Justice Served (40 page)

“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 floor. 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, first floor. 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.”

*

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 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 floor. 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 floor.”

She heard what sounded like a string of firecrackers on the Fourth of July at the same time as the first 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.

Tuesday, 3:23 a.m.

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

“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 floor! On the floor! Hands above your head. Police.”

When Mitchell caught sight of a uniformed officer 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.

“Got a gun here,” a female officer yelled, adrenaline making her voice sharp and brittle.

“Give it here,” Watts said as the uniform pulled the revolver from Mitchell’s ankle holster.

“Civilian in the bedroom,” a male voice called simultaneously.

“You two! Get the civilian out of the building and call for more backup. Leave this one here for now.” As the two officers half dragged Irina out the front door, Watts knelt by Mitchell’s side. “You okay, kid?”

“Yeah, but all hell’s breaking loose upstairs. Jesus.” Mitchell jerked her arms. “Get these off.”

He keyed the cuffs and they both got to their feet. He handed Mitchell her weapon.

“Here. Clear the downstairs.” He hesitated. “And get your badge on before some eager uniform plugs you full of holes.”

“I’m coming up with you,” she insisted, digging deep into her front pocket for her badge.

“You ain’t wearing a vest, and the Loo said to protect your cover. You stay down here for now.”

“You might need me.”

“I need you, I’ll holler.” He was already halfway to the stairs and didn’t look back.

*

The hall was filled with the stench of cordite, the pungent smell of blood, and the screams of petrified girls. Watts saw the body on the floor, and the air gushed out of his lungs as if he’d been punched in the gut.
Oh, fuck me, I’m
not
seeing that.

Sloan pivoted toward him, gun extended, and he yelled, “Police, police. Sloan, it’s Watts. Jesus.”

“I can tell who the hell it is, for Christ’s sake.” Sloan’s eyes were hard dark stones. “Clear downstairs?”

“Mitchell’s sweeping it.” Watts wasn’t looking at her, but at Rebecca slumped against the wall. “Jesus Christ.”

“Call for the ambulance and a coroner.” Sloan holstered her weapon and spoke in Russian to the group of young women huddled together at the far end of the hall. Most were garbed only in flimsy sleepwear or T-shirts, all were barefoot, and all were clearly terrified. “They say there’s no one else up here,” she called back to Watts, “but I’ll do a room-to-room. You stay with Rebecca.”

“Loo?” Watts knelt by Rebecca’s side. Her eyes were opened but glazed.  Blood shimmered down her face and neck. “Take it easy, Lieutenant. The ambulance will be here in a minute.”

He waited, holding his breath, but no answer came.

*

Catherine opened her eyes to darkness, her heart racing. The bedside clock read 4:26 a.m. She listened for the sound of the key in the lock, but there was only silence. She sat up and reached for her robe. The feeling of foreboding was oppressive and heavy, a weight in her chest that squeezed the air from her lungs and turned her limbs to stone. She forced herself from the bed and, after pulling the robe around her naked body, walked into the living room. When the knock came at the door she was not surprised. For seconds that felt like eternity, she did not move. In that instant she understood the true power of denial. If she did not open the door, she would not suffer the loss. If she did not hear the words, she would not experience the anguish. If she did not accept, it would not be true.

The quiet knock repeated.

Catherine steeled herself and opened the door. She hadn’t meant to speak, but when she saw Sloan’s face, she whispered an agonized
no
.

“She’s hurt, but she’s alive. She’s at University ER. Ali Torveau’s with her.”

“I’ll just be a minute,” Catherine said evenly, but when she turned, her legs were unsteady. She didn’t draw away when Sloan’s arm came around her waist.

“It’s going to be all right,” Sloan murmured as she walked beside Catherine back to the bedroom.

“Tell me what happened.”

Sloan averted her gaze as Catherine, apparently oblivious to Sloan’s presence, removed her robe and stood naked in front of the closet. “We took the stash house. The guard was armed.”

“Oh God.” Catherine closed her eyes and braced her hand against the closet door.

“She was wearing a vest, Catherine,” Sloan hurried on. “I couldn’t tell for sure, but I don’t think she took a body shot.”

“She would have called me if she could have. What aren’t you telling me?”

“There’s a head wound. I’m not sure how serious.”

Catherine gave a small cry before fighting back the terror that threatened to immobilize her. Blanking her mind, she slipped into a blouse and slacks, heedless of the fact that she wore no underwear. She stepped barefoot into low-heeled boots and pulled a blazer off the rack. She walked determinedly toward the front door with Sloan in her wake. “How could this happen? Who was with her?”

“I was.”

Catherine finally looked directly at Sloan. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.”

“And the…person who shot her?”

“Dead.” Sloan pointed. “My car’s over here.”

“You killed him?”

“Yeah.” Sloan keyed the remote and opened the passenger door for Catherine.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Sloan handed Catherine into the car, pulled the seat belt across Catherine’s chest, and hooked it. “I’m just fine.”

*

Catherine remembered nothing of the brief, rapid journey to the hospital. She was out of the car nearly before Sloan was able to halt the Porsche in front of the emergency room entrance. She rushed through the automatic double doors into the familiar chaos of the trauma admitting area. Tonight the waiting room was awash with a sea of blue. Tonight, the PPD had turned out en masse in support of one of their fallen brethren. That realization passed quickly through Catherine’s mind as she grasped the arm of the first passing nurse. “Lieutenant Frye. Wounded police officer. Where is she?”

“Trauma One, I think.”

“Thank you.”

Sloan caught up to Catherine before she was halfway down an adjacent hallway that sported curtained exam rooms along both sides. “Maybe you should wait until I find Ali and get an update.”

“No. I want to see her now.”

“Okay,” Sloan relented. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

Before she could turn back to the crowded waiting room in hopes of finding someone who would be willing to give her information, she heard the deep rumble of a familiar voice.

“Dr. Rawlings,” Captain Henry said in a surprisingly soothing tone of voice. “I’m sorry to see you again under these circumstances. Can I get you anything?”

“Where is she?” Catherine asked immediately.

“Radiology, at least the last I heard.” He slid an arm beneath Catherine’s elbow. “No one is telling us very much, but the doctors listed her in critical, but stable, condition. Why don’t you come sit down in the family waiting room.”

“She’s not in the operating room?”

Henry looked perplexed. “No. No, they said something about a CAT scan.”

Some of the terrible pressure around Catherine’s heart eased. If they hadn’t taken her directly to the operating room, then she couldn’t be in grave danger. She might be hurt, but she wasn’t dying.
Please, let that be true.

“I’m going down to radiology,” Catherine said.

“Of course,” Henry replied.

“You want me to come with you?” Sloan asked.

Catherine shook her head. “No, I’m all right.” She smiled at Sloan. “Thank you for coming to get me. You should call Michael. She’ll be worried.” Suddenly, her expression changed to one of concern. “Everyone else is all right? Dellon? Watts?”

Sloan nodded. “All okay.”

“Good. Good. I have to go.”

*

The first thing she saw when she exited the stairwell was Watts pacing in a tight circle with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. Then she saw Mitchell, arms crossed, face pale, leaning with one shoulder against the wall next to the entrance to the radiology suite. Still in her tight black jeans and motorcycle jacket, with the curves of her face shadowed and dark, she looked like a dangerous young animal. But her eyes, when they met Catherine’s, were drenched with pain.

When he saw her, Watts hurried forward. “I woulda come to get you, but Sloan wanted to.”

“It’s all right,” Catherine said gently. “It’s good that you’re here watching over her.” Her gaze moved to the closed doors. “Is she still in there?”

“Yeah, and they won’t tell us a goddamn thing.”

“Well, they’ll tell me.” And then she pushed her way through the doors.

She saw Ali Torveau immediately, leaning over the shoulder of an X-ray technician who was scrolling through a series of images on a computer screen.