3rd Degree (Women's Murder Club 3)

Cindy got on the phone to Lindsay. “I know where they are! I have an address.”

Part Five

Chapter 96

THE LARGEST ASSAULT TEAM in the city’s history was building up around the run-down white house at 722 Seventh Street in Berkeley. San Francisco SWAT details, Berkeley and Oakland contingents, federal agents from the FBI and the DHS.

The area was completely blocked off from traffic. Neighboring houses were quietly cleared one by one. The Bomb Squad was readied. EMS vans were pulled into place.

A gray Chevy van had pulled into the driveway twenty minutes earlier. Somebody was home.

I was able to station myself close to Molinari, who was in phone contact with Washington. A Special Operations captain, Joe Szerbiak, was in charge of the assault team.

“Here’s what we do,” Molinari said, kneeling behind the barricade of a black patrol car maybe thirty yards away from the house. “We make one call. Give them a chance to surrender. If they don’t”—he nodded to Szerbiak—“it’s yours.”

The plan was to shoot in tear gas canisters and force whoever was in the house out. If they came out cool, meaning voluntarily, we would force them to the ground, pick them up.

“And if they come out hot?” Joe Szerbiak asked, putting on his bulletproof vest.

Molinari shrugged. “If they come out shooting, we have to take them down.”

The wild card in the siege was the explosives. We knew they had bombs. What had taken place at the Rincon Center two days before was in the front of everybody’s mind.

The assault team was readied. Several marksmen were in place. The team that was going in assembled inside an armored van, ready to swing into place. Cindy Thomas was with us. A girl inside seemed to trust her. Michelle. Who might be Wendy Raymore, the au pair.

I was nervous and agitated. I wanted this over. No more bloodshed, just over.

“You think they know we’re out here?” Tracchio surveyed the house from behind the hood of a radio car.

“If they don’t,” Molinari said, “they’re about to.” He looked at Szerbiak. “Captain,” he said with a nod, “you can make that call.”

Chapter 97

INSIDE 722 SEVENTH STREET, everyone and everything was going crazy.

Robert, the vet, had grabbed an automatic rifle and was crouched below one of the front windows, sizing up the scene outside. “There’s an army out there! Cops everywhere I look!”

Julia was screaming and acting like a crazy woman. “I told you to get out of my house! I told you to get out!” She looked toward Mal. “What are we going to do now? What are we going to do?”

Mal seemed calm. He went over to the window, peeked through the curtains. Then he headed into the other room and came back wheeling a black case. “Probably die,” he answered.

Michelle’s heart seemed to be beating a thousand beats per second. Any moment, armed, uniformed men could burst in. Part of her was gripped with fear, part was ashamed. She knew she had let down her friends. Ended everything they had fought for. But she had helped murder women and children, and now maybe she could stop the killing.

Suddenly the phone rang. For a second everyone turned, eyes fixed on the phone. The rings were like alarm bells going off.

“Pick it up,” Robert said to Mal. “You want to be the leader. Pick it up.”

Mal walked over. Four, five rings. Finally he lifted the phone.

He listened for a second. His face didn’t register fear or surprise. He even told them his name. “Stephen Hardaway,” he said proudly.

Then he listened for a long time. “I hear you,” he answered. He put down the receiver, swallowed, and looked around. “They say we have this one chance. Anyone who wants to leave, you’d better go now.”

The room was deathly quiet. Robert at the window. Julia, her back pressed up against the wall. Mal, finally seeming shocked and out of answers. Michelle wanted to cry that she had brought this upon them.

“Well, they ain’t putting their hands on me,” Robert said. He picked up his automatic rifle, his back to the kitchen door, eyeing the van parked in the driveway.

He winked, a sort of silent farewell. T