Wednesday, August 3^rd

Trent awoke and lay still for a few minutes. He felt no pain. Nothing unusual. He didn’t remember having any hallucinations but then he probably would have no memory if one had occurred. He thought it would be a symptom-free day. He was grateful.

He had managed to sleep for three hours before leaving to meet Christopher and his team at SFPD headquarters. Christopher was already in the conference room when Trent arrived at five o’clock. Other members of the team were there as well, preparing to execute their plan.

Trent tossed the truck keys to Christopher. The cop caught them and reluctantly returned the keys to the Bentley in return.

“I don’t know what you did last night and don’t want to know,” Christopher said. “But I wouldn’t mind driving that car for a few days more.”

Trent laughed. “Maybe we can work something out. By the way, I left a little present under the seat.” The “present” consisted of one of the H&Ks and one of the semiautomatic handguns. Their twins were safely stowed in Trent’s duffel in his closet.

“No one was killed,” Trent said in reply to the question he could see in Christopher’s eyes. “Four of Rossi’s security team won’t be working for a while but they’re alive.”

The SFPD and FBI teams were assembled and ready. Over in Richmond Nancy’s team was also ready. At 5:30 Christopher gave the order to go.

In a luxury apartment on the top floor of a building on Ellis Street in Little Saigon, one of very few homes in this part of the city that could be so described, Kiettisuk Jetjirawat was sitting down to breakfast. He sighed happily as he gazed at his favorite morning meal, khao neow moo ping. The grilled pork skewers were seasoned with cilantro root, garlic, and white pepper, among other things. It was accompanied, of course, with sticky rice. An excellent way, Kiettisuk thought, to begin the day.

He was not in the least concerned with his personal safety. He owned the building, though that would be hard to prove unless someone managed to weave a path through the various corporations between him personally and the title to the apartment building.

He had armed his personal security guards with Springfield M1A SOCOM-16 rifles. He had personally selected the weapon for his men. The relatively small, semiautomatic rifle packed a very powerful punch. No other rifle had ever been able to put that much power into such a lightweight weapon.

He took the first bite of the pork, perfectly prepared as always. He was feeling much younger than his 67 years. He was thinking about the new shipment of girls that had been delivered to his hotel over on Eddy Street. One in particular had caught his eye. She looked to be perhaps 15 years old. Well developed for her age. Beautiful, long dark hair. He would have her sent over tonight.

As he took the first bite of pork, there was a sound from the street. Much like two cars smashing into each other. Or one vehicle crashing into something else. The sound had nothing to do with him but it interfered with the quiet that Kiettisuk preferred in the morning.

He could have looked out one of the two bay windows in his apartment to see what caused the noise. But he found the view of the street below and the buildings surrounding his to be unprepossessing. He motioned for the security guard standing by the door to investigate.

Had he looked through one of the bay windows he would have been surprised to see the noise was caused by an armored SWAT vehicle belonging to the San Francisco Police Department smashing through the gate. Cops in bullet proof vests poured out of it as a string of black and whites, filled with more combat-ready cops, followed it onto the grounds of his building.

He would have been even more surprised to see his security force laying down their high-powered rifles as they surrendered to the assault team led by Lieutenant Billy Mitchum. Kiettisuk’s guards wisely determined their rifles were no match for the SA80 L85 selective fire assault weapons with which Mitchum had armed his team. The SA 80s, with a fully automatic fire option, were popular with the British army. The lightweight, semiautomatic rifles with which Kiettisuk had armed his private soldiers were no match.

Kiettisuk didn’t look up from his breakfast when the man returned to his apartment.

“Well?”

“Good morning, Kiet.”

Kiettisuk was immediately enraged with the informal greeting. When he looked toward the door he saw not the man who had been sent to investigate the disturbance downstairs but a smiling Lieutenant Billy Mitchum backed by three other police officers, all four of whom held the wicked-looking assault weapons.

“What is the meaning of this? How dare you invade my privacy?” Kiettisuk raged. “Do you have a warrant permitting this atrocity?”

“Sure do,” Mitchum replied, cheerfully, as he handed over the warrant. “Now you’re going downtown with us for questioning. It’s a little matter of operating a prostitution ring. You haven’t had time to hear of it yet but your hotel over on Eddy Street is shut down. Your crew in charge of it is in custody. Some of those girls were only 12 years old. You make me sick, Kiet.”

“I have nothing to do with any of that. You have no proof of such a thing nor will you find any.”

“We’ll see about that, Kiet,” Mitchum replied. “Meanwhile you’re going with us for some questioning. Cuff him,” the lieutenant directed.

Kiettisuk was outraged. He wasn’t even allowed to get dressed. He was taken into public view dressed only in pajama pants, slippers, and an undershirt. His hands were cuffed behind his back.

Two black and whites were parked in front of the apartment building. The rear door of one was being held open for him. As he was guided into the vehicle his head was turned toward the other. He didn’t allow his facial expression to change but he was surprised to see one of Jonathan Rossi’s men in the back seat of the second vehicle.

He was being personally insulted by being dragged out in public in handcuffs. He had lost a large sum of money with the shutting down of the Eddy Street hotel and the loss of the young talent he had only last week imported. And now one of Rossi’s men was sitting in an SFPD car. He would have to give some thought to what it all means.

At the same time, Sergeant Nancy Patrick’s team was moving in on the warehouse that was the headquarters of the Barons of Lucifer. Located in the Iron Triangle district of Richmond, near the interstate, luxurious would be the last word to describe the building.

There were no guards outside. There was an entry on either side of the large garage door leading into the warehouse. At Nancy’s direction, four of her biggest colleagues smashed through them.

Nancy led her team into the garage, startling two men playing poker. Both men went for the semiautomatic handguns lying on the table. One of the men stood, swinging around to get into firing position. Nancy’s Ruger barked twice. One nine millimeter slug smashed into the upper part of the biker’s femur, near where it connected to the pubic structure. The second man dropped to the floor and managed to fire his weapon three times with no hits. A hail of bullets chewed up the concrete floor all around him. He dropped his weapon, pushing it away.

Two of Nancy’s team quickly cuffed the two Barons taken on the main floor while she led the way across the warehouse to the stairs leading to the second floor. It was there that the Barons kept a series of rooms, not unlike a dormitory. Gang members could use the rooms for the night or for an hour.

At one end of the second floor was the club house. There was a bar and pool tables. Another Baron was passed out, his head lying on one of the tables. He was quickly awakened and subdued. Doors to a few of the rooms along the hall were opening. Barons were stumbling out, half asleep and still drunk from the night before. None offered serious resistance.

Nancy and two other officers moved toward the other end of the building. The Mad Dutchman’s apartment was there. The noise woke him. He was hungover and feeling mean. The naked, tattooed blonde he had taken to share his bed the night before woke up, too.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice still slurred from the booze and coke.

“Shut up,” the Dutchman said, slapping her.

He reached for the half full jug of red wine sitting on the floor by the bed. Turning it up, he took three deep swallows, hoping the wine would stop the pounding in his head.

The pounding only got worse as the door to his room was kicked in. He looked up to see three cops, one of them a woman, holding guns pointed at him.

His own weapon, another Sig Sauer, cousin to the semiautomatic handguns Trent had taken from two of Rossi’s men, lay on a table near his bed. He liked the weapon. It was in a batch intended for the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency that the Dutchman had hijacked.

Nancy saw him look at the gun. She smiled, her own weapon held steady, her aim dead on the Dutchman.

“Go ahead, Lin,” she taunted. “Try for it. Let’s see if your hand can move faster than my bullet.”

As hungover as he was, Winters wasn’t entirely slow-witted. He held up his hands.

“What’s this all about?” he asked.

“We had a double murder in our town a few days ago,” she said. “We have reason to believe you might be involved in it. I’m taking you in for questioning. And, before you ask, yes, I have a warrant. We’ll be searching this lovely home you have here.”

“This is harassment,” Winters said, as two officers cuffed his hands behind his back. Nancy kept her Ruger aimed at the Barons of Lucifer leader.

“We’ll see. Take him to the cars,” she directed the officers.

As they passed through the building she counted fourteen Barons and seven women, most of them severely hungover or still high from the night’s activities. An interesting assortment of weapons was being assembled as the rooms were searched.

Outside the warehouse, as at the apartment building in Little Saigon, there were two black and whites. As Winters was being helped into the second vehicle, he saw one of Rossi’s men in the first.

The vehicle he was in pulled out first, passing the vehicle with Rossi’s man in it. The Mad Dutchman looked hard at the Mafia soldier as they drove slowly by. The fire in his eyes gave proof to why he was called Mad.

Abdul Rahman completed his morning prayer at 5:30. He was enjoying a cup of tea on the terrace outside his bedroom. He had purchased this home in the affluent city of Pleasanton because of its architecture.

The large house was over a century old. Most thought it to be Spanish. And so it was, in a roundabout way. The architecture showed the influence of the Moors in the centuries they dominated significant portions of the Iberian Peninsula, of which Spain is the largest part.

Abdul had been precocious as a child in the study of Islam. He was a devoted follower of the religion from his earliest years. His very name pronounced him as a servant of God.

Now he enjoyed his public persona as a successful venture capitalist. He enjoyed even more his private life as the leader of the Scourge, an organization dedicated to overthrowing this silly republic known as the United States and bringing it under Islamic control.

He kept a few of his followers on the grounds of his estate in the guise of servants and assistants. Some were relatives. He considered it a sign of his intelligence that none, including himself, were armed. He knew the xenophobic forces among the government, as well as throughout the general population, were constantly on the lookout for armed Muslims. He refused to give anyone the satisfaction of coming into his home and finding anything that could be described as supportive of revolution.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have an army or arms for them. He had both. Most worked at his warehouses on the coast. It was in one of them that he kept his armory. He was prepared to act on the orders of Al Dawla al-Islamyia fil Iraq wa’al Sham. That which is called ISIL, or ISIS, in the United States and the hated acronym Da’ish in Great Britain.

For the time being he was content moving among the elite of the Bay area and sitting on his terrace, sipping tea.

He was shocked, then, when he saw the black SUVs speed up the driveway. He was more shocked as he watched the black-clad, armed men and women emptying from the vehicles.

With great irritation, he went downstairs to meet the armed force invading his home. Abdul knew Agent Joseph Brady. There had been confrontations between them in the past. Abdul was not concerned about the outcome of this latest attempt by the FBI to intimidate him.

Agent Brady handed the warrant to Abdul.

“This is our authority to enter and search these premises, Abdul,” Brady said. “And we will take you to our office for questioning.”

“Questioning for what?” Abdul demanded to know. “This is racial discrimination. Harassment. Nothing more. I am a respectable and successful businessman.”

“Yes, it would seem so,” Brady agreed as he looked around at the lavishly furnished house. “You’re also the leader of the Scourge, one of the groups funding ISIL through several illegal activities, which cross state lines.”

“Ridiculous!” Abdul said. He kept his face expressionless but he was surprised that Brady had information connecting him to the Scourge. He had thought that was known only to his four partners in Rossi’s fiduciaria.

He was outraged when his hands were cuffed behind his back and he was led to an SUV. One of the SUVs they passed had all the windows open. His rage was even more enflamed when he saw two of Rossi’s men sitting inside. They were not cuffed.

In the hills of Atherton, Rossi’s wife and children were driven to the airport to catch an early flight to Virginia. His wife had been part of the Rossi family long enough to know better than to ask why.

When they were gone, he sat at his desk staring straight ahead. Trying to control the fury raging within. He wasn’t sure who had penetrated his defenses and taken out his security team. He suspected it was Marshall.

He had eight men patrolling the grounds now. But Marshall, or whoever it was, moved like a ghost. Rossi thought he could have twenty men around him and he still wouldn’t be safe. Without thinking about it, his hand reached out to caress the weapon lying on his desk.

It was a hard decision to make. But until he had worked out a new plan and put it into motion, he had no choice but to heed the warning. Reaching for another burner, he dialed a number. He gave new orders to the man who answered.

The man who answered the phone and got the new orders was younger than most of Rossi’s soldiers. And one of the meanest. At birth he was given the name Gaetano. He hated it. It sounded too old country. Other kids made fun of it. When he was old enough to get away with it, he began calling himself Guy.

He thought the new name would help him fit in with others. It didn’t. He wasn’t like others. He was one of those people who enjoyed the suffering of others. Marshall had called it by the German word. Schadenfreude. Guy’s own people would have called him “sadico.” The English word was more direct. Sadist.

He might have become a serial killer had he not met some of Rossi’s security team. They introduced him to their boss. Something about him interested Rossi. He couldn’t put his finger on it. He had the feeling Guy would carry out any order he was given, no matter how vicious or messy it might be.

Guy was disappointed at the new orders he had just been given. He stepped into the large room that had once housed an illegal casino. He stared regretfully at the man and woman. Each was bound to a chair.

Miles’ was without a shirt. His face and thin chest showed signs of being beaten. None of Darcey’s clothes had been removed. There was only one red mark on her left cheek. Guy had felt obligated to show her who was boss. He was disappointed that she hadn’t fought back. There wasn’t much fun in a single slap to the face.

He began to untie the knots binding Miles to the chair.

“I don’t like doing this,” the thug said, “but I have to follow orders. If I don’t, I’ll be sitting in your chair.” He laughed, thinking that a funny joke.

“But I’m disappointed,” he continued. “The boss told me I could do anything I wanted to you if your boyfriend didn’t do what he was told. I could exsanguinate you if I wanted. I didn’t know what that meant. But I Googled it. It sounded like fun. Do you know what it means?”

Miles weakly shook his head, indicating the negative.

Guy laughed. “It means to drain the blood from your body. I was looking forward to seeing that. But orders are orders. I guess the boss has decided to give your boyfriend another chance.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Miles said, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s my husband.”

Guy laughed again. “Your husband? Then I guess that makes you the wifey, doesn’t it? Well, I’ll tell you what, wifey, the boss is sending out some groceries. When they get here, you can get your skinny self in the kitchen and do the cooking. She can help you,” he said, as he began releasing Darcey from her bonds.

By nine o’clock the team leaders, Lieutenant Mitchum, Sergeant Patrick, and Special Agent Brady were back in the headquarters conference room. All three reported their assignments had gone off without a hitch. Nancy was the only one who reported resistance, weak though it was.

Each of the leaders reported the presence of Rossi’s men had been noted by the targets of their raids. Christopher had raised the bet to Rossi.

Scott Douglas arrived at the team’s headquarters shortly after nine o’clock. Trent wanted to give Christopher time for the raids to be conducted and team members to report before launching the next part of their plan. In Trent’s mind, it was the most important of all. Scott would not disagree.

Only Trent, Christopher, and Nancy would be participating. The original plan was to include only Christopher and Trent. That was until Nancy told them that if they thought they could exclude her they were dumber than they appeared.

The three of them now huddled with Scott, who had brought a handful of documents and maps with him.

“These documents list all of Rossi’s real estate holdings in the area. At least all that I know about. I can’t imagine there would be more that I’m not aware of,” Scott said. “I’ve marked them all on this map of the Bay area.”

“There are a lot of x’s on the map, Scott,” Trent pointed out. “Do any of them stand out to you as a place they might use to hold Darcey and Miles?”

“I’m not used to this sort of thing, Trent,” Scott replied, nervously, “so I’m not really sure what to look for.”

Trent glared at him.

“But there is one place that seems to me a logical choice. It’s here.” Scott had a red marker among the items he had brought with him. He drew a circle around one of the x’s on the coast south of San Francisco

“The location matches the description that Rossi’s security guard gave me. What do you know about it?” Trent asked.

“It sits right on the ocean about twenty-five miles south of San Francisco. Rossi’s grandfather and great grandfather used it for smuggling. It also was a bar and illegal casino at various times. It has a few rooms on the upper floors so it was probably used for prostitution as well. It’s been abandoned for years. I’m not sure why Rossi has let it sit unused. It’s valuable property. It’s not like him to pass up the opportunity for profit.”

“Unless you need a place to stash stolen goods or maybe a few hostages every now and then,” Christopher suggested.

Trent and Christopher drove past the dilapidated building without slowing or demonstrating any interest in it. Two miles farther south on the Coast Highway they parked the truck at a scenic vista site. They hiked through the hills and rocks on the west side of the highway until they were adjacent to and above the old hotel.

The building was a quarter mile off the highway and built directly above the water. Approach was via an unpaved road over hard-packed sand.

They found a place among the rocks where they could lie concealed to watch the building, each with his own binoculars. For the first hour they saw nothing.

The building looked to be roughly square. Approximately one hundred feet per side. That would make it 10,000 square feet on the ground floor. There were two upper floors. 30,000 square feet. A lot of area to search.

The windows had been painted over. Any lights on the inside couldn’t be seen from the outside.

They agreed that most of the action would be on the first floor. It seemed logical that the men holding Darcey and Miles wouldn’t want to get too spread out. There would probably be bedrooms on the upper floors. Rossi’s men on site would no doubt take turns sleeping.

Darcey and Miles would probably be restrained and not comfortable. The kidnappers wouldn’t be concerned about how well their captives were sleeping. To the contrary. The more sleep-deprived the captives were the easier it would be to control them.

Trent studied approaches to the old building, which sat on a small cove. He pointed out to Christopher that a jumble of rocks similar to those in which they lay concealed came almost to the walls on both sides of the building. The rocks would provide cover for the team as they moved in.

They were beginning to wonder if Scott had guessed wrong when a dark sedan drove up. Three men got out and went to the rear of the vehicle. When the driver popped the trunk open, each man took a box and carried it to the building, the last man closing the trunk.

The door that looked like the main entrance into the old building opened, held by a fifth man. The men carrying the boxes entered the building. The door closed. The driver of the car drove to the far end of the building, disappearing behind it. It almost appeared as though the vehicle had driven into the inlet.

“This building isn’t abandoned,” Trent said. “Those men were carrying groceries. Rossi has kept up the appearance of an abandoned building. I’ll bet he’s found many uses for it.”

“Groceries are a good sign,” Christopher added. “There was a lot of food in those boxes. I think that means Miles and Darcey are still alive and are being fed.”

“Right,” Trent agreed. “Let’s get out of here. We need a plan to get them out.”

They met Nancy and Scott at the Nob Hill condo.

“Look at this,” Christopher said as he made a rough drawing of the building. “The car we saw today drove back here and disappeared. There has to be an approach into the building from the water. It’s the only reason it would ever have been useful for smuggling.

“I’d bet that car drove into a space that was used as a loading dock during Prohibition when booze was smuggled in by water. The goods could be either taken into the building or loaded onto trucks for delivery elsewhere.”

“I think we have to enter from the north side,” Trent observed. “We can deduce that there is some sort of driveway on the north side since we saw the car drive into it. But the inlet has to be L-shaped. If the building opened directly onto the ocean, wave action would make entry almost impossible. By utilizing the shape of this small inlet, the waves are broken, providing a relatively smooth entry.”

“But what if entry into the building from the water is sealed off?” Nancy asked.

“I doubt if it is,” Trent said. “This building is still very much in use. That probably includes entry from the water. Besides, the driver of the car never reappeared after he turned in behind the building. He must have entered the building from the ocean level. I think it’s worth a try. But we need a diversion. Something to attract their attention away from the water.”

“That’s my job.”

Scott’s announcement was a surprise to all three of them.

“That’s a very dangerous offer, Scott,” Christopher said. “You might not survive it.”

“I’m the one who got us into this mess. It’s only fair that I do whatever I can to get us out.”

“You being dead does us no good, Scott,” Christopher argued.

“Believe me, I’m in no hurry to die. But if that happens, I have provided you all the financial details of Rossi and his fiduciaria. You’ll have no problem convicting all four organizations in court.”

“If our plan works, we won’t need to go to court. The four partners will destroy each other. Remember the den of snakes,” Trent said.

“We have to be prepared for whatever direction this thing takes, Trent,” Christopher said. “All right, Scott, but at least let me get you a gun.”

“No,” Scott said. “No gun. I wouldn’t know what to do with it. Besides, if I’m your diversion the first thing they’ll do is search me. I would be safer unarmed.”

The other three would be armed. Trent with the Desert Eagle; Christopher with his Smith & Wesson; Nancy with her Ruger. Trent went to the bedroom he shared with Darcey, returning with the pink and black gym bag.

They made sandwiches while they waited for night. Trent wanted everyone to have plenty of energy but wanted no one to eat so much as to feel sluggish

He and Christopher discussed how many of Rossi’s men they could expect to encounter. They had seen four enter the building earlier in the day. A fifth was seen opening the door for them. They thought two or three must have been out of sight. They decided the logical number would be eight.

With surprise on their side they thought they could handle eight. The difficulty would be to do so while keeping Scott, Miles, and Darcey alive.

Ordinarily they would have scheduled this type of operation in the early hours of the morning. That’s when people were most vulnerable. But they didn’t think they could wait. Trent’s penetration of Rossi’s compound had gained them a little time. A few hours. No more than that. Once Rossi realized another day had passed and Scott still hadn’t followed orders, there was no way to know what he would do.

It was fully dark when they parked at another pullout, this one a mile north of the building. Trent rode with Christopher in his truck. Nancy followed them in her car, a non-descript, three year old sedan. The Bentley was left behind. It would attract too much attention.

They waited in their vehicles until Christopher’s phone rang. Scott was calling to say he would be there in an hour. The call was prearranged. It was part of the plan.

They had an hour to work their way through the rocks bordering the ocean. Fortunately, the roar of the surf meant any noise they made wouldn’t be heard.

They had to be in place when Scott arrived. They didn’t know what would happen when he was inside. They only knew it was critical that they get into the building soon after he arrived.

They made two stops on their way to the coast. The first was to the conference room serving as headquarters for Christopher’s team. There he retrieved several sets of handcuffs.

The second stop was to the store Trent had used before. They bought three lights with elastic head bands. They would have to be careful in using them but they would at least come in handy when they were underneath the building alongside the small inlet. They wouldn’t use the lights on their approach.

They were surprised to find the store sold combat face paint. They didn’t ask why. They used it to darken the backs of their hands and their faces.

The trek through the rocks was difficult. Nancy held her own with the men. If anything, she had an easier time than Christopher. His large size made it harder for him to navigate through the natural maze of boulders. Trent was hampered by weaponry. In addition to the Desert Eagle, a large handgun itself, he carried the pink and black gym bag.

They made it to the edge of the rocks bordering the old building with ten minutes to spare. They would have to cross twenty-five yards of hard-packed sand in the open before reaching the vehicle entry, which they could now see at the rear of the building. So far their deductions were correct. Their luck was holding. Trent was confident they would find entry into the building itself once they were below it at the water level.

Exactly ten minutes later, Scott’s gray Mercedes pulled up to the main entrance. They watched him walk up to the door and knock loudly. There was silence.

He knocked again. Finally the door was opened.

They heard him speak to whoever opened the door.

“I’m Scott Douglas.”

They couldn’t hear what was said in return.

“I’m the reason you’re holding two people. Jonathan Rossi is mad at me. Not them.”

They heard nothing from whoever Scott was addressing. He did see an arm reach out to grab Scott’s shirt and pull him into the building. They watched as a man stepped outside, holding a strange looking rifle in his hands.

“That’s interesting,” Trent said, speaking softly, the roar of the surf muffling the sound of his voice. “A small rifle. Looks like one of those survival weapons. Probably a .22. Not very powerful but a sneaky little weapon at close range. It’s not a threat to us out here. Inside is another matter.”

They stayed low among the rocks as the man looked around. He opened the door to Scott’s car to look inside. He walked around the parking area, looking in all directions. As he turned his face toward them, they remained motionless.

When he was satisfied that Scott had come alone he went back inside. Trent, Christopher, and Nancy waited a full five minutes to be sure he was gone.

Under different circumstances they would have waited another five or ten minutes. But Scott’s entry into the building was another shot fired into the den of snakes. They had to get Darcey, Miles, and Scott out now. When the snakes started striking it was important that they hit each other. No one else.

Christopher led his team, with weapons drawn, to the driveway leading down to water level. They reached the building without hearing any alarms. Still they pressed themselves against the wall as they side-stepped down the slanted driveway. At the bottom, Christopher was the first to look around the corner. As they had deduced, the water was relatively free from wave action thanks to the L shaped inlet. There was a concrete loading dock along their side, wide enough for trucks.

As they turned into the darkness of the water entry, all three switched on their head-mounted lights. The concrete landing extended all the way under the building. The car they had seen arrive earlier in the day was parked there, along with two other sedans and the dark-colored van used to kidnap Darcey and Miles.

A highly polished wooden runabout was tied alongside the loading dock. It was meant for speed rather than hauling freight. It was there for a quick getaway on the water.

At the end of the dock was a door with glass panels on the top side. The way in.

They moved quickly, carefully, and quietly down the loading dock, keeping close to the wall. It was dark inside. They could see nothing through the glass panes. Not surprisingly, the door was locked.

Christopher was preparing to risk the noise of smashing the glass when Nancy put her hand on his arm, stopping him. Holstering her Ruger, she knelt by door. With a set of picks produced from her pocket she quickly released the two locks that ineffectively secured the door.

Christopher looked at her with a mixture of respect and fear. He lived with this woman and didn’t know about this skill. He wondered what other skills she had unknown to him. But there was no time to consider that now.

They were in a basement hallway leading off the loading dock. Doors lined the hallway on both sides. Storage rooms, probably from the days when the Rossi Family ran an illegal casino and prostitutes upstairs.

They could see light spilling through a doorway at the end of the hall, about fifty feet away. That would be under the main entrance. The doorway where they had seen people moving in and out. Where Scott Douglas had entered.

They heard the man before they saw him, giving them time to switch off their head lamps. Each of them found a doorway to press as deeply into as possible.

More light spilled into the dark hallway as the door opened. The man who had looked around outside after Scott arrived put in an appearance. The lightweight rifle was still in his hands.

“I hate that jerk,” he was mumbling. “‘You screwed up, Ietro. You left the door open when you parked the car.’ I did not leave the door open, Guy,” he said, turning and speaking louder. Just a little louder. He didn’t really want whoever Guy was to hear him. He was scared of Guy.

“And your name isn’t Guy,” Ietro continued. “It’s Gaetano. You should be proud of your heritage.” He was back to mumbling.

There must have been a silent alarm system they had tripped when Nancy picked the lock. The kidnappers would be on the alert. No matter. The team’s attack was fully committed.

Nancy and Christopher were pressed into doorways on the man’s left; Trent was on his right. He would pass Nancy first. Christopher didn’t like it but he nodded to her, indicating that she should take him out.

Nancy let him take one step past her before stepping out of the doorway and bringing her semiautomatic down on the back of his head like a hammer. Trent stepped up and caught him before he fell. Christopher grabbed the rifle before it clattered to the floor.

Nancy quickly cuffed the man’s hands behind his back. Trent ripped a strip of cloth off the Mafia soldier’s shirt, which he used to gag him. He ripped off another strip to bind his ankles.

Christopher held up one finger. “One down,” he indicated.

They didn’t think the other Mafioso would go down as easily.

Scott felt sick when he looked at Miles, bruised and bloody. It was all his fault. He knew that. Darcey had only one red mark on her cheek, as though she had been slapped. Miles had been the focus of punishment.

They were in the first floor’s large main room. Miles and Darcey were sitting side by side on an old sofa. Neither was bound. In addition to the one who called himself Guy, there were four other armed men in the room.

“So you’re the husband,” Guy taunted. “Your wifey has been telling us about you.”

“I doubt that,” Scott replied, with as much confidence as he could muster. “Our relationship isn’t something Miles would choose to discuss with scum like you.”

“He’s just lucky Don Rossi gave me orders to lay off. I was planning to have a lot of fun with him. And when I had him worn out, then I was going to start on her,” Guy said, wrapping his hand in Darcey’s hair and jerking her head back.

Scott said nothing. He wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of an emotional response.

“So are you crazy or what?” Guy asked, releasing Darcey’s hair. “What are you doing here? Did you think you would just come in here and leave with these two? Does Don Rossi know you’re here?”

“No, he doesn’t know I’m here,” Scott answered. “And yes, I do plan to leave here with Miles and Darcey.”

Guy picked up his FN Herstal P90, pointing the strange but highly effective personal defense weapon at Scott.

“Maybe I should just blow you away right now.”

“Your boss might not like that,” Scott said, struggling to keep his fear hidden. “He might be angry at me now but he still needs me.”

Guy was obviously uncertain about the situation.

“Then maybe I should shoot your wifey,” he said, swinging the short weapon in Miles’ direction.

“If you do that, then you might as well shoot me, too. That’s the worst thing you could do.”

Guy’s uncertainty was intensifying. He found his phone in his pocket.

“I’d better call the boss.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Scott questioned. “Rossi might be curious about why you let the first person to knock on the door come right in.”

Guy laughed nervously. “How did you know where to find us? Did someone talk? Who was it? I’ll take care of him right now.”

“No one told me anything. It wasn’t hard to find you. And if I found you, you can be sure others will as well.”

Climbing the stairs as noiselessly as they could, Christopher, Nancy, and Trent found themselves in a large lobby.

To the left was a long front desk. The place had never been a hotel. The front desk would have been used as a coat room or a place where customers would check in to affirm their desires for the evening

Tonight it was manned by a guard carrying a large assault rifle. Bulky and heavy. Trent thought it didn’t look especially effective. It still could be a nasty weapon.

“Hey…what the …?” the guard said, rising from the chair, coming around the end of the front desk as he attempted to bring his rifle into play.

“Freeze,” Christopher ordered.

The guard ignored him. Nancy wasn’t waiting. Her weapon fired once. The bullet slammed into his left knee, crushing the patella. With his kneecap gone, his tibia and femur were left connected only by shreds of tendon. He fell to the ground, out of action. Trent grabbed his rifle, tossing it down the stairs.

Behind them were stairs going to the upper floors. To their right, a double set of swinging doors led into another room. Judging by the size of the doors, Trent guessed it was a large room. Most likely where the casino was once located.

The sound of a shot coming from the lobby froze all activity in the main room.

“Guglielo, Barnaba, Martino. Go see what that’s all about,” Guy ordered.

With the surprise element gone, Christopher and Trent focused on the double swinging doors. Nancy kept an eye on the stairs.

Suddenly three men charged through the swinging doors. Two carried assault rifles. The third man carried a the same futuristic appearing personal defense weapon that Guy had flaunted to Scott.

Two of the men came out firing their weapons. Christopher, Nancy, and Trent hit the floor simultaneously.

Trent’s Desert Eagle roared, a .50 caliber slug ripping into the first man’s upper right arm, wrecking the humerus bone. He dropped his rifle as he stumbled toward the front desk, seeking a place to escape the fight.

The next round from the Desert Eagle missed the second man, striking the wall no more than an inch from his head. Close enough to cost the would-be gunman what little nerve he had. He dropped his weapon, his hands clawing for the ceiling.

“On the floor, face down, spread eagle,” Trent ordered. The unnerved gunman hastened to do as he was told.

“Barnaba, you coward,” the one called Martino shouted as he watched his companion surrender.

The man with the small, personal defense weapon, was distracted as he unwisely berated his companion. Christopher took the opportunity to fire his Smith & Wesson, striking the gunman squarely in the crotch.

The weapon dropped from his hand as the injured man fell to the floor, screaming in agony, hands between his legs. His face reflected the horror of his recent transition from healthy manhood to no manhood at all. His screams rose and fell in multiple levels, ranging from agonized wailing to pathetic whimpering.

“First time I ever heard multi-syllabic whining,” Nancy said as she cuffed Barnaba’s hands behind his back. Trent picked up the two assault rifles and the personal defense weapon. He tossed them downstairs to join the rifle already there.

“You ruined me!” Martino whined.

“Uh oh,” Christopher replied, unsympathetically.

The five people in the main room listened to the rattle of gunfire. Then the silence. Each of them wondered what was going on. Guy heard a man crying out in pain. Cursing in Italian. One of his men was down.

“Guglielo! Barnaba! Martino!” Guy called out. “What’s going on out there?”

There was no reply. Just the wailing of a badly wounded man.

Guy clutched his weapon. One of his men remained in the room with him. Guy liked Brock best. He had an American name. Like Guy. Not the old world names of the rest of his crew.

“That’s it,” he said to Brock. “Shoot the wifey.”

Brock didn’t question the order. That was another reason Guy was partial to him. The man turned his own personal defense weapon toward Miles.

“NO!” Scott shouted, hurling himself in front of Miles just as Brock pulled the trigger. A three round burst traced a path from Scott’s shoulder diagonally across his chest. His clavicle was broken. There was no way to know the extent of internal damage.

Seeing the man he loved viciously shot down roused Miles from the lethargy of the arduous experience of the past few days.

“Oh no. Scott! Scott!” Miles threw his own battered body over his husband’s in an attempt to protect him from any continued assault. Darcey quickly jumped behind the sofa.

Miles and Scott were ignored for the moment as Brock turned to the double swinging doors to see Trent flinging himself into the room. Don Rossi’s man fired another three round burst that went high as Trent dropped to the floor.

He had unzipped the gym bag before entering the room, extracting the M16. He slid it across the floor to Darcey before firing two wild shots in the general direction of the two remaining kidnappers.

“Shoot them! Kill them all!” Guy shouted as he shoved Brock forward.

Brock lowered the barrel of his weapon to where Trent lay on the floor. Before he could pull the trigger again, Darcey put the M16 into action. It was hard to reach her target from where she had taken cover. She hit her target just above his foot. The powerful M16 rounds turned the talus of Brock’s left ankle into shards of bone. He would likely lose his foot.

Guy found himself alone. He felt the tingle of fear travel through his body. He fired a burst over his shoulder as he ran for a door at the far corner of the room.

Trent and Darcey both fired their weapons in his direction. But he got through the door unscathed.

“Where does that door go?” Trent shouted.

“I’m not sure. I think it might be a back way down to the water.” Darcey said. “I heard them mention something about that.”

“Do what you can for Scott and Miles,” he shouted as he ran back through the swinging doors.

“There’s another one down in there,” he said as he ran past Christopher. “The leader is headed to the water.” He heard the big cop behind him as he ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

They heard the roar of a boat motor as they ran down the lower hallway. By the time they reached the door leading to the loading dock, they saw the runabout making the turn of the L-shaped inlet, heading for open water. Trent fired the last two rounds from the Desert Eagle. To no effect.

Returning to the hallway, they released the feet of the first guard they had taken out. He preceded them, with the occasional encouragement from Christopher’s Smith & Wesson prodding his back.

Two more Mafioso were upstairs. They called down to say they were surrendering. Nancy had them toss down their weapons. Another assault rifle and a lightweight Glock .40 caliber handgun clattered down the stairs.

Christopher and Trent returned to the main room where Darcey was attempting to console Miles and do what she could to help his wounded husband. Scott was barely breathing.

“Oh, Scott, Scott, don’t leave me,” Miles cried.

Scott raised his hand, trying to touch Miles’ tear-stained face. He didn’t have the strength. His hand fell away. He closed his eyes. His breathing was shallow, red-tinged bubbles floated on his lips each time he exhaled. Not a good sign.

Christopher dragged Brock, who was unable to walk, to the lobby to join his comrades.

Trent knelt by Darcey, putting his arms around her. She let him hold her.

“Are you all right?” he asked

She nodded. He kissed her.

“What took you so long?” she said.

He smiled. Darcey would be fine.

He wasn’t sure about Scott and Miles.

Within half an hour the packed sand leading to the old building was jammed with ambulances and police vehicles. The first ambulance took Scott, who was clinging to life. Miles rode with him, refusing to leave his husband’s side.

Armed police officers accompanied the wounded kidnappers as they were loaded into ambulances. The officers would accompany their prisoners, each of whom was handcuffed to the gurney he was on, to the hospital. They would remain on guard as the men were treated.

Chief Marvin himself was on the scene. Darcey told him how she and Miles were kidnapped. She described their treatment as hostages.

“It was awful, Chief Marvin,” Darcey said. “But they treated Miles far worse than they did me. They ripped his shirt off when we first got here, taunting him. The one who was in charge, Guy he called himself, enjoyed beating poor Miles. He hit me only once,” she added, touching the red spot on her cheek, “when I tried to intervene.”

“Can you definitely say Jonathan Rossi was behind this?” the chief asked.

“Only to the extent that I heard them mention ‘Don Rossi’ a few times,” she replied. “Guy got a phone call this morning that displeased him. He was ordered to lay off any mistreatment and to feed us well. He didn’t like that at all. Guy is a sadist, Chief. He told Miles he had planned to drain all the blood from his body. He was disappointed that Rossi, or whoever called, ordered him to make sure we were well treated.”

“So, Sergeant Booth,” Marvin said, turning to Christopher, “you and Sergeant Patrick, assisted by our consultant, Mr. Marshall, created quite a bit of carnage. Don’t you think bringing in the rest of our department would have been appropriate?”

“Uh…Yes, Sir,” Christopher stammered. “But we didn’t have a lot of time.”

“You say Mr. Douglas called to tell you where he was going and what he planned to do. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Christopher answered. “Nancy…Uh…Sergeant Patrick, Mr. Marshall, and I decided we could best help him by getting into the building undetected as quickly as possible. Frankly, sir, it’s likely that a fleet of black and whites with lights flashing and sirens blaring would probably have resulted in the three innocent civilians being killed.”

“And you always carry combat face paint with you?” the chief questioned.

“Never leave home without it, sir,” Christopher answered, keeping a straight face.

“I see,” the chief replied. “How did you get here? I see only Mr. Douglas’ car.”

“We parked in a pullout about a mile north of here. We came down through the rocks and found the ramp leading down to the water underneath the building. We were able to get in there and take them by surprise.”

“And one, this Guy fellow who was in charge, escaped. Right?”

“Yes, there might have been others that got away,” Christopher said, “but he did for sure. There was a door leading down to the water that we didn’t know about. He managed to get to the boat that was moored down there and out to open water.”

“I see,” the chief said before turning to Trent. “And now, Mr. Marshall, what do I do about you? I’m starting to wonder if bringing you on board as a consultant to the department was a good idea.”

“Trent’s participation has been invaluable in the operation we put into action,” Christopher said. “Operation Den of Snakes was his concept. He was intimately involved in developing the strategy and planning its execution. It has worked without a hitch so far, Chief. It has the potential to cripple four of the city’s major crime organizations for a generation or more.”

Nancy chimed in to support Christopher. “I agree with Sergeant Booth completely, Chief. Mr. Marshall is playing a critical role. And, if I might point out, at considerable personal risk. One of the kidnap victims is his wife, sir.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” the chief said, glancing at Darcey who had returned after helping Miles into the ambulance with Scott. “And I agree that Operation Den of Snakes is a brilliant plan, which I endorse without reservation.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Christopher said.

“Now if we’re done with our encomia,” Chief Marvin said, looking at the Desert Eagle holstered on Trent’s hip, “I will assume that weapon is a legal .44 caliber. And that,” pointing to the M16 Darcey had retrieved, “is an AR-15.”

His sarcasm did not go unnoticed.

Christopher spoke up. “You approved the permits and waivers for Trent and Darcey yourself, Sir.”

“So I did,” Marvin agreed, with a hint of a smile. “So I did.”

There was silence.

“Well, it’s all a bit irregular,” Marvin said, “and the media will be all over us when they get wind of it, but good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Christopher said.

The ache in Rossi’s head was approaching unbearable. He feared his head might explode. Or he might have a stroke. How many disasters could he endure?

Guy had called to report to him on the attack that had cost him eight more soldiers and his hostages. He would have felt better had his soldiers been killed. None were. One wasn’t even injured. He surrendered when the first shot was fired. And how was it, Rossi asked Guy, that he was the only one to escape? He got no satisfactory reply.

Rossi was glad his father and grandfather weren’t around to see how poorly Rossi Family solders were performing. He would be ashamed to face them.

He blamed Trent Marshall for his mounting problems. The man seemed invincible. Rossi was sure Marshall was the one who invaded his home and took out his entire security team. The eight men he had guarding Douglas’ boyfriend and Marshall’s wife couldn’t stop him.

Now without the hostages, he had no hold over Douglas and Marshall. None at all.

To add to the paranoia Rossi was beginning to feel, Jimmy Shadow hadn’t responded to his last message requesting assistance. Rossi was starting to consider taking Marshall out himself. He stroked the rifle lying on his desk.

The slim, bald man wearing horn-rimmed glasses turned his van into the parking lot of the warehouse on the Oakland waterfront. His cousin walked swiftly from the warehouse to climb into the passenger seat.

“What has happened this time, Gaetano?” the driver asked. Even though they were cousins, he was several years older than Guy. He had been called many times on nights like this when the younger man was in trouble.

“It’s nothing, Filippo,” Guy said. “Don’t worry about it. I just need to get out of town and lay low for a while.”

“Where do you want to go now?” Filippo asked.

“Can I spend the night at your house? In the morning I can get some cash and hit the road.”

“Yes, of course you’re welcome to stay with me,” Filippo said. “I owe your dead father that much.”

Filippo drove to the area in San Francisco’s North Beach known as Little Italy. Guy hated it that his cousin still lived in the old neighborhood. Filippo lived in his parents’ house. It was the only house he had ever inhabited.

Filippo didn’t know that before the night was over he would die in that same house.