Killer Instinct (Instinct #2)(15)

This was truly the Swiss Army knife of drones.

“Well?” asked Pritchard, arms crossed, standing behind the men at the console.

One of them turned to him, a baby face with a perfect left part in his hair. He reminded Elizabeth of a guy in her high school chemistry class who always had raised his hand when the teacher asked a question.

“Double-checking p and z,” he said, tapping away feverishly on a keyboard. He was accessing the planning and zoning files for the city. “Yeah, no basement and no attic. There’s a boiler room with heating and cooling off the kitchen.” He looked up at Pritchard, nodding confidently. “Looks like no one’s home, sir.”

Pritchard turned to Munez, standing next to him, who immediately took his cue. “Okay, we pulse the house first for IEDs. Four men on the perimeter, one to a side. Williamson, Foltz, Hernandez, and Meyer, that’s you.”

The four guys stood in unison. They sounded like a law firm but looked like linebackers. Each got handed an electromagnetic-pulse gun—not exactly standard-issue equipment—and out the side door they went.

Within minutes they were back. All clear, they reported.

It was Pritchard’s call now. Munez turned to him, followed by everyone else. Elizabeth included.

Pritchard shrugged. “Let’s go stretch our legs,” he said.





CHAPTER 19


SAY NO more. Everyone on the truck knew exactly what that meant. Roll out!

Endless training, tactical drills, event scenarios, simulation exercises, and actual combat experience all kicked in at once as the truck emptied with perfect choreographed precision. It didn’t matter how many drones or how much technology was telling them that no one was inside that house. Being human would forever have one major advantage over any machine.

The ability to doubt.

“What the hell are you doing, Needham?”

“What do you mean?” Elizabeth asked.

Pritchard was eyeing her like he would a dog chasing its tail. The look was worse than that, really. At least the dog would’ve been moving. Elizabeth was just sitting there, unsure of her role.

“Are you waiting for a personal invitation? Grab a vest, and let’s go,” he said.

Elizabeth quickly strapped on some body armor and followed Pritchard out of the truck and past the outer circle of SWAT officers with their backs to the house, guarding the perimeter. She practically had to jog to keep up as Pritchard then marched through the inner circle, who were covering every angle of the house itself, front and back, while providing cover for the two-by-two configuration led by the team leader. Munez’s group was gathered by the front door.

Surely it would be somebody—anybody—else besides Pritchard who would be first in, thought Elizabeth as she drew her gun. Her fingers tingled a bit as they always did when holding her Glock.

She stared at Pritchard. She was wrong. He continued straight past the team leader and started knocking, no hesitation. It was badass. He didn’t even position himself along the side of the door to shield his body.

“Who’s got the Push Pop?” he asked, after knocking a second time with no answer.

From behind Elizabeth stepped another officer holding what, sure enough, looked like a Push Pop straight from a candy store. The flavor? Green goo.

The officer lined up the device directly over the lock on the door, pushing the goo from a tube into the keyhole. Within seconds, the goo had hardened enough to mimic the key without sticking to the cylinder. Voilà. The door was unlocked. No muss, no fuss.

No trace.

The world’s fastest issued FISA warrant was now in play.

The outer and inner circles around the house held their marks as Pritchard drew his old-school SIG Sauer P228 and pushed open the door.

Waiting a few Mississippis before entering was Pritchard’s last nod to the outside chance that anyone was inside. On the count of three, he strolled in as if he owned the place.

“Your turn, Munez,” he said.

Right behind him, the SWAT team leader instructed his four officers to go room by room—one pair starting upstairs, the other on the first floor. They were all back in the living room within a minute. Small house.

Dirty as hell, too. Leftover takeout food was littered everywhere. Elizabeth didn’t know which putrid odor to gag on first when she’d walked in. A half-eaten falafel by the fireplace was swarming with ants.

What was nowhere to be seen, though—in addition to the suspect—was any suggestion that the house had been used to make bombs. In that sense, it was as clean as a whistle.

“Well?” asked Munez, flanked by four team members.

“Get me a twenty-yard radius on the guy’s phone,” said Pritchard.

Munez reached for his radio, making the request. Within seconds came a ping from the one and only place to sit down in the living room, a faded brown couch with large tears in two of its cushions. Lodged between them and barely visible was the cell phone that had led them to the house.

“That explains his not being here,” said Pritchard, pulling a sleeve over his hand to pick up the phone without adding his fingerprints. He sat down on the couch.

“What now?” asked Munez.

“We wait back in the truck,” said Pritchard. “At least for an hour or so. If he doesn’t show, we’ll set up surveillance and call it a—”