“Power going out in three, two, one.”
The officer brought his hand down and cut the electricity to the building. The illuminated windows went dark and the team moved in, Vail bringing up the rear.
They entered quickly and efficiently, the powerful LED lights mounted to their MP5 submachine guns scouring the darkness. They whispered into their helmet mics, keeping the team informed of the rooms that were cleared.
As they continued toward the back of the apartment, Vail heard a clunk above her. She almost blurted something over the radio but then remembered her microphone was not live; this prevented an accidental transmission that could disrupt the team’s rhythm and procedure. Instead, she used a hand signal to notify the closest operator that she sensed movement above her. He did not seem to notice, however, as he moved on, focused on what lay ahead and not on Vail, who was behind him in an area they had cleared, and thus considered safe.
Vail broke ranks and stepped back toward the area where the noise came from. Nothing. Regardless, the team would be heading up to the second story any minute.
As she turned back toward the men ahead of her — who were stacked in line, ascending the stairwell — her light caught the edge of a wall that looked artificial. She stepped closer, keeping the clean Glock .40-caliber handgun she had been issued focused squarely ahead. She turned on the green tactical laser mounted below the barrel and held it at an angle, getting a good look at a wall seam that should not have been there.
There was no external doorknob or other type of pull tag. If this was in fact a faux wall, something was likely concealed behind it.
Vail again looked down the hall at the team — but they had already moved on to the next level. She activated her mic and quietly said, “This is Vail. I’ve got what looks like a fake door to a hidden space opposite the living room.”
“Roger that,” the voice whispered back. “Hold tight. We’ll double back once we’ve cleared the second story.”
Vail backed up a step, waiting, the pistol still trained on the wall. A creak — and then a clunk.
She ground her jaw. That noise she heard earlier was not from above, but from behind the wall.
Using two fingers from her left hand, she felt along her utility belt and pulled out a long black handcuff key, which she inserted into the crack. She pried it forward, trying to work quietly but getting frustrated that she didn’t have a crow bar — which would’ve popped the damn thing open after one or two pushes.
This is ridiculous. Whoever’s in there knows what I’m doing.
Vail finally got enough leverage to grab the edge of what was clearly a door. She pulled it toward her as she simultaneously raised the handgun.
Hector DeSantos remained in formation, behind and at the end of the Bravo Team stack, understanding the reason for chain of command but disliking it nonetheless. As a person accustomed to leading, he did not enjoy following. But he had been down this road before as a member of Delta Force. He knew how to take orders. The difference was that in the intervening years he had learned how to take the initiative and evaluate those orders for himself, and then change — or massage — them when the need arose.
If he was confident in his convictions and analysis, and everything turned out well, he could explain it later. It was difficult to argue with success. But not impossible. There were times when he was right — but was reprimanded because he had not carried out his mission as commanded.
The thing was, the people he worked for in OPSIG knew who he was and what they were getting. And he was exceptionally good at his job. Sometimes that was enough to keep him out of trouble. On rare occasions it was not.
DeSantos focused on the men ahead of him. They were stationed at the rear door to the apartment building in case one or more of the tangos decided to leave while Alpha Team was infiltrating from the front.
They monitored the situation on a small LCD screen, taking the feed from Alpha commander’s helmet cam. As the operators burst into a room, DeSantos saw movement out of the corner of his eye, fifty feet to his left. “Hey,” he shouted. “Hold it right there!”
The man glanced at DeSantos and wisely decided it was smarter to run.
“Tango at nine o’clock.”
Two operators joined DeSantos and they headed off in pursuit, running down the six steps and along the concrete retaining wall that fronted small grass lawns. The perp had a decent lead on them, but as they closed the gap — not easy lugging thirty pounds of equipment — an SUV approached. The driver sped up and DeSantos cursed under his breath.
“That better not be what I think it is. Either of you got a clear shot?”
“Got it,” said Wickford, the team member to his left, as he ran into the middle of the street and took up a position with his MP5 aimed squarely at the vehicle.
The SUV screeched to a stop and the fleeing tango got in. The truck reversed rapidly, swinging side to side, slamming into the parked cars to its left and right, moving toward the main drag, where it had come from.
“Goddamn,” DeSantos said, huffing it down the sidewalk, in senseless foot pursuit of the moving vehicle.
Wickford got off several short bursts, striking the grill and headlights but apparently missing the target.
The SUV swung left at the end of the road, made an abrupt pivot, and headed west on M Street SW. Because OPSIG was black, there was no one to call it into, no dispatcher who could get a cruiser or two to take up pursuit.
DeSantos joined the two operators and immediately engaged Wickford. “What the hell happened? How’d you miss?”
“Mission objective’s to take the men alive. I was trying to hit the tires but the asshole was swerving all over the place. As it was, I took a risk.”
DeSantos knew Wickford was right, but he still bristled at letting two terrorists slip their net. It was embarrassing. He kicked a rock and watched it bounce along the asphalt.
Vail saw the man too late. He slammed the door into her face, knocking her to the floor, then ran past her and out the front.
Vail was on her feet an instant later, headed in the same direction — but moving cautiously in case he was waiting outside to shoot, or stab, her.
She scanned the street, painting the area with her light. The mature trees with their dense trunks and branches and cars lining the curb made it tough to get a clear view of the landscape. As precious seconds passed, she saw nothing.
Then — movement above: in the darkness to her left, against the cloud-patched moonlit sky, she saw a man running along the roof, negotiating its aggressive slope. The apartment compound appeared to be blocks long, consisting of attached rows of homes that ran parallel to one another.
He had a different build from the tango who flattened her on the way out of the house, but nobody would be sprinting across the tops of homes late at night unless he happened to be a criminal trying to evade law enforcement.
“FBI, don’t move!”
She had to laugh at that one herself: like this terrorist, who might be a suicide bomber, would suddenly stop, raise his hands above his head and say, “Aw, shucks. Ya got me.”
She keyed her mic. “Got a runner, headed north on the rooftops. I’m in pursuit.”
“Charlie Team acknowledging. On our way.”
That was Uzi’s voice, she was sure of it. That was the good news. The bad news was that these townhouses formed the largest blocks of contiguous buildings she had ever seen. But it was easier running on flat ground than a canted roof, so the perp would have to tire before she did — and then she would be waiting for him.