The Burial Hour (Lincoln Rhyme 13)

"And if we find him and he doesn't surrender, we shoot for his arms or legs?"

She frowned. "No, if he's armed, we kill him."

"Oh."

"Shoot here." She touched her upper lip, just below the nose. "To hit the brain stem. Three shots. Are you okay with that?"

"I--"

"You have to be okay with it, Ercole."

"I am." A firm nod. "Si. D'accordo."

A few deep breaths, and so began the hunt. This was a game you never got used to, a game you hated and yet was the most exquisite drug ever concocted.

First, she directed him to the den, where she'd seen the rifle. They cleared the room and she lifted the gun down and removed and pocketed the bolt, so it couldn't fire. Then they began a room-by-room search, from the back of the house to the front. Most rooms were empty. There was a small bedroom that had to be the Composer's. A single Converse Con sat beside the bed.

The kitchen, too, had been used with some frequency.

They continued on.

And hit every room on the ground floor of the place, then upstairs. The Composer was not here.

Finally, they returned to the door that Sachs believed led to the cellar.

She tested the wrought-iron latch slowly. It was unlocked.

Amelia Sachs loathed basements. With a full tactical operation, you could pitch down a flash bang grenade, stun a barricaded suspect and leap down fast. But now? Just the two of them? She'd have to descend the stairs, her legs then hips then torso in full view of whatever weapon the Composer had. When he'd stolen the rifle, had he gotten away with a pistol as well?

Two shots to the knees and she'd fall, helpless and screaming in pain, ready for the final kill.

She glanced up and noted that Ercole, while he would not have had any such experience, was determined and calm. She was confident he'd do fine, if anything happened to her.

She whispered, "If Khaled is anywhere, it's down there. Or the garage. More likely here, I'm thinking. So let's go. You pull the door. And I go down, fast."

"No, I will be the one."

She smiled. "This is my thing, Ercole. I'll go."

"Let me. If he fires or attacks you will be able to shoot him better than I can. It is not a subject I excelled in at training. Truffle smugglers rarely carry AK-Four-Sevens." A smile.

She gripped his arm. "All right. Go fast. Here's the light."

He took a deep breath. And muttered something. A name. Isabella, she believed. Maybe a saint.

"Ready?"

He nodded.

She yanked the door open. It crashed into the wall with a cloud of dust.

Neither moved for a moment.

It wasn't a cellar. It was a

closet. Empty.

Breathing fast.