Forgive Me(69)

A rush of warm wind swept into the back of the truck. First out was Bryce. He jumped to the street and headed to the target building, followed closely by a processional of armed guys all dressed in black, wearing ear protection of some sort. Not that there was any noise to block out—not yet, anyway. Everyone kept silent as they got into position at the front door.

Bryce set the barrel of Little Pig against the door lock. His pulse hammered as his blood heated up. Anyone who said they didn’t get nervous before a job like this, who didn’t feel a tickle of fear, was either a psychopath or a liar, and not welcome on Bryce’s team. The jump in his heart was something he had come to accept. He used it as a reminder to put his training into practice.

Bryce glanced behind him. Eleven to take down three, plus round up all the girls. Should be more than enough. Everyone looked ready to strike, so he pulled the trigger on Little Pig.

The bang echoed off into the distance as the lock shot inward at high velocity. Bryce holstered Little Pig, and used the steel toe of his boot to kick the door open. He rushed inside with his M-4 ready to spit fire. He covered the corner to his right and the nearby vicinity. His back was exposed to threats down the hallway, but he wasn’t concerned. Frank Dansby, the barrel-chested marshal who came in behind him, was responsible for that sector. Trust was everything.

Bryce moved only as fast he could accurately shoot. The stack stayed tight as his team of three headed for the basement door at the rear of the hallway. There were plenty of wrong ways to clear a building, and only one way to do it right. The right way usually kept people alive. As the lead man, it was Bryce’s job to provide security to the front. The number two and three men covered Bryce’s left and right sides respectively. A single doorway stood at the end of the hall, just as Nadine had described.

The adrenaline rush Bryce felt couldn’t fully compensate for his reduced dexterity. It seemed counterintuitive, but increased blood pressure and heart rate meant less blood flow to his extremities. His visual tracking deteriorated as his peripheral field narrowed, but he wasn’t alarmed. He noticed the changes to his body, had come to expect them. The best way to control fear was to have confidence in his ability. For that reason, he trained until his response to a threat situation became a reflex.

At the door to the basement, Bryce paused. Little Pig might have awoken Buggy.

Behind him, Bryce heard the sound of a mission in progress. The first floor apartment was being cleared. Banging on doors, lots of shouting, lots of screaming.

“Open up! Open up!”

Another bang.

The agents spoke in a clipped manner—“mission-ese,” Bryce called it.

“In!”

“Clear! Clear!”

“All secure!”

“On the ground, now!”

They’d found someone. The roundup was underway.

Bryce opened the basement door slowly. He kept to the strong side of the door. His numbers two and three were there to shoot anyone who might be behind it. Nobody was there. Light from a source below leaked up to illuminate a set of concrete stairs descending to a concrete landing. Stairwells were always a tactical disadvantage. Stairwells of concrete came with the added complexity of ricochet problems.

Bryce didn’t have any blindside reconnaissance devices, such as thermal imagery or infrared viewers. If Buggy were waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, it would be a situation of who shot first and best. In that event, Bryce liked his chances. At the gun range, few were better.

On the way down, he kept close to the right wall. Clearing from top to bottom played in his favor. He had smoke and flash grenades with him, but what went down also came up, and such diversions were best avoided. When he reached the landing, he took up position toward the center of the stairs and slightly forward. Buggy wasn’t waiting for them at the bottom either, but that didn’t mean he was still asleep.

The two follow-on team members quickly took up positions for rear security and cover. Bryce bounded down the stairs and stepped into a narrow hallway composed of particleboard.

The Baltimore fire marshals would have a field day with this place, he thought.

Overhead fluorescents lit the dank space and a pervasive moldy smell filled the air. A few of the ceiling mounted lights blinked to create a strobe effect down the hall.

Bryce motioned to a room directly in front of him. The two marshals at his back covered the sectors he couldn’t see.

He went through a silent count down using his fingers—three . . . two . . . one—then lifted the latch on the flimsy particleboard door. The black hinges didn’t make a sound when the door came open.

Bryce entered first. Based on Nadine’s description of the floor layout, he and his team had agreed to use the buttonhook method to clear each room.

As soon as he entered, Bryce swept a wide portion of the room’s right side with his M-4 and saw no threats. Frank Dansby moved across the door and cleared the hard corner by taking the opposite area of responsibility. The third man, a six-year vet of the Marshals service named Gary Graves, watched the hallway.

Even though Nadine had told Bryce what to expect, he still found the first room depressing as hell. Light from a flea market lamp resting on a ratty nightstand helped light the room. Next to the lamp was an ashtray full of butts. Nearby, a thin mattress topped a crappy rust-speckled metal bed frame. The wastebasket was full of used tissues and condom wrappers, and there were beer cans aplenty littering the floor. They cleared the room quickly and Bryce was the first back into the hallway.