15th Affair (Women's Murder Club 15)

Chi and McNeil were in plain clothes, examining the produce in the corner market across from us, when a blue BMW SUV with a long gash on one side double-parked fifty yards up the block from the apartment house with the gray-painted door.

Brady flicked his eyes toward us.

Conklin and I got out of our car and crossed the street through traffic as Chi and McNeil walked up behind the two Asian men who were heading toward the apartment building.

I was too far from Chi to hear his voice, but I knew he was introducing himself, saying he had a few questions and he’d like to see identification.

The taller of the two men smoothly pulled a gun from his waistband and got off three shots while the other man opened the door to the building. Chi grabbed at his neck and went down.

McNeil dropped behind two cars at the curb and fired on both men, who disappeared through the doorway. SWAT swarmed out of their vehicles in full tactical gear— helmets, shields, armor, and M-16s. That was when automatic gunfire sprayed down on the street from the apartments above.

In the space of a few seconds, an everyday street market scene had turned upside down into panic and utter chaos. Pedestrians shrieked and ran for cover as Brady and McNeil dragged Chi out of harm’s way.

Conklin and I kept moving, throwing open the gray door, running toward the stairs. A trail of blood drops spattered the treads leading up.

I called Wang and told him to pick up Henry Yee, the waiter who lived in the top-floor apartment. Seconds later, SWAT entered the building. The ten of us thundered up the stairs.

CHAPTER 68

CONKLIN AND I were wearing Kevlar under our jackets and had our Glocks in hand. This wasn’t much protection, but I was so pumped on adrenaline, I didn’t care.

When the top-floor hallway was packed with the SWAT force, the commander gave me a nod. Conklin and I took positions on either side of the apartment door.

I knocked and announced, screaming, “Police! Drop your weapons and come out.”

There was no answer, no sound but the pounding of my heart. We stepped aside and SWAT battered the door open and tossed two stun grenades into the room before closing the door again.

A deafening concussion knocked plaster off the ceiling, and a dozen heartbeats later, SWAT stormed the premises. I heard shouts. Automatic rifles chattered in long bursts, and then there was the sound of heavy boots as our team walked the rooms, opened doors, shouted “Clear.”

When the commander said we could do so, Conklin and I entered the small apartment.

The bodies of four armed and very dangerous men were sprawled around the front room. The tac team had done the job they were trained to do. They’d done it by the book.

Bullet holes pocked the walls, and blood had spattered and sprayed and was pooling on the floor.

A half dozen automatic rifles lay on the floor under the windows, along with many open boxes of ammo. And something unusual was on the kitchen table. It was like a metal tube about five feet long, with a scope, a muzzle, a handgrip, and a butt end that was meant to brace against a shoulder.

I’d never seen one before, but I knew a portable missile launcher when I saw it. I was pretty sure it had a range of three miles and was used to take down aircraft.

Two thoughts slammed together in my mind. These men who had been after me since the day of the crash were arms

dealers.

Were they involved in what had happened to WW 888?

Counting casualties on the ground, 430 people had been killed in that crash. Had these men taken part in that unspeakable horror?

I turned back to the array of dead men lying shot to pieces in this shabby room. I walked from one to the other, getting an angle on their faces, looking for the one who had made me his personal target, the one who’d leveled his gun at my head last night.

And then I saw him at the far end of the room near the bedroom doorway. After he’d been shot, he’d slid down the wall into a sitting position on the floor and had left a long, wide smear of blood behind him. His head and shirt were entirely bloodied, and his arm and shoulder had taken bullets in several places.

I moved closer. By God, I wanted to be sure.

The man’s closed eyes were widely spaced and there was a thin scar across his chin.

This was the son of a bitch who’d tried to kill me.

I wanted him dead. But I wanted to talk to him even more. I leaned down and grabbed his shot-up arm, hoping he would scream, hoping he was faking it. I got nothing. No scream, no taunts, no answered questions.