Nemesis (FBI Thriller 19)

They met no one on the stairs or hallways, heard nothing from the condos they passed, everyone was at work. Still, they walked as quietly as possible when they neared the door. Savich pressed his Glock to his side, smiled into the peephole, and knocked on the door. “Pizza delivery.”

A deep voice with a light Arabic accent mixed with pure Brooklyn called out, “You have the wrong address. I did not order pizza. Go away.”

Savich nodded to Ruth and Ollie, stepped back, and sent his foot into the doorknob. The door flew open as Ruth yelled, “FBI, don’t you move!”

They saw a dark-skinned man dive for cover behind the sofa in the living room to their right. He fired three quick shots toward the door, but they’d pulled back behind the wall in the doorway entrance. They heard movement down the apartment hallway in front of them. Someone else was there.

Savich called out, “Both of you, including you in the bedroom, come out now. There’s no way out of here. You’re surrounded.”

They heard a window open and the metallic clang of someone jumping onto the fire escape.

Ollie said into his comm, “Dane, a perp is headed your way down the fire escape.”

The man in the living room poked his head out again around the other end of the sofa and emptied his magazine in their direction. They heard him slam in another magazine. That was too bad, no choice. Savich nodded to Ollie, who pulled a flashbang from his jacket, pulled the pin, and tossed it into the living room. The three of them pulled back into the hallway and pressed their palms over their ears against the shattering blast to come. The explosion of sound and light was horrific in the small space.

They heard the man wheezing and coughing. He rolled on the floor, his hands covering his face, his gun on the floor beside him, forgotten.

Ruth ran into the living room, flipped him onto his stomach, and cuffed him.

He was gasping, tears streaming from his eyes. “I’m dying, I’m dying.”

Ruth swatted his head. “No, you’re not. It was only a flashbang, no shrapnel, so stop your whining.” She dragged him to his feet and shoved him onto a chair. As Savich and Ollie checked the back of the condo, she PlastiCuffed him to the chair. He was still wheezing, tears running down his face. She imagined he hadn’t heard a word she’d said, his ears still ringing from the flashbang. She walked to the living room window and saw Dane hauling a man out front toward Griffin. He was very young, not much older than her stepson Rafe. She turned back and stared down at the man in the chair. He had something of the look of the young man downstairs, wide-set eyes, a strong chin, hair black as ink. “You want to give me your name?”

He tried to spit at her.

“That was rude,” Ruth said. She gave him a wide berth and came up behind him, stuck her hand into his back pocket. She pulled out his alligator-grain wallet.

Savich and Ollie searched the condo together, a room at a time. The first bedroom had a king-size bed and clothes strewn around on the floor. It looked like both men had slept in there. The bathroom was a jumble of dirty towels and smelled of toothpaste and musty aftershave lotion. The second bedroom was neat as a pin, except for the open window that gave onto the fire escape.

Was this bedroom waiting for Basara? While Ollie checked the fire escape, Savich opened the closet door and found a stash of handguns, six of them, all of them Glocks. He knelt down and picked up several packets of what looked to be C-4, the same explosive that had blown the TGV off the tracks and that they’d used at St. Patrick’s and St. Paul’s. He stilled, felt rage surge. So you bastards were going to bomb us? Our house?

He and Ollie met Dane coming through the front door with the young man he’d jerked from the fire escape, cursing nonstop. Savich pointed to the sofa. “Ollie, cuff him. Dane, those shots and the flashbang are going to pull police and fire here any minute. Call nine-one-one, cancel the calls. Tell D.C. Metro to keep their squad cars well away from here. Find the manager, have him help you clear the street of any onlookers. Basara could be close now.”

Savich looked at the freshly shaved young man and smelled the same aftershave lotion in the bathroom. He was still cursing softly, repeating himself now. Savich stepped up to him and said, “Shut your mouth.”

The young man was so startled, he shut his mouth, looked up at Savich. “What are you going to do, hit me? American policemen can’t do that.”

Savich said, “I can do anything I want to you. What’s your name?”

The young man shut his mouth.

“Let’s see what your dad has to say about bringing his son into this.”