There was another plus. Amazon delivered every day of the week, including Sundays, often at odd hours. No other delivery company did that.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Daniels asked.
They sat in Daniels’s rental a block from Rhoden and Butler’s residence in Oakland Park. The neighborhood was a testimonial to suburbia, with two cars parked in every driveway and landscaping so well maintained that it looked artificial. It was just past nine o’clock in the evening. It had taken two hours for Daniels’s team of local FBI agents to assemble. The backup unit consisted of five male agents ranging in age from early thirties to late forties. Apparently, Daniels liked them big, and the men looked like the offensive line of a college football team.
A few minutes earlier, Daniels had done a drive-by of Rhoden and Butler’s house. An older vehicle sat in the driveway, and the windows were lit up. Through a filmy curtain covering the front window, dancing images on a TV screen were visible.
“Of course I’m sure,” he replied. “Drawing suspects out is my specialty. When I was a SEAL, my unit commander always sent me in first. My appearance threw people off, and they’d let their guard down.”
“I still want you to wear a vest,” she insisted.
“Beneath my shirt? That won’t work.”
“You could get shot.”
“I’ve dealt with worse people than these two, and no one’s put a bullet in me so far,” he said reassuringly. “Stop worrying.”
“Don’t tell me not to worry,” she said.
The concern in her voice was not the professional kind. She cared about him. He had helped her find her adversaries, and now there was a bond between them. He reached across the front seat and gave her arm a squeeze.
“I’m also good on the draw,” he said.
“You’re carrying?” she asked.
He lifted the front of his shirt to reveal the Ruger tucked beneath his belt.
“When did you put that there?” she asked.
“When you weren’t looking,” he said.
“How good a shot are you?”
“I’ve won medals for my marksmanship, and I don’t miss at close range. If Rhoden or Butler get Western on me, I’ll take them both out of the picture.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.” He paused. “Now let’s get these monsters.”
They got out. He walked around to the driver’s side where she stood. She handed him the keys and crossed the road to where a pair of matching black sedans carrying the backup unit were parked. She gave him a parting nod before climbing into the lead sedan.
“Good luck,” her lips said.
He got into the rental and started the engine. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins, and his face was burning up. The world was filled with clever killers who mistakenly believed that they’d never be caught. This was not true. Karma had everyone’s address, and it was only a matter of time before a killer tripped up and was apprehended. He knew of no greater pleasure than of seeing the shock register across a suspect’s face when the cuffs got slapped on his wrists. He did a U-turn in the street, drove down the block to their suspects’ house, and made the front tire kiss the curb. Killing the engine, he found the button to pop the trunk and pressed it. Then he got out.
From the trunk he retrieved the brown cardboard Amazon delivery box that he’d gotten from his apartment, along with a clipboard. He was a Prime member and regularly got shipments sent to his condo. The Amazon box was the size of a hardcover book. He held the box in his left hand next to his body. He placed the clipboard on top of the box so it faced him. On the clipboard was a sheet of paper that contained blurred photographs of Rhoden and Butler, which he’d printed off their Facebook pages. Rhoden had a bald crown and a reddish discoloration on his neck that suggested he might suffer from eczema. Butler had a full head of hair and wore a pair of shades, which Lancaster guessed he wore when having his photograph taken to hide his discolored eye. Both men’s faces were soulless.
The backup sedans pulled in behind him and went silent. The front sedan flashed its brights, indicating they were ready to roll. He walked up the brick path to the front stoop. There was a screen door, which he tested and found locked. He pressed the buzzer and waited. The front door swung in, and a man holding a metal cane stood before him. The man wore a bathrobe that hung off his body like a tent. Lancaster glanced at the driver’s license photos on the clipboard and determined it was Rhoden.
“Good evening,” he said. “I have an Amazon delivery that needs to be signed for.”
Rhoden’s eyes narrowed, inherently suspicious. “I didn’t order anything from Amazon. You have the wrong address.”
“This is the right address. I checked the mailbox.” He consulted his clipboard. “Does Jack Butler live here? The package is for him.”
“Jack didn’t order anything either.”
His eyes returned to the clipboard. “It’s a gift.”
“A gift? From who?”
“I have no idea, sir. Is Mr. Butler here? I need to give him his package, and have him sign for it. Or you can sign for it.”
“Who’s that?” came a man’s voice from within the house.
“Guy from Amazon has a package, says it’s a gift for you,” Rhoden called over his shoulder.
“That must be from my sister. Sign for it.”
“What would your sister be sending you?” Rhoden asked.
“My birthday present,” said the voice.
“Your birthday was last month.”
“She’s always late. Sign for it.”
Rhoden didn’t want to open the screen door. Intuition was the messenger of fear, and Rhoden’s instincts were telling him that something was wrong with this picture. Maybe it was the nervous sweat matting Lancaster’s brow that tipped Rhoden off. Or maybe it was something else. It didn’t really matter; Rhoden knew something wasn’t right.
Only the voice inside the house was insistent. Sign for it. Rhoden went against his better judgment and unlocked the screen door and pushed it open. Lancaster passed the box through the opening. As it touched Rhoden’s hand and he felt its weight, his eyes grew wide in surprise.
“Wait a minute. This box is empty,” Rhoden said.
Lancaster grabbed the screen door with his left hand and pulled it wide open. His right hand lifted the front of his shirt and drew the Ruger. He pointed it at Rhoden’s chest.
“Lift your arms into the air,” he said.
The empty box fell from Rhoden’s hand. He continued to lean on his cane, while his other hand remained in front of his chest. His big bathrobe was a problem. Just about anything could be hidden behind it.
“Do it,” Lancaster said.
Rhoden didn’t comply. He was plotting his last stand. The bad ones often did, preferring to die by cop than rot away in a prison cell.
“Last chance,” he said.
Behind him he heard pounding footsteps on the lawn. Rhoden shifted his gaze as the FBI agents closed in. Bad thoughts flashed through his eyes. Lancaster used his free hand to grab the lapels of Rhoden’s bathrobe and hold them closed. He didn’t want to discharge his weapon and have to deal with all the legal crap that would follow. If Rhoden needed to be shot, he preferred to let Daniels or one of the other agents do it.
The FBI agents took over. Rhoden was pulled from the house and put on the ground. Daniels handcuffed him behind his back before frisking him. He was clean.