Survivor In Death (In Death #20)(55)

“I'm aware of that. Did you copy your orders?”

“Yes, sir, but--”

“Dallas out.”

“Well, shit.” Preston's voice was perturbed now, and he didn't immediately end the transmission on his end. “Yo, Knight! Dallas collared the bastards. . . . How the hell do I know, she was her usual chatty self. Make me a damn sand--”

There was a blasting sound, a shout, then the sound of running feet.

“Voice simulator,” Roarke said from behind her. “There was a tinny quality to it, and the lack of inflection in your tone. I suspect, if he had another moment or two, he'd have considered that, and checked in with you.”

“One working the simulator, two coming in. Pull one of them up here with the 'link call, keep him occupied just long enough. Good surveillance equipment, maybe body heat sensors. Knew where they were. One up, one down. Took Knight before he could blink, but Preston got a stream off. They've homed in on him, though, so he's down before he can signal there's trouble.”

“If they had sensors, they'd have known there were only two people here. Both adults.”

She tagged the 'link for EDD. “Some of the safe houses have cold rooms, just to screw with that kind of surveillance. Subject under protection can be in the cold room. No point in not checking that out, once you've got the locations.”

She headed out, and down. Whitney came in the front as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Commander.”

“Lieutenant.” He nodded at Roarke, then crossed to the first body. He said nothing. Then, continuing to look at his fallen men, spoke in a voice dangerously soft. “They don't yet know the wrath. But they will. Report.”

She went through the steps, reporting, recording, collecting, and repressed the storm inside. She stood over Morris as he conducted his on-scene exam. “Stunned first. Midbody hit on both.”

“Preston would have been four or five steps down. He got off a stream,” Eve added. “Might've caught one of them. There's no sign of a hit on the walls, anywhere in the room. Crime Scene ran over it. No residue. No wasted shots here,” she noted. “Everyone who fired hit something they were aiming at.”

“My guess would be he crumbled more than fell. I'll know more when I get him in, but the bruising, the position of the body indicates he was thrust back by the stream, then folded, slid. His throat slit where he lay.”

“They had to lift Knight's head to cut him. Blasted back, plate and cup flying. Hits the floor and rolls facedown.”

She walked back to the front door. “Came in together, one high, one low. It's low guy who takes Knight, from the angle of the hit. High hits Preston. Moving fast, moving smooth.”

She simulated, weapon drawn, heading forward. “One takes Knight.” Blood cold, she moved straight to the body, lifted the head by the hair, mimed drawing a knife over the throat. “Left-handed this time. Versatile bastards. Had the stunners in the right, knives in the left.”

Morris said nothing, only watched.

“Second moves straight to Preston, bends down, slices. Combat grip, one quick stroke. Then he heads up, his partner takes the first floor. Place this size, they can confirm it's empty in under ninety seconds.”

“Have you walked it off already?”

“Yeah, I went through. They're in, they're out. Three minutes. The blood on the floor down here, going into the kitchen and into the toilet's going to be from Knight. Upstairs it's going to be Preston's. Coming off the knives, coming off the gear. The trail of it, the pattern, shows they were moving fast. See, look.”

She strode to the kitchen doorway, swung her weapon right, left. “See the blood there? Pause, sweep the room, move in.”

She looked back up the stairs. “Preston shouldn't have come down like that, exposed. Two seconds where he acts before he thinks--he's thinking about his partner instead of with cop instinct--and he's dead.”

She lowered her weapon, holstered it. “Fuck.”

“Truer words. I'll take care of them now, Dallas.” He didn't touch her--his hands were smeared with blood--but the look in his eyes was as steady as the clasp of a hand.

“We're going to bury them for this, Morris.”

“Yes. Yes, we are.”

She went outside. Most of the reporters who'd gathered had scattered after Whitney had given them a brief statement. Stories to file, she thought.

But she saw Nadine over with Roarke by her vehicle. Some of the anger, the cold hard tips of it, clawed through. She strode toward them, ready to rake the reporter bloody--and have a few swipes left over for her husband--when Nadine turned.

Her face was streaked with tears.

“I knew them,” she said before Eve could speak. “I knew them.”

“Okay.” The anger retracted, scraping those keen tips over her own gut on the way. “Okay.”

“Knight. . . We used to flirt. Nothing serious, nothing that either of us meant to go anywhere, but we did the dance.” Her voice broke. “Preston used to show off pictures of his kid. He's got a little boy.”

“I know. You ought to take some time off, Nadine. A couple of days.”

“After you get them.” She swiped her fingers over her cheeks. “I don't know why it's hit me this way. It's not the first time somebody I know . . .”