Wardell put his eye to the scope of the Remington again and tracked the closest tac team, weighing up his two options. He’d probably be able to get past them, but it wasn’t a dead cert. If they saw him, he’d be a rat in a trap. But even so, he liked it better than the other option, which was to pick off every member of the closest five-man team before the alarm could be raised. He wasn’t worried about the shooting, because he knew he could take all five out in three and a half seconds, but there was the rub. Three and a half seconds was a hell of a long time for trained men expecting just this sort of attack. No way he’d get all of them before somebody yelled or returned fire. Once that happened, he’d be faced with two more options: fall back and hope he’d get another chance later, or hold his position and engage the incoming backup teams. Sooner or later they’d pin him down, and that would be that. And Wardell wasn’t quite ready for that to be that.
He looked at his watch, saw it was nearly midnight. It looked like he’d have to go with the stealthy approach.
But then providence lent a hand. The leader of the nearest tac team put a hand to his right ear. The body language was crystal clear: Somebody at the command center was giving him an instruction. What followed made the content of the instruction just as clear. For some reason, the tac team closest to Wardell, the one he was most worried about, had been ordered to move out of position.
Scarcely able to believe his luck, Wardell watched as the five-man team moved quietly northeast. He reached for the drag bag, flattened himself to the ground, and began to low crawl down the incline.
DAY FIVE
45
We passed through so many rooms and corridors that I began to wonder if I should have left a trail of bread crumbs. Eventually we emerged into a tall, wide entrance foyer. The polished hardwood floor was covered in the center by a gigantic Oriental rug. Several doors on each wall led back off into the interior of the house, and a big wooden spiral staircase in the center of the room accessed a mezzanine level, on which I could see more doors and corridors leading off at each side. The place had looked big from the outside, but from within it seemed positively cavernous.
Two agents, evidently chosen for their powerful builds, guarded the door leading to the basement level, where Hatcher was hiding out in a games room.
As Castle led us down into the bowels of the building, I was struck by the contrast with the rest of the house. Although the basement space was well appointed with a pool table, big-screen TV, and even a small bar, the decor seemed deliberately unfinished. The walls were bare concrete, and the struts and beams supporting the house above were left visible. As a bunker, it was actually pretty effective, nestled in foundations of three-foot-thick poured concrete. And it was windowless.
Hatcher was a big man, and I immediately sensed that he was someone used to getting his own way. He was working the pool table all by himself, knocking the striped balls into the pockets with increasing ferocity.
“I thought you guys were moving me,” he said again. Castle had told me this was something of an about-face from his earlier requests.
Banner said, “Given the weather conditions and the events in Rapid City earlier, we felt it would—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Hatcher said, cutting her off midsentence and holding a hand up as if to ward off further words. “Why don’t you—”
“Wardell’s out there right now,” I cut in. “He’s out in those woods and he’s ready to put a bullet in you. Any vehicle leaves this place, he’s going to know exactly who’s in it.”
Hatcher snorted and put the cue down on the edge of the table.
“And, in point of fact, you probably wouldn’t make it to the vehicle,” I continued. “Likely as not, he could drop you as soon as you stuck your head out of the door.”
“You know how to put a guy at ease, Agent.”
I ignored the assumption. “I don’t want you at ease, Hatcher. People at ease take things for granted. They don’t look over their shoulder when they walk down the street.”
He walked over to a couch pushed up against one of the walls, then changed his mind and paced the other way, scratching behind his ear angrily.
“I gotta get out of here,” he said suddenly, turning and heading for the stairs.
Castle put a hand on his left shoulder. “You’re staying here.”
Hatcher tried to shrug the hand off, then pushed Castle back when that didn’t work. “Get the fuck off of me.”
A scuffle broke out, Castle trying to restrain Hatcher as the other man tried to connect with a couple of wild swings. I moved to intervene as one of Hatcher’s swipes connected with Castle’s nose and he yelled in pain. I didn’t expend too much effort, just put a couple of smooth, practiced moves into action, and all of a sudden I had Hatcher pinned against the rough concrete wall with his right arm twisted up between his shoulder blades. Hatcher had fifty pounds on me, but he was the one who was doing the yelping.
“Do what we tell you,” I said, speaking slowly and deliberately, “or you’re dead.” It sounded more like a direct threat when I said it, but I figured that wouldn’t necessarily hurt.
Banner approached from the side. “I don’t want you dead, Mr. Hatcher. It looks shitty on the report.” She glanced at Castle, who was holding his bloody nose between thumb and index finger. “You okay?”
Castle nodded. “I hope that fucking hurts.”
“Okay, okay, just let me go,” Hatcher said.
I held him another few seconds and let him yell again before, warily, I relaxed my grip.
Hatcher stumbled over to the couch and slumped down on it. Then he did the last thing any of us expected. He put his head in his hands and started to cry. There was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by Hatcher’s muffled sobs.
“Why me?” he said, then raised his head to look up at Castle, who was still tending his nose. “Why me?”
Castle glanced up at the ceiling, above which the million-dollar house sat. Nobody spoke. Outside, the sound of the rain hitting the ground seemed to get louder, as though the elements were stepping up their assault. Then there was a dull sound like something heavy being dropped, and all of us looked up.
“What was that?” Banner asked.
“Nothing good,” I replied.
A minute later, the door at the top of the stairs was flung open.
“We’ve got to clear the building,” yelled one of the big agents from the top of the stairs.
“What the hell is going on?” Banner demanded.
“Fire.”
They weren’t kidding. You could smell the smoke halfway up the stairs. “What happened?” I said, addressing the agent who’d opened the door as we ascended.
“North side of the building’s on fire. We need to get the hell out of here ASAP.” He held the door as we emerged into the entrance hall, which was already filling with smoke. As I watched, part of the ceiling at the far side of the room gave way, a shower of flaming debris raining down from above.
I grabbed his arm. “What the hell happened?”
“Looks like a fire broke out in the shed containing the gas cylinders. Agent Wetherspoon’s out there. He says it went up like the Fourth of July. We have to clear the building, sir.”