Faithless in Death (In Death, #52)(105)

In the garage, it surprised Eve to see Mira in the same cat-burglar black. “You’re not going in until—”

“No, of course not. But it would be foolish to wear a suit and heels at such a time.”

“You’re with the commander, the chief, Reo. Everyone else, into your assigned vehicles.”

She got into her own, settled on one of the drop seats. Ignoring the chatter, she went over every step again on the drive to Connecticut.

She tapped her earbud. “Inspector Abernathy, we’re at target.”

“We’re ready here.”

“Special Agent Clyburn?”

“On your go” came the response.

“Breach teams, move into position.”

She got out, studied the wall. “No lights on in the gatehouse. Roarke and I secure that first.” She gave him a nod.

He did what he did with his device while she ticked the seconds off in her head.

“This point’s clear.”

To her astonishment, he scaled the wall like a damn lizard, then reached down a hand for her. “Up you come, Lieutenant.”

She took his hand, and the boost from one of the backup team.

Roarke leaped down, agile and quiet as a cat. She dropped beside him. Sidestepping to the gatehouse, she waited for him to deal with the locks. Weapons drawn, they slipped inside.

In the dim backwash of the security lights she saw equipment, screens, a table, and some chairs.

Clearing back, she scanned a small bathroom, a refreshment center.

“It’s clear. We move on.”

“Thirty seconds more.”

“Breach teams, first go. We’ll be fifteen feet ahead.”

Slow and steady, she thought as they moved through the dark, stayed in the shadows, thirty feet, then forty-five.

Roarke took a moment in the next timed gap, shut off their recorders.

“What the—”

“I have to say it. My Christ, what a pair we’d have been.”

The absolute delight in his voice tickled her soft spots.

“You move like smoke, smoke with nerves of steel and unshakable focus. We’d have romped the globe, you and I, plucking every precious thing we wanted. What a pity we didn’t meet in some lovely alternate world where you weren’t a cop.”

Though amused, she gave him a dour stare. “I’m a cop in all of them.”

“You’re likely right. And still.” He sighed, reengaged their recorders. “And there’s the mark. Moving on.”

Sixty feet, seventy-five, ninety.

“Not a sign—not from any team—of guards.”

“They trust the system.” Roarke shrugged. “As really, under other circumstances, they should.”

By the time they’d crossed more than a football field with their backup team behind them, Eve had the main house in view. “Lights off there, too. Off in every building so far.”

“It’s past one in the morning now, heading toward two. You were right to wait until midnight to start this.”

“We’ve got teams that have reached their targets, others approaching same. Takedown teams, move in. Move into target, and hold.”

When they reached the second gate, Roarke shut down the system, eased it open enough for them to slide through single file.

She could smell buoyant spring on the air from the flowers, and thought of the woman and the two girls working. We’re coming, she thought as she had with Ella. Nearly there.

When they reached the veranda, she realized the humming in her head wasn’t a brewing headache, but anticipation. Like an engine idling fast for a race.

In the silence Roarke worked on the locks. She used hand signals to order the teams behind her to hold.

And used them again to signal she and Roarke entered first—to hold.

He eased both doors open, barely a whisper of sound.

Nothing moved in the grand, wide entranceway.

Ahead stairs curved up, then split into a double staircase.

“We’re in the main target.” She kept her voice low as she moved forward. “Feeney, shut it down. Abernathy, you’re a go. Special Agents, you’re a go. Bust teams, go, go. All teams go. We’re full green.”

Air support flooded the compound with light.

She took the stairs two at a time while teams cleared the main level. At the break, Roarke split off with his team, she with hers.

He to Wilkey, she to the daughter.

She wanted the daughter.

Down the hallway she signaled cops to the left or right to clear other rooms, to take occupants into custody.

When she reached what she believed was Mirium’s door, she found it locked.

“Oh yeah, this is yours, you bitch.” She considered picking the lock. Then, as the first sounds—not alarms, but shouting—came from outside, she stepped back. Getting a running start, she kicked it open.

Lights flashed on in the room beyond a plush little sitting area. When Eve charged in, Mirium was out of bed and reaching into a drawer of her nightstand.

“Pull a weapon out, and I drop you. Please, pull a weapon out.”

“What are you doing? Are you out of your mind?”

Eve recognized the red nightshirt as silk when she spun Mirium around to cuff her.

“Get your hands off me! Get out of my house!”