“Alex, you’ll be with Batra and Rawlins in a follow car, where you will remain until the clear is given,” Mahoney said.
Before I could protest, Bree said, “Be practical, Alex. With your ankle like that, you won’t be much help if things go south.”
“It’s not that bad, really,” I said. “I’m not even on crutches. But I hear you.”
“We’ll give you a radio,” Mahoney said. “For once you’ll have to just listen to the action.”
CHAPTER
103
AS I LIMPED into the bac
kseat of Agent Batra’s black Chevy Tahoe, I had to admit I was feeling guilty for wanting to be part of the raiding party and hostage-rescue attempt.
The evening before, I’d been telling Bree that I wanted to get out of police work, away from dangerous moments like these when the adrenaline starts to drip and your senses get super-sharp and super-clear.
But as I shut the door and Batra started the engine, I knew a part of me could never leave the police game. Not entirely. Being a psychologist had its own deep and fruitful rewards, but it could never replace the rush of catching bad guys, ending their dark work, and seeing them get just punishment.
“Let’s roll,” Mahoney said.
I heard his voice over the radio and the light headset they’d given me.
“Isn’t this exciting, Dr. Cross?” Krazy Kat Rawlins said, looking over the front seat at me as Batra put on her headlights and followed Mahoney’s Tahoe onto a rural route heading east.
“The trick is not to get too excited,” I said. “You have to keep your head.”
“Oh, of course,” he said, slightly crestfallen. “I guess I’m just looking forward to seeing Nash Edgars in handcuffs and telling him that I beat him. Do you ever feel that way?”
“From time to time, sure,” I said.
“Right now?”
“Right now, I look forward to seeing those women safe and sound.”
Over my headset, Mahoney said, “Half a mile out. HRT, you are go. Breaching team, you are go.”
The acknowledgments came back fast, and in my mind I was seeing the rescue team flipping on their thermal-imaging goggles, surging into the woods, and angling through the forest toward the shed and four of the missing women.
We came over a rise in the road and saw a huge, black, six-wheel-drive armored FBI truck roll to the gate. I expected the guards to immediately stand down, but instead there were flashes from behind the gate and reports of gunfire over the radio.
“Take it down,” Mahoney said.
The big armored rig backed up and then sped at the steel gate and blew it off its hinges. Agents inside the truck fired from portholes at the guards, who’d retreated up the hill into the trees toward the compound. Mahoney followed the armored truck, driving across the downed gate, with us trailing.
“HRT?” Mahoney said.
“Two hundred yards out, SAC,” came the reply. “No visuals on the shed yet, but you have lights going on up the hill.”
The breaching rig sped up on that news, disappeared around a curve in the long serpentine driveway. By the time we reached the edge of the compound, spotlights were blazing on the courtyard between the main house, the carriage house, and the barn.
Ten FBI agents in full SWAT gear poured out of the armored vehicle, divided into teams of two, and fanned out toward the mansion, a modern building made of stone, redwood, and glass.
The doors of the carriage house at the far side of the yard were up. The interior wasn’t lit, but there was enough light from the exterior spotlights to reveal a white Range Rover and a black pickup truck in the first two bays and several ATVs and dirt bikes in the third.
Black pickup truck, I thought. Bet it has a window with a bullet hole or two in it.
In front of us, Mahoney got out of the Tahoe. Caught in Batra’s headlights, he blinked, held up a hand, and signaled for her to shut them off. Bree and Sampson got out. The radio chatter from the raiding team and the HRT forces started coming nonstop. I got whining feedback in my headset for a moment.