Conall murmured into his transmitter, “Now,” and moved, coming in fast while Johnny Harris did the same from the other direction. At the same time Garcia sprang to his feet, his Sig Pro pistol in his hand.
“Drop your weapons! This is a police raid. Drop them now!”
Conall slammed the doorkeeper to the sidewalk and went in first, low and fast. Garcia leaped over the dog and was on his heels. Reinforcements sprang from a van parked halfway down the block and within seconds were on the two guards, dragging them away from the window glass in case of flying bullets before cuffing them.
The interior was poorly lit, the window having been covered with butcher paper, the bare overhead bulb maybe forty watts. Two men burst from a rear hallway, firing as they came. Conall took one out with his Glock while Garcia brought down the other. They kicked weapons away and plunged down the hall. The back of the store was the drug distribution facility; the guys packaging coke were already wild-eyed at the spray of bullets and had their hands up before Conall went through the door.
Garcia and Harris checked out the bathroom and office while Conall kept his gun on the pathetic trio in front of him. Within moments, other agents arrived to cuff and arrest.
It was all over but the cleanup. Conall’s experienced eye weighed and measured the packets of cocaine, leaving him disappointed. They wouldn’t be taking anywhere near as much off the street as they’d hoped. Either this operation was more small-time than they’d realized, or a shipment was due and their timing had sucked.
That was life, he thought philosophically, holstering his weapon.
And I’m bored out of my frigging skull.
As he all too often seemed to be these days.
* * *
LIA WOODS SAT on the middle cushion of the sofa, a boy perched stiffly to each side of her, and watched Transformers. She’d seen bits and pieces of it before; Walker and Brendan were addicted. This was the first time she’d sat down with the intention of watching beginning to end.
In her opinion, the movies were too violent for the boys at eight and ten, especially as traumatized as they were. But their mother had given them both the first two Transformers movies on DVD, and Lia couldn’t criticize Mom, even by implication. Not when she’d died only three days ago.
Besides, she could see the appeal of the movies to the boys. Chaos erupts, and regular, nerdy guy seizes control and ultimately triumphs. The fantasy must be huge for two boys who’d now lost both parents, who had no idea what would happen to them. For them, it was a fantasy worth clinging to.
The sound of a car engine outside made her frown. People didn’t drop in on her unexpectedly. Her farmhouse on ten acres was reached by a dead-end gravel road she shared with five other houses. Only one was past hers. There were new neighbors there, renters, Lia thought. She hadn’t tried to get to know them. She’d as soon keep her distance from all her neighbors, and was glad the men she’d seen coming and going weren’t friendly.
Or nosy.
This car, though, had definitely turned in her driveway. She touched each of the boys reassuringly and murmured, “I’d better go see who’s here.”
Walker turned his head enough to gaze blankly at her before looking back at the TV; Brendan kept staring as if she hadn’t spoken.
Lia left them in the living room and paused at the foot of the stairs, listening. Quiet. Arturo and Julia must still be asleep. Thirteen-year-old Sorrel was most likely lying on her bed listening to her iPod, or prowling the internet on Lia’s laptop. Maybe harmless, maybe not, but Lia couldn’t watch her 24/7. She could and would check later to see what websites Sorrel had visited.
Outside, a car door slammed. She opened the front door and had a freezing moment of panic. The dark sedan, shiny except for a thin coat of dust from her road, was clearly government issue, as was the man walking toward her, wearing a suit, white shirt and tie. If he was from Immigration, she was screwed. There was no time to hide Arturo and Julia.
He paused at the foot of the stairs. “Ms. Woods?”
“Yes.” She stepped onto the porch and drew the door mostly closed behind her. “What can I do for you?”
He was a large man, in his late forties or early fifties at a guess, with a receding hairline and the beginning of a paunch. “I’m with the United States Drug Enforcement Agency. I’d like to talk to you.”