Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(96)

“What kind of bullshit is this? You never report that—and you never feed the media during an op.”

“You’re not just the media, are you? Go with it, go now. I can promise you, it’ll be worth it. Every level worth it. Go with it, Nadine.”

“I’ll go with it, damn it. You’re going to owe me.”

“I’ve already got the payment ready. Later.”

Eve engaged her comp screen. “It shouldn’t take her long.”

In fact, it took just under two minutes before Channel Seventy-Five’s feed went to their hot blue and jittery red Breaking News flash.

The on-air reporter announced an important development in the hunt for the suspect in the Madison Square attack, and threw it to Nadine, whose voice came over with a photo of her in the corner of the screen.

“This is Nadine Furst reporting by remote as even now police officers and SWAT units converge—”

Eve cut off the screen, shoved open her door the instant she saw the heat source move from recline to stand.

“We got her attention. Gear up.” She tossed Roarke a helmet.

“Now, really, Eve.”

“Wear it or stay here.” She pulled out her own, shook her head at it. “Hate these. They’re heavy and they echo.”

“What I said!”

“I never said you were wrong. First, we get in—that’s on you,” she said to Roarke. “I take the front stairs. Peabody, you go through, go up the back stairs. If she’s wearing body armor, aim for the head. Nobody sits around watching screen in one of these damn helmets. Make damn sure your stunner’s on mid-range. We aren’t giving her any love taps, but I don’t want to risk paralysis. She doesn’t go down, you amp it up. Roarke, I need you to hang back, second level, in case she gets by us. She gets by us, you take her out.”

“Backup?” Peabody asked.

“By the time we’re in position, by the time we get in, they’ll be here. Where is she?” Eve asked Roarke.

“Sitting, very likely on the floor of the room—third floor, front of the house, far side.”

“Watching the screen. Keep it going, Nadine. Sixty-five feet. Let’s cover it.”

They moved fast, eating up the ground on a cold, clear day, with Roarke keeping track on the portable.

Not a lot of tourists on this more residential street, Eve noted. And most natives barely spared a glance at three people half jogging down the sidewalk wearing visored helmets.

But even jaded New Yorkers would gather and point at a SWAT unit. The goal? Get in before the op drew any sort of attention. Before Willow Mackie realized her location was blown.

They reached the door, crouched down together.

“Peabody, take the portable. She moves, we know it. She’d need to be at the window, angled and looking down this way to spot us. Roarke, do your thing.”

“Scanning security first.”

“Reineke, status.”

“Barricades going up. We’ll come on foot from here.”

“You and Jenkinson take the back of the building. Hold there until I tell you, then come in hard. Lowenbaum.”

“Copy.”

“Target is third floor, southeast window. She’s on the floor, watching screen, so if you’re going to move your men, do it now, do it fast.”

“We’ve got her. Feeney’s located her. We’re moving. I’ll have men on rooftops, facing buildings. Sending another team with yours to the rear. She’s pinned, Dallas.”

“Pinned isn’t done. We’re working on silent entry.”

“She’s a clever girl,” Roarke said. “She’s jury-rigged a secondary alarm. I expect it signals her ’link. It’s clever, but relatively basic. Just another moment.”

To give her time, to give her a heads-up, Eve thought, when the family came home.

She glanced around, scanned, caught a flash of movement on the roof of the building directly across the street.

“Peabody?”

“She hasn’t budged.”

“Roarke?”

“Alarms down. I’m on the locks. And they’re popped.”

“All teams, all teams, we’re going in. Peabody, rear steps; Dallas, front; Roarke front to station on second level. We’re on the move.”

She reached for the door handle. “Leave the portable, Peabody. Straight back. Straight up.”

As she eased open the door, she drew her weapon.

Technology aside, she swept the foyer, straightened slowly. “We’re in,” she murmured for the recorder, and signaled Peabody to go.

With Roarke, Eve started up the stairs, said nothing when he held a weapon very similar to her own.

“Feeney?”

“Got you, kid. Got Roarke, got Peabody. Target’s in the same position.”

“Heading up to her now.”

She gestured to Roarke: Stay here. “Baxter, Trueheart, Santiago, Carmichael, move in the front, fan out inside.”

She started up the next flight, ears cocked. Halfway up she heard the murmur of voices, identified Nadine’s.

She made it up two more before she heard the distinctive creak from the back stairs. She didn’t need Feeney’s warning in her ear that Willow heard it, too. She caught the sound—the scramble of feet, started up in a run.