what—”

“Us. He watches us. So we stay . ”

“That’s good enough. Let’s put Clark to work rounding up the Port Authority suspects, then we go.” Rebecca thumbed her radio. “This is red team. Blue team, go.” She switched channels yet again. “Watts, there’s one guard, upper ß oor. The girls are up there too. We’ll go in silent from the rear, and once we’re in position, you’ll take the door.

Wait for my signal.”

“What about Mitchell?”

“Bedroom, Þ rst ß oor. Make sure she’s secure. Protect her cover if you can.”

“Okay, Loo.”

Rebecca glanced at Sloan. “Any good with locks?”

Sloan nodded, her eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Spycraft 101.”

“Let’s see just how slick you feds really are.”

v

Sloan picked the lock in under sixty seconds. She held the door open, and Rebecca led the way inside, weapon in hand, stepping carefully in the dark.

“Stairs,” Rebecca whispered.

A sliver of light at the top of the stairwell gave them direction as they moved stealthily upward. The house was dark and still, so still it was hard to believe that anyone inhabited it. Rebecca’s skin tingled, but her pulse was steady and slow. At the top of the stairs she stopped and edged her shoulder to the corner. “Take left.”

Without waiting for a response, Rebecca spun into the hallway, her gun arm extended. She had the sense of Sloan moving in tandem with her, facing the opposite direction. The rooms opposite them, their

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doorways little more than dark yawning mouths, appeared unoccupied.

Rebecca pointed with her left hand down the hallway where a staircase ascended to the second ß oor. Sloan nodded.

Rebecca saw no indication of motion sensors on the walls or ceiling, no cameras, no light beams crossing the hallways that might trigger an alarm if interrupted. Obviously, no one was expecting visitors. In all likelihood, the guard was there more for intimidation of the occupants than for security. Nevertheless, she approached the stairs carefully, her back to the wall, leading with her weapon as she carefully climbed upward. Two steps below the top, she stopped and pressed her radio to her mouth. “Watts, go.”

Silently, she counted to ten and then inched around the corner and into the upper hallway. A light shone from an open doorway halfway down, and the muted sound of a television drifted to her. She hand-motioned Sloan to stay behind and cover her. She had just reached the open door to the room when she heard the crack of the front door exploding open. With both arms extended, she swung into the open doorway and swept the room. She caught the blur of motion from the corner of her eye and pivoted in that direction, shouting simultaneously,

“Police! On the ß oor.”

She heard what sounded like a string of Þ recrackers on the Fourth of July at the same time as the Þ rst bullet struck. The impact knocked her back and she bounced off the opposite wall, lost her footing, and went down. She tried to raise her gun, but her right arm was numb. He was coming, the submachine gun pointed at her head.

Catherine, I’m sorry.

She heard the next shots too, but she didn’t feel a thing.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Tuesday, 3:23 a.m.

The staccato sounds thundering in the air shook the walls and trembled through the ß oorboards.

“What is it?” Irina’s voice rose in terror.

The roar was replaced by ominous silence.

“Stay here,” Mitchell said sharply as she spun toward the closed bedroom door. Just as she reached it, she heard shouts, the words indecipherable above the crack of splintering wood from somewhere close by. She debated drawing her weapon, but instinct warned her to wait. Only the immediate team members knew she was an undercover cop, and getting shot in a case of mistaken identity would be just plain dumb. She pulled open the door and stepped out into the hall, her hands at shoulder level.

A chorus of voices screamed.

“On the ß oor! On the ß oor! Hands above your head. Police.”

When Mitchell caught sight of a uniformed ofÞ cer swinging a weapon toward her chest, she dropped facedown, her arms spread-eagled at her sides. “Irina, get down,” she yelled toward the bedroom as someone roughly jerked her arms behind her back and cuffed them.