Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(95)

The mission leader checked with his charges. Everyone was in position.

He fisted his hand and rapped on the walnut door. Knock and notice, an “844” in the penal code. Warrant in hand, they didn’t need to be nice about it—just efficient. “San Diego Police with a search warrant demanding entry!”

Another officer tossed two flash bangs away from the team, below the side living room windows. They exploded and lit up the area. The intent was shock and awe—to let the occupants get the sense they were overpowered before they could figure out what was playing out on their front lawn.

Normally SWAT would’ve driven the Bearcat up to the door and used the ram device built into the bumper. But because of the stone wall and uneven terrain of the front yard, they were forced to use a compact battering ram. The mission leader waited a beat, then motioned to the breach specialist, who moved into position, then swung back the weighted device.

Austin Mann’s scream came a second too late, as the officer had already brought the heavy cylinder forward, arcing through the air and smashing into the wood door.

Mann’s “Stop!” was followed a split second later by the concussive force of a thunderous blast. Windows blew out, wood splintered, and bodies flew backward.

Vail charged forward. “Shit!”

DeSantos and Dixon followed, assisting Vail by grabbing the arms of the fallen SWAT officers and dragging them out behind the Bearcat.

“What the hell happened?” Dixon asked.

“They’re alive,” Vail said, checking pulses.

“Officers down,” Turino shouted, the two-way pressed against his ear. “Medics up!” He looked back toward the house. “Goddamn son of a bitch.”

Two Special Trauma and Rescue personnel, kits in hand, hurtled the low wall and immediately began attending to the downed men.

Mann stood there staring at the gaping hole. “I saw it right before they blasted the door open.”

“Saw what?” DeSantos asked.

“Countersurveillance camera.” He threw out a hand, motioning toward the trees. “I thought, could just be good security. But then I turned back to the door. And I saw it, the trip wire. Hard to see from the breacher’s angle, but from where I was, it caught my eye. And in that split second, I thought, shit, the door might be rigged, too. Soon as he busted it open—”

“Sometimes that’s the way shit goes down,” DeSantos said. “Beating yourself up won’t help.”

Mann kicked at a tuft of grass that had been dislodged by their trampling on the lawn. It went flying toward the carnage strewn across the front of the house. “I’m the ATF agent here. Should’ve been first thing on my mind.”

Dixon jutted her chin out, indicating the geared-up men. “Why don’t you get over there, see if they need your help checking the remaining avenues of entry. We still need to get in there.”

Mann grumbled but took her advice, and he started off in their direction.

The thick scent of charred wood mixed with a heavy, gritty sulfur haze made breathing a chore.

Vail brought her elbow up to her mouth and suppressed a cough. Just what I need.

“How are they?” Turino asked.

“Unconscious,” Dixon said, “but alive. As to head trauma, no idea.”

Turino clenched his jaw. “When we catch Cortez, I’m going to take a lot of pleasure in hooking him up.”

Vail started toward the house. “I’m going in.”

DeSantos took two long strides and caught up with her, grabbed her arm. “Hang on, there. Let them clear the place, then we’ll go in. A little extra time isn’t going to matter.”

Vail wrested her arm free. “Every minute we delay could be one minute too long. We’ve no idea what’s happening to Robby. If he’s still alive, they could be pulling the trigger right now.” She looked hard into his gaze. “Or now.” She turned and continued toward the house.

“Jesus Christ, Karen. I’m a cowboy, willing to take all sorts of risks when I’m on a mission. But you’re—you’re just doing dumb things.”

“Really?” she asked, not slowing her stride. “Goddamn it, Hector. What’s wrong with you? If Robby was your partner, you wouldn’t be so cautious and goddamn slow and—and apathetic. Wake the fuck up!”



DESANTOS STOPPED. Vail’s comment was like an ice pick in the eye. A few years ago, his partner, Brian Archer, had been killed during an op they were running on domestic soil. The pain was unrelenting, the thirst for payback as ravenous as parched desert soil awaiting rainfall.

DeSantos bit down hard on his bottom lip. He had not been as emotionally invested in Hernandez’s kidnapping as Vail had been. Not in the same ballpark, the same state. Hell, not even in the same country. He realized now he had largely been going through the motions, treating this as a mission without consequence. A debt to be repaid, nothing more.

Vail’s call to order had done more than she could have envisioned. A comment made in anger roused his memories and rekindled the pilot light that had blown out long ago.

Since Brian’s death, he had been sleepwalking through life. His wife, Maggie, had tried telling him numerous times that his life had lost purpose. Lost passion. But he wasn’t in a position to listen. To hear her. As her pleas morphed into complaints that he was no longer attentive to her needs, he edged further away. His emotions had calloused over like a farmer’s well-worn hands. And it was on the verge of destroying his marriage.