Eighty-Nine

Michael, Strickland, and Church took the stairs as they’d taken the jungle behind them: single-file and quiet.

It was dark but not pitch-black. As soon as they pulled the door closed and reengaged the lock, a strip of running lights illuminated their path, leading them upward. It looked like Reyes had made some upgrades.

But the stairs were steep, carved into the side of a mountain, and mounting them took time and effort. Michael could hear Strickland’s breath behind him. He was exerted but not winded. He imagined Church was about the same.

The running lights came to an abrupt end, and he stopped short. “Stop,” he said, practically breathing the word. Reaching out, he felt something cool and solid in front of him. The door.

He trailed his fingers along the doorframe, looking for wires. Alarms. Anything that might trigger an alert that would signal their arrival. But there was nothing. Finding the doorknob, he turned and pushed before stepping into a narrow broom closet. He opened that door too, letting himself into a deserted laundry room.

Strickland and Church followed him in, Church closing the door as quietly as possible behind them. The longer they could keep someone from spotting them, the better. He reached into his cargo pocket and fished out earpieces. They each took one and fit it into their ear while he attached their mics to their shirt collars. They were small, barely bigger than the head of a pin, blending perfectly into the dark fabric of their shirts.

“Fancy,” Strickland whispered, coming through his comm loud and clear.

The stairs that would take them to the third floor were directly across from the laundry room. “Straight up the stairs,” he said softly.

Strickland held up the map and nodded. “Pink pony. I got this,” he said as if he’d asked him to pick up his dry cleaning instead of break into the home of a drug lord and take his daughter. The crazy thing was, Michael believed him.

Reaching into the small of his back he pulled his backup piece, a S&W .40 outfitted with a suppressor. He held it out to Strickland, and the cop took it without hesitation. “Just in case,” he said to him before turning to look at Church. “Stay together. Get Christina first and have her take you to the Maddox boy and then get out.”

For a second she looked like she was going to argue with him. Then she gave a curt nod before lifting her Glock from its holster. “Let’s do this, the meter is running,” she said, reminding him that he only had her cooperation for so long—if he ever really had it at all.

Michael didn’t say anything. Instead he gripped the knob to the door that would lead them into the house and pushed it open, leading them into the hall.

Church took point, leading Strickland up the stairs. Strickland stopped for just a moment to look at Michael, his face saying it all.

Save her.

And then he was gone, disappearing up the stairs along with Church, leaving Michael to do as he promised.