"I thought you'd understand." Now the voice was sing-song--and all the more threatening for it. "We were alike, you and me. We were so much alike. Or that's the way you wanted it to seem."
"We've known each other for a month, Vernon. A month. I've stayed over once!"
"That's all I mean to you?" There was a huge crash. "You're one of them," the man shouted. "You're a fucking Shopper. You're no better than any of them!"
Shopper? Sal wondered. He didn't get exactly what was going on but he was growing quite concerned with the escalating dispute.
Alicia was sobbing now. "You just told me you've killed some people. And you expect me to go away with you?"
Oh, hell... Killed somebody? Sal fished out his mobile.
But before he could hit 911, Alicia screamed--a sound that was cut short in a grunt. Another thud as she, or her body, hit the floor. "No," came her voice. "Don't. Vernon, please, don't! Don't hurt me!"
Another scream.
Then Sal was moving, grabbing his aluminum baseball bat. He flung open his door and charged up the stairs to Alicia's apartment. He used his master key and shoved inside. The knob smacked the wall so hard, it dug a crater in the plaster.
Panting from the sprint, Sal stared, wide eyed. "Jesus."
The tenant lay on the floor, a huge man standing over her. Easily six three or four, skinny, sick looking. He'd hit her in the face, which was bleeding from her cheek, swollen badly. Tears poured as she sobbed and held up her hands to protect herself, uselessly, from what he held--a ball-peen hammer, poised over his head about to crack her skull open.
The attacker spun around and stared at the super with mad, furious eyes. "Who're you? What're you doing here?"
"Asshole, drop it!" Sal snapped, nodding at the hammer and brandishing the bat. He outweighed the guy by thirty pounds, even if he was six inches shorter.
The assailant squinted and looked from the super to Alicia and then back again. His breath hissed from his throat as he drew back and flung the hammer toward Sal, who dropped to his knees to avoid it. The scrawny man grabbed a backpack and ran to the open rear window, t
ossed the bag out and jumped out after it.
The breacher gripped the heavy battering ram and Heller again pointed out the order of entry into Griffith's front bedroom, the one protected by the number lock. They all nodded. Sachs set down the H&K submachine gun and drew her pistol.
The choice of weapons was always the tactical officer's to make. She felt more comfortable with a handgun in a confined space.
The breacher was drawing back the ram when Sachs held up a hand. "Wait."
Heller turned.
"I think he's rigged something. A trap. It's his style. Use that," she said, pointing into the breaching officer's canvas bag. Heller looked down. He nodded, and the officer withdrew the small chain saw.
Sachs pulled a flash bang stun grenade from her pocket. Nodded.
The breacher fired up the growly tool and sliced a two-by-four-foot hole in the door, kicked in the cut piece. Sachs pitched in the live grenade and, after the stunning explosion--disorienting but not lethal--Heller and Sachs, remaining outside still, went to their knees, pointing their weapons and flashlights inside.
Scanning.
The room was empty of humans.
But it was booby-trapped.
"Ah." Heller was pointing to a piece of thin wire that was attached to the inside doorknob. If they'd bashed the door in, it would have slackened the wire and released a gallon milk jug, cut in half horizontally, filled with what seemed to be gasoline, spilling the contents onto a hot plate that sat smoking on a workbench by the window, sealed by the thick shutters.
The officers entered and dismantled the device. Then they cleared the room--the connected bathroom too.
Heller radioed Haumann. "Team A. Premises secure. No hostile. Team B, report."
"Team B leader to Team A leader. No hostiles in back. We'll sweep the other apartments. K."
"Roger."