In the woods to our north, the HRT unit had the plywood-faced building surrounded. Thermals showed the four people were still inside, still lying flat or curled up. That didn’t seem right to me; they should have been sitting or standing. But maybe they hadn’t heard the gunfire? Or maybe they were restrained?
“HRT, go in and get them out,” Mahoney said over my headset. “Now.”
“Lower front hall clear,” said an agent inside the house.
“Walkout basement clear,” said another.
“Where is he?” Rawlins said from the front seat of Batra’s car. “Don’t tell me Edgars isn’t here.”
Even with the windows up, even with the heater going and the radio chatter in our ears, we all heard the first explosion.
Chapter 104
“HRT agent down,” the rescue commander said. “Repeat, HRT agent down. The place is booby-trapped.”
“Back out and contain,” Mahoney said. “How bad?”
“We’ll need Life Flight ASAP.”
“Calling now.”
On the radio, the search commander inside Edgars’s mansion said, “Watch for booby traps, gentlemen.”
“Kitchen clear,” said another.
“Home theater clear,” said a third.
“All first-floor closets and bathrooms clear,” said a fourth. “First floor cleared in full,” the commander said.
Bree and Sampson left Mahoney and started toward the mansion. I got anxious, felt claustrophobic, and opened the car door.
“You’re to remain in the car, Dr. Cross,” Batra said.
“I’m going to stand outside.” I got out and shut the door.
My wife and my partner entered Edgars’s house with the FBI agents inside already moving to clear the second story. Mahoney told the HRT commander that Life Flight was eleven minutes out and then he headed inside as well.
I caught some of the communications between the hostage-rescue commander and the incoming Life Flight medic. The agent had opened a door to the building and triggered a small explosive. He had shrapnel in his right thigh and a severed femoral artery. They’d applied direct pressure to the wound so he wouldn’t bleed out and were preparing to move him from the woods to the county road for pickup.
“Roger that,” the medic replied. “We are seven minutes out.”
An agent in the house said, “Second-floor landing and hallway clear.”
“All bedrooms cleared,” another said. “Place is empty, Cap.”
A high-pitched tone screeched through the headset, so loud I thought my eardrums would burst. I tore the headset off, stuck it in my pocket.
The dark second-floor windows facing the courtyard suddenly flashed as automatic-weapon fire broke out inside the house. Two guns, three, maybe more.
I took several limping steps toward the courtyard and the mansion, wanting to see Bree, Sampson, and Mahoney retreat out the front door. But they didn’t, and the shooting went on in bursts and waves, and—
“Dr. Cross!” Agent Batra yelled behind me.
I ignored her, pulled toward the violence, wanting to end it. But the gunfire stopped as I passed Mahoney’s Tahoe and entered the courtyard. I caught a flicker of motion in the third bay of the carriage house just before a second bomb exploded, much closer, on the other side of the mansion.
At the blast, the spotlights flickered and died. The shooting stopped too.
Then I heard a noise I’ll never forget — shrill, primitive, and terrified — coming from the carriage house.
I pulled out my weapon and flashlight and hobbled fast in that direction as something large and boxy tore out of the third bay. I got my flashlight beam on it as it was leaving the courtyard for the woods: a red-and-black side-by-side Honda Pioneer 1000 utility vehicle.
I caught only a glimpse of the driver and the front-seat passenger before it disappeared, but the blond teen in the bed, blindfolded, gagged, and hog-tied, was plain as day. Gretchen Lindel was writhing and trying to scream, and then she was gone.
“Batra!” I yelled, flashing the light around and seeing a Kawasaki ATV in the third bay. “Batra!”
The shooting started again inside, drowning my second cry.
Ignoring the pain shrieking in my ankle, I hobbled to the ATV, yanking the radio from my pocket and tearing free the headset cord, figuring to stop the feedback. But it was worse, and I had to turn the squelch almost off.
My flashlight found the ATV ignition but with no key in it. I lifted the seat, revealing a storage for helmets, and located the key. I straddled the seat, looked at the controls, turned on the headlights, and started the engine.
I roared out of the garage, praying Batra could see me, turned onto the two-track lane that went from the compound to the woods, and accelerated.
Chapter 105
Bree, Sampson, and Mahoney had gone into a large, open, and vaulted space on the main level of the mansion to wait while the upper floors were cleared. The room contained Edgars’s state-of-the-art kitchen, a rustic dining area, and several leather couches set before a massive stone fireplace that was flanked by built-in wooden cabinets and shelves crammed with books.
Sampson said, “Place looks spick-and-span.”
Mahoney nodded. “Ready for that Architectural Digest photographer.”
Their radios crackled: “Second-floor landing and hallway clear.” “All bedrooms cleared. Place is empty, Cap.”
Empty? That felt wrong to Bree. She’d been on edge since hearing the bomb explode in the distance. Why booby-trap the outer building and not—
A piercing whine went off in her earbud, the worst feedback ever, and she tore it out. Sampson did the same.
Across the room, Mahoney threw his down too. “What the hell is—”
Automatic weapons began to bark and rattle upstairs. Bree instinctively dived behind the kitchen counter with Sampson right beside her.
The shooting stopped, leaving them shaken and going for their guns.
“Agents down!” someone shouted upstairs. “Arthur and Boggs. Bedroom five. Far east end of upper hallway.”
The search commander at the bottom of the stairs bellowed back over the shooting, “How many? I thought the place was cleared!”
“It was, Cap! Shooters must have been—”
An explosion outside shook the house. The lights died.
“It’s an ambush!” Mahoney yelled from over by the couches. “They’re jamming our radios and cells. Bree, take Sampson and get out of here, establish communication with—”
Bree was about to turn on her flashlight when sound-suppressed automatic weapons lit up. She covered her head as slugs ripped into granite countertops, splintered cabinets, and shattered dishes.
The bullets moved left to right and then right to left, punching holes in the stainless-steel appliances, ten, maybe fifteen shots in all, raining debris down on Bree and Sampson before stopping.
Bree shook from fear and adrenaline. Smelling the burned gunpowder, she felt nauseated, but her mind whirled. Where was the shooter? Where had he hidden? Those cabinets weren’t big enough to hide a grown man, were they?
She felt a tug on her leg.
“Chief?” Sampson whispered. “You okay?”
“Fine. Where’s the shooter?”
“Hit,” Mahoney croaked.
The fear fled her. Bree flicked on her flashlight and belly-crawled across the kitchen tiles, calling, “How bad, Ned?”
Mahoney gasped. “Gut. You tell me.”
Somewhere a generator coughed and hummed. Dim light returned. Agents upstairs were shouting, but Bree ignored them.
“Where’s the shooter, Ned?” she called, louder.
“Behind me. Cabinets.”