Afraid to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Shhh!” He lowered his voice. “No. Stay here and make that damned call.”

“Who is it?” she demanded.

“What?”

“The guy inside? Who is it?”

“A kid. Gabriel Reeve.”

“A kid?”

“Sixteen.”

“Who’s he?” Her voice was a whisper.

“Trouble. One of those computer hackers who live for anarchy. Now he’s wanted for armed robbery. He’s moved to the big time.”

“And he’s in my house?”

“Go figure.” Did Reeve know he was breaking into the home of a cop? Probably not. Otherwise the kid had more balls than O’Keefe gave him credit for. “Just dumb luck.”

He was at the back corner of the house, she a step behind. Another damned fence! And the trail of footprints had ended at the unpainted boards and a spot of snow about three feet up where the kid’s boots had hit before he’d hauled himself over the top.

Alvarez hadn’t paid a lick of attention to him. She was at his side, her damned weapon drawn, as sexy and hard edged as he remembered, not that he had time to think about it.

“There’s a gate. Just around the corner.” She motioned with the nose of her gun. “I’ll take the front door.”

“No! Call for—oh, hell!”

Too late. She was already backtracking. This was all wrong. Going sideways. Just like before. In a moment of déjà vu, he was transported to another chase, another frantic night and the blinding pain of betrayal ...

No time to think of it now. He circumvented the fence, ending up at the back of the property where the ground sloped downward to a frozen creek. Carefully reaching over the top of the gate, he lifted the latch and gently pushed the gate open before slipping into the yard. Snow fell silently. No lights glowed from within and the back door, a slider, was open, a curtain billowing through the darkened open space. The enclosed yard with its small patio and a few scattered pots was covered in a soft white blanket and empty. No one hiding in the shadows. He heard his own heart beating in his ears and nothing else, not even any street noise. Tense, his fingers tight over his Glock, his gaze still scouring the yard, he moved along the fence line through the falling snow.

Eyes trained on the doorway, ready to lunge, he expected the kid to burst from the house.

But nothing happened.

He heard Alvarez open the front door. God, he wished she hadn’t shown up. “Police!” Her voice echoed through the open door. “Gabriel Reeve, show yourself!”

O’Keefe waited, ready to spring, certain Reeve would run.

Still nothing.

Not a sound.

Interior lights snapped on, illumination pouring through the windows to reflect on the unbroken snow.

“Gabriel Reeve, drop your weapon and come out, hands over your head!” Alvarez yelled again and O’Keefe stepped into the dining area of the town house. Inside, Alvarez, sidearm clutched in her hand, was mounting the stairs.

She didn’t so much as glance in O’Keefe’s direction as he crossed the dining area, nearly knocking over a pet’s dish. A step behind, he followed her to the second floor, where she opened the door to an office/guest room, then the bath, and finally her own bedroom, all of which was very neat. The beds he’d seen were made to military precision, pillows placed perfectly over matching quilts, a desk without so much as a stray paper clip on its smooth surface.

She shoved open the closet doors and found no one.

“He’s not here,” she finally said. “And neither is my dog.”

“You have a dog?”

“A puppy, yeah. And a cat.”