Orchid Beach (Holly Barker 1)

“All right, all right,” Jackson said.

Holly stood at the kitchen door and peeked inside. A dozen cooks and dishwashers were working like beavers inside. She held her radio to her ear.

“Team four,” Harry said. “Take the kitchen, but go no farther. Confirm your objective.”

“Let’s go,” Holly said. She and her team ran into the kitchen, weapons up. Nobody said a word. The cooks and their helpers stood like statues. Suddenly a door swung open, and a uniformed waiter strode in, sweating, carrying a tray of dirty plates.

Holly swung her pistol toward him. “Freeze! Armed man!” she said. An agent stepped forward and yanked the man’s gun from under his arm. “Everybody lie down on the floor,” she commanded, “and maybe you won’t get shot.” She pointed at the door to the dining room. “You two men, over there. Take anybody who comes in.” She raised her radio to her ear and listened. Other teams were reporting that they were in position.

Harry Crisp’s voice rang out. “All teams! Go, Go, Go!”

“Daisy!” Holly yelled, pointing around the room. “Guard!” She looked at the men on the floor. “Anybody moves, the dog will kill him!” She turned to the rest of her team. “All right, let’s go!” As one man, they rushed the dining room door, Holly out front.

A wave of incredibly loud music struck them as they burst into the large room. Holly ran for the bandstand, knocking a guitarist out of the way, and grabbed the microphone. The music trailed off. She could see men in black pouring into the room through every door. “Everybody stand still! Nobody move! Police and FBI! You are all under arrest.” She gazed out over the elegantly dressed, completely astonished crowd, the men in tuxedoes, the women in long, glittering dresses. Then all hell broke loose.

Everybody ran in all directions, trying to get out of the building. Tables were knocked over; people fought with FBI agents; waiters pulled guns; agents shot waiters.

Harry Crisp burst through the main dining room door, appalled at what he saw. “You!” he said to a man standing beside him holding a Mac 10 machine gun. “Take the suppressor off that thing.”

The man did as he was told.

“Now fire a clip into the ceiling!”

The man pointed the weapon up and pulled the trigger. Forty-five-caliber rounds sprayed the ceiling, and the noise was incredible in the enclosed room. Ceiling tiles and glass fell onto the panicked crowd.

Holly yelled into the microphone again. “On the floor! Everybody lie down on the floor!” This time it worked. People—men and women alike—dropped like slain cattle, shielding their heads from falling debris. Only FBI men were left standing.

Hurd Wallace stepped up onto the stage beside Holly. “I guess we’ve got them all,” he said.

“Do you see Barney Noble?” she asked.

“No, and I’ve been looking for him.”

“Then we haven’t got them.”

Harry Crisp stepped up onto the stage and grabbed the microphone from Holly, but she cupped her hand over it.

“Harry, Barney isn’t here; I’m taking my team and going to his house.”

“Go,” Harry said, then he addressed his supine audience. “I am Special Agent Harry Crisp of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You are all under arrest. You will form a line at the rear of the room and give your names and your passports to the agents who ask for them. Do it now!!!” he yelled.

An agent ran up to the stage. “Holly, your dog won’t let us into the kitchen.”

Holly ran for the kitchen.

Holly and her team were back in the van. “Take your next right,” she said, consulting her map. “It’s the first house on the left. Switch off your lights now, and don’t turn into the driveway.”

The driver did as he was told. The van glided to a halt on the street, a few yards from the driveway.

Holly looked at the house. It was handsomely designed, but not large; no lights were burning. “Everybody out of the van, but don’t slam any doors,” she said. “I think Barney might still be asleep, and I don’t want to wake him until we’re ready.” She led the group up the driveway. Near the front door she stopped them. “There may be an easy way to do this,” she said, taking off her helmet and body armor and slipping out of the FBI jumpsuit.

“What the hell are you doing?” an agent asked.

“I’m going to ring the doorbell,” she said. “If Barney’s in bed, he’ll come down to answer it, and a familiar face will be standing outside.” She took off her gun belt and dropped it, then, with the Beretta in her hand, she went up the front walk, gesturing to the others to take positions out of sight. She looked through a glass side panel into the house, but the interior was dark. She rang the doorbell and stood, the pistol behind her, and waited for Barney Noble to walk into her hands.

Ham walked around the com center, looking into offices. “We got it clean,” he said to his men. “Let’s check out downstairs.” He ran down the steps, went to the end of the corridor and turned the corner. Before him sat the large steel door with its security features. “I wonder what’s behind that,” he said.

“Whatever it is,” an agent replied, “it’s what we came for. I hope to Christ it’s illegal.”