112: “Nash, can you hear me?” Espinosa’s voice crackled in the small earpiece hidden beneath Nash’s thick jacket hood.
Nash resisted the urge to tap at it. “Copy, SWAT leader, coming in clear.”
“Ready in three.” This was Brogan, out of breath, his voice slightly muffled. He and his team had parked one block over and were trudging through the snow, attempting to approach the back of the house unnoticed.
Clair had gotten an address for this Paul Upchurch from Designated Driver, and Klozowski had confirmed it with DMV and county records. His name appeared on the deed. He had owned the property for the better part of ten years.
Nash sat in Connie, two blocks down Upchurch’s street. She had a wad of smoke caught in her throat. The exhaust sputtered as she coughed it out. A large Amazon.com box sat in the passenger seat. Inside the box were an assault rifle and two flat ten-pound weights. He wore body armor beneath his thick fleece coat.
“I can see the back of the house now,” Brogan said. “We’ve got three windows on the second floor, a small one at the attic, and two on the ground level. Shit—”
“What is it?” Espinosa asked.
“The backyard is fenced in, four-foot chainlink. We’re in two feet of snow as is, looks like the drifts nearly reach the top of the fence. We’ll need to get over. I’m holding the team behind the house one yard over. As soon as we leave this location, we’ll be exposed. I’d estimate thirty seconds to cross to the fence, ten to get over, another twenty to reach the back door and attempt a breach. We’ve got no place to hide in all that space. It’s wide open back here.”
“Copy,” Espinosa said. “Nash, you go on my mark. If you see a doorbell, don’t ring it. Knock. A lot of the doorbells in these old houses don’t work, and you won’t be able to tell from the outside—ringing it and waiting can cost us time. Just knock loudly. The moment you do, I’ll give a five count. We’ll give Upchurch time to answer. On five, our vans will come in from both ends of the road. Brogan and his guys will breach from the back door.” He paused for a second. “You’ll be standing on a small front porch. Looks like we’ve got nine steps with one turn leading up to it with a railing. It’s going to be tight, not much room to maneuver. If Upchurch opens the door, rush him, run right over him with the weight of that box as a battering ram. My guys will be right behind you. They’ll secure him. Just try to stun him and get out of the way.”
“What if he doesn’t answer?”
“If he doesn’t answer, I’ll need you to skirt out of our path. My team will come up behind you and take the door down, then they’ll hit the house while Brogan’s guys come in and secure from the back. Brogan?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Both teams will secure the main level. Then I want you to go down, get the basement and any subbasements. I’ll head high and get the second floor and the attic.”
“Copy.”
“Nash. Do your best to stay out of our way. You don’t have headgear on. I don’t want to lose anyone to a lucky shot.”
“I’d prefer not to get lost,” Nash said.
“Hold—” Espinosa said. Then: “Our ambulances are here. Both will come in behind the SWAT vans on either end of the road, followed by the patrol cars to seal off the block on the off chance this guy gets out of the house. All teams in place?”
“Back of house, in place,” Brogan said.
“East street, copy.”
“West street, copy.”
“Patrol 6, 144, 38, and 1218, all in place.”
Silence.
“Nash?” Brogan again.
Nash drew in a deep breath. “I’m ready, copy.”
“Okay, pull up on the house whenever you’re ready. Number eight-three on your right. Blue with white trim. We’ll follow your lead.”
“Copy.”
Nash drew a deep breath through his mouth, held it, then let it out slowly from his nose.
This didn’t do shit to calm him.
His hands were shaking. His heart was pounding. He had been involved with hundreds of raids over the course of his career, yet this feeling never diminished. Porter had once told him the day it did, the day you entered something like this calm, was the day you got shot.
“Ready or not, here we come,” he said.
Connie’s gearshift always stuck in Park. He put some muscle behind it and dropped her into Drive. The old car crept forward.
“Slow and steady, Nash, mindful of the ice. They plowed this morning, but the street’s a mess again,” Espinosa said. “Six more houses up on the right. You’ll see it when you hit the top of that hill.”
Nash’s tires fought for purchase. There was a sweet spot when driving on snow and ice. Too fast or too slow, and cars slid, grappled for hold. Connie wanted to go faster, but he held her back. He saw the blue and white trim of the peaked roof first, and then the address numbers came into view next to the front door. There were a couple cars parked on the street, nothing but giant white mounds under all the snow, color, make, and model indiscernible. The space in front of the house was empty, though, and long enough that he didn’t have to parallel park. Nash guided the car in and slipped her back into Park.
Espinosa crackled again in the small earpiece. “Nash at target, all teams stand by for my go.”
Nash considered leaving the car running. Would a delivery driver leave the car running? He never paid attention. That made sense, though, in this cold. In and out, in and out, no reason to shut it off.
Upchurch could use your car to run.
He seriously doubted Upchurch would get all the way to the street, but the thought was enough for him to kill the engine and pocket the keys. Connie’s motor sputtered again, realized she was no longer running, then went quiet with a groan.
Nash scooped up the Amazon box, opened his door, and stepped out into the storm. The snow had kicked up again, flakes an inch thick. He knew this would compromise visibility. The wind lashed at his bare cheeks as he stepped around the car and made his way to where he imagined the sidewalk probably was, lost beneath a blanket of snow.
“We’ve got movement,” Espinosa said in his ear. “Second-floor curtain on the left.”
Nash hadn’t seen it.
He was at the steps.
He took them carefully, one hand holding the box, the other gripping the metal railing.
When he reached the small porch at the top, he saw a doorbell, began to reach for it, then remembered what Espinosa had told him only a few minutes earlier.
Focus, asshat. Focus.
He wanted to look behind him. He wanted to look up and down the street to confirm everyone was where they said they were, but he didn’t. Instead, he knocked at the door—three heavy knocks, enough to hurt his knuckles.
From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the SWAT vans approaching quickly from both ends of the street. They skidded to a stop in the middle of the road, the back doors already open, men in black body armor spilling out.
In his ear, Espinosa called out orders. “Go, go, go!”
Nobody answered the door.
Nash could see inside through a thin window beside the door—nobody. When he heard boots crunching through the snow on the steps behind him, he pivoted to the left, away from the door. Thomas or Tibideaux, he couldn’t tell who, attacked the old wood-frame door with a large black metal battering ram—two hits and the deadbolt buckled, the door slammed in, and men in black streamed past him into the house.
Another loud bang rang out from the back, rattling the windows. A stun grenade.
Brogan: “We’re in! I’ve got a body on the kitchen table! Female! Otherwise, kitchen clear!”
“Living room, clear!”
“Basement steps—heading down!”
“This is Espinosa, at second-floor landing.” His voice low, a whisper. “Bathroom, clear. Bedroom one, clear. Bedroom two—”
His voice dropped off. Nash pushed the earpiece deeper into his ear.
“Freeze! Don’t move! Don’t—”
Nash pulled the assault rifle from the Amazon box and ran inside. The steps leading to the second floor were at the back of the living room. He took them two at a time. On the small landing at the top, Espinosa had his weapon trained on something or someone in the second bedroom. Another member of his team stood behind him, his gun pointed at the floor.
Nash watched Espinosa step into the room.
Brogan’s voice came over his earpiece again, no longer shouting. “Oh hell, what the fuck is this . . . Christ . . . we’ve got another body down here, another girl. Basement otherwise clear.”