Bones of the Lost(87)

My heart hammered inside my Kevlar vest. Slidell’s idea. The thing was bulkier than the IBA I’d worn in Afghanistan. My ankle ached inside its boot.

Words spit from a radio clipped to Slidell’s vest. He looked at Rodriguez. Rodriguez nodded.

We got out. The others did the same, helmeted figures carrying AR-15 Bushmasters and Remington 700P .308 sniper rifles equipped with night vision. Bear.

“Place has two doors.” Slidell’s face was hard to see in the dark, but the edge to his voice told me he was amped. “We’re going in pincers-style, Alpha and Charlie through the front, Beta and Delta through the rear.”

“Any weapons inside?”

“Proceed as though the place is an arsenal.”

“We know how many are in there?”

“Negatory. You’ve been briefed on persons of interest. If Ray Majerick or Dominick Rockett is on the premises, bag ’em. By the book. No rough stuff. We don’t want some asshole pinstripe arguing brutality.”

We returned to our vehicles. Slidell cranked the engine, but not the lights. The armada rolled forward, silent but for the low growl of four motors and the crunch of sixteen tires on gravel.

As planned, two units stopped outside the tattoo parlor. Two others circled the buildings. A single car sat in front of the Passion Fruit.

Slidell cocked his head and pressed the transmit button on his rover. “Team Bravo in advance position?”

“Affirmative.”

“Charlie?”

“Affirmative.”

“Delta?”

“Affirmative.”

“Alpha says green light. Let’s boogie.”

A million headlamps and cherries lit the night. Our car shot forward, stopped so fast the rear end lurched left. Slidell and Rodriguez fired from their seats.

I opened my door. Slidell pivoted and jabbed a finger in my face.

“Your cheeks stay glued to that seat!”

“Fine!”

That was the deal. Remain in the car or get left behind.

Slidell and Rodriguez crouch-ran forward, Glocks double-gripped and pointed up at the sides of their helmets. Charlie team joined them outside the Passion Fruit, one to either side, one in front of the door.

Slidell spoke into his rover, not so quietly now.

“Go!”

One Charlie guy booted the door. I heard metal bang an inside wall. Glass shatter.

Slidell and Rodriguez steamrolled in. Charlie team followed.

Something boomed. A rear door?

I heard Slidell’s muffled bellow.

“Police! Everyone freeze!”

Someone screamed, high and shrill.

Men shouted.

Then nothing.

No bullets. No cries from disgruntled patrons. No shrieks from terrified women.

Seconds passed. A minute. A lifetime.

The quiet was deafening.

“Screw this.” I launched myself from the car and ran toward the building.

Through the open door I could see a waiting room with taupe walls, orange plastic chairs, fake ferns, coffee and end tables scarred by cigarette burns.

One of the Charlie guys was there.

“Clear?” I panted, high on adrenaline.

“Yeah.” He tipped the barrel of his Remington toward a doorway on the right. “Party’s down there.”

I followed a corridor toward the back of the building. As in the waiting area, the walls were taupe. Doors ran its length, all painted yellow. Three on the left, three on the right. Every door was open.

I glanced through each as I hurried past.

The rooms had plywood walls that didn’t make it to the ceiling. Three were closet size and held only a bed, neatly made, and a straight-back chair. Two had your standard massage-table-and-boom-box setup. All were deserted.

Muffled voices emanated from the sixth room, the last on the right. One belonged to Slidell. The pitch and tenor told me he was barely containing his anger.

I entered.

This room was also cubicle size. It held a desk, a ratty upholstered chair, and an ancient rabbit-eared TV. A door stood open in one corner. Through it I could see stairs descending into gloom.

Another SWAT guy was in the room, Delta team, I think. His eyes followed me from below the rim of his helmet.

I pointed to the stairs.

He nodded.

The basement was dank and dismal. And, to my disgust, showed signs of habitation. Four cots, each with a tattered blanket. A mini-fridge. A hot plate. A sideboard with cabinets above and below. A table holding a lamp, a mug jammed with pens and pencils, empty ashtrays, a stack of magazines.

A wheeled clothes rack butted up to the sideboard. Every hanger was empty. A door opened onto a bath at the cellar’s far end.

Slidell was glaring down at a woman who stood maybe five feet tall. She was returning the glare, clearly not backing off. In one hand she clutched a paper I guessed was the warrant.

Rodriguez was also present. Two more SWAT guys. I assumed the others were positioned outside the building, or checking adjacent properties.