Blood List(20)

Sam's phone rang. She touched the "answer" icon on her computer screen. "Sam Greene, hold please," she said without taking her eyes from the monitor. She pressed "hold." The satellite video feed showed a truck pulling into a warehouse. She relayed this information to Team Bravo, then hit the "hold" button again.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Would you be interested in a lead on the D Street case?" Chad DelGatto asked.

Sam smiled. Almost a year had passed since the near-miss in Salt Lake, and D Street had gone gun-shy. Palomini's team had been tasked to "supplementary investigations support." They were desperate for a break. "Very," she said.

"Well, then, look what I've found, Sammy," Chad said. A ten-digit number popped up on the screen.

"That is?"

"That's the phone number of the guy who sent those text messages to your I-590 last October. We still can't break the messages themselves, but we managed to crunch through the numerical with Apex-Lucinda and an area code regression Jim wrote. A-L is hot shit, Sam. You should see it in action. Beautiful."

"Chad, I could kiss you," she said.



"Happy hunting."

The line went dead.

The area code was D.C., the exchange Georgetown. She searched for details on the number. Beaming, Sam hit the COM button for Gene Palomini.



* * *



September 19th, 10:38 PM EST; Georgetown; Washington, D.C.



Jerri surveyed the complex. It was brick, one of a million just like it in cities all over America. According to Sam it contained nine small apartments, three per floor, each over two thousand dollars a month, plus utilities. They were considered cheap for the area.

Remind me not to move to Georgetown, Jerri thought as she crept up the stairs toward the door labeled 3A. A typical American pre-fab panel, all it would take would be a good kick from a trained martial artist to open it, deadbolt or no. Doug stood behind her, service 9mm pointed at the door. Carl whispered through the COM. "Fire escape clear. Back entrance clear."

"Approaching entrance," she whispered back, her senses at maximum alert.

With grim determination, she motioned to Doug. Infrared surveillance showed one person, awake and in the kitchen, with a stove burner on.

"Entrance in three, two, one!" Doug Goldman body-slammed the door. The flimsy wood shattered against not one but two deadbolts and a security chain. Doug smashed right through the cheap door and into the room, rolling left to give Jerri a clear field of fire.

"FBI, FREEZE!" she yelled, stepping through and panning her sub-machinegun toward the kitchen. The place reeked of sautéed garlic and unchanged litter box. An unattended pan crackled on the stove, the source of the more pleasant of the two smells. Where is he? she thought. Paul Renner had gotten the jump on her once, and she swore to herself it wouldn't happen again. Carl still didn't know where the hell he'd come from in that bathroom.

She covered Doug as he moved into the kitchen. Staccato gunfire rang out from the fire escape, the high-pitched ricochets louder than the muffled shots of Carl's automatic. "He's got a gun!" cried Carl over the COM as Gene eased up behind her. Jerri tracked her weapon left and right. Nothing moved.

"You're surrounded," Gene yelled. "Come out with your hands up!" His voice filled the small apartment, making the following silence that much more silent. Five seconds passed. Then ten.

A shape emerged from the bedroom on the right, hands folded on top of his head like a good little criminal. Great, career perp, thought Jerri. Keeping his assault rifle trained, Gene ordered him into the living room. The man did as he was told and stepped into the light. About 5' 10", he was in his mid-twenties, with brown hair and eyes to match. His stupid grin made Jerri regret not shooting him the moment he came into view. He wore a wife-beater and plaid boxers, with black socks that matched the spit-shined dress shoes by the door.

"Sit on the couch and keep your hands where we can see them," Gene said. The man complied. Jerri wanted to bash the grin off his face with the butt of her gun.

Instead she asked, "ID?" The man reached slowly toward the wallet on the end table. He seemed oblivious to the danger posed by three high-strung and heavily armed FBI agents. Cool cucumber, Jerri thought.

"CLEAR!" sounded from the bedroom, and a few seconds later from the bathroom. Gene still stood in the doorway, weapon pointed at the man's head, finger on the trigger, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. The suspect tossed the wallet to Jerri. She found a D.C. driver's license for Brian LaMonte, whose picture matched the man in front of her, sleazy grin and all.

"Do you know why we're here, Mr. LaMonte?" Jerri said. She kept her voice calm in spite of the adrenaline pumping through her system.