Jeffery Deaver - The Twelfth Card

“Yes, sir.” She then explained about the residences across the street and reminded them that Boyd might target the civilians living there in an attempt to escape. Haumann nodded. “I need somebody to clear those places, at least get people away from the front windows and keep ’em off the streets.”

Nobody wanted this job, of course. If ESU cops had been cowboys, Haumann was asking for somebody to volunteer to be cook.

The silence was broken by a voice. “Hell, I’ll take it.” It was Lon Sellitto. “Perfect for an old guy like me.”

Sachs glanced at him. The detective had just flunked his knuckle time. His nerve had broken. He gave a carefree grin, maybe the saddest smile Sachs had ever seen in her life.

Into his mike the ESU head said, “All teams, deploy to holding perimeter. And S and S, let me know the minute there’s a change in the premises, K.”

“Roger. Out.”

Sachs said into her microphone, “We’re going in, Rhyme. I’ll let you know what happens.”

“Got it,” he said tersely.

Nothing more was said between them. Rhyme didn’t like her going into combat. But he knew how driven she was, how any threat to an innocent infuriated her, how it was important for her to make sure people like Thompson Boyd didn’t get away. This was part of her nature and he’d never suggested she stand down at times like this.

Didn’t mean he was going to be cheerful about it, though.

But then thoughts of Lincoln Rhyme faded as they started into position.

Sachs and Sellitto were walking up the alley, she to join the entry team, he to continue on to the residences across the street and get the people there under cover. The lieutenant’s phony grin was gone. The man’s face looked puffy and was dotted with sweat, despite the cool temperature. He wiped it, scratched the invisible bloodstain and noticed her looking at him. “Fucking body armor. Hot.”

“Hate it,” Sachs said. They continued steadily down the alley, until they got close to the back of Boyd’s apartment, where the troops were deploying. Suddenly she grabbed Sellitto’s arm and pulled him back. “Somebody’s watching…” But as they stepped close to the building, Sachs tripped over a trash bag and went down hard on her leg. She gasped, wincing and cradling her knee.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she said, climbing to her feet with a grimace. She called into her radio, in a breathless voice, “Five Eight Eight Five, I saw movement in a second-floor window, rear of the building. S and S, can you confirm?”

“No hostiles. That’s one of our people you’re seeing, K.”

“Roger. Out.”

Sachs started forward, limping.

“Amelia, you’re hurt.”

“Nothing.”

“Tell Bo.”

“It’s not a problem.”

The fact that she suffered from arthritis was well known to the inner circle – Rhyme, Mel Cooper and Sellitto – but that was about it. She went to great lengths to hide her malady, worried that the brass would sideline her on a medical if they found out. She reached into her slacks pocket and pulled out a packet of painkillers, ripped it open with her teeth and swallowed the pills dry.

Over the radio they heard Bo Haumann’s voice: “All teams form up, K.”

Sachs moved forward to the main entry team. The limp was worse.

Sellitto pulled her aside. “You can’t go in.”

“It’s not like I’m going to run him to ground, Lon. I’m just going to secure the scene.”

The detective turned toward the CP truck, hoping he’d find someone to ask about the situation, but Haumann and the others had already deployed.

“It’s better. It’s fine.” She limped forward.

One of the officers on Team A called in a whisper to Sachs, “Detective, you ready?”

“Yeah.”

“No, she’s not.” Sellitto turned to the officer. “She’s getting the civvies out of the way. I’m going in with you guys.”

“You?”

“Yeah, me. There a fucking problem?”

“No, sir.”

“Lon,” she whispered, “I’m fine.”

The big detective responded, “I know enough about crime scenes to secure the place. Rhyme’s been busting my chops for years to get it right.”

“I’m not going to be sprinting.”

“Yeah, maybe not, but could you drop into a combat pose if he lights you up with that fucking gun of his?”

“Yes, I could,” she answered firmly.

“Well, I don’t think so. So quit arguing and get the civvies safe.” He cinched his body armor tighter and drew his revolver.

She hesitated.

“That’s an order, Detective.”

She looked at him darkly. But as independent as Sachs was – some would use the word “renegade” – the portable’s daughter knew her place in the ranks of the New York City Police Department. She said, “All right…but here, take this.” She drew her fifteen-round Glock and handed it to him, along with an extra clip. She took his six-shot revolver.

He looked down at the large black automatic. It was a gun with a trigger pull as delicate as a moth’s wing. If he handled this weapon wrong, like he’d done on Elizabeth Street yesterday, he could easily kill himself or somebody on the entry team. Rubbing his cheek once more, Sellitto glanced at the apartment. And hurried to join the others.

Crossing the street to clear the apartments and houses, Sachs glanced back and watched them go. She turned and continued on to the apartments and houses across the street.

The limp was gone.

In fact, she was fine. The only pain she felt was disappointment that she wasn’t on point with the entry team. But she’d had to fake the fall and injury. For Lon Sellitto’s sake. She couldn’t think of any way to save him except by forcing him to take on the job. She’d assessed the risk of his going in on a team and decided that there was minimal threat to him or to anybody else – there’d be plenty of backup, everybody was in armor and they were catching their perp by surprise. Sellitto also seemed to have some measure of control over his fear. She recalled the deliberation with which he’d held and examined the Glock, how his quick eyes had looked over the perp’s building.

But in any event there really was no choice. Sellitto was a great cop. But if he stayed skittish he’d cease to be any kind of cop at all and his life would be over with. Those splinters of self-doubt had a way of infecting your entire soul. Sachs knew; she battled them constantly herself. If he didn’t go back into combat now, he’d give up.

She picked up her pace; after all, she did have an important job here, clearing the residences across the street, and she had to move fast; the entry team was going inside at any minute. Sachs started ringing doorbells and getting people out of front rooms and making sure they stayed inside for the time being behind locked doors. She radioed Bo Haumann on the secure tactical frequency and told him that the immediate houses were clear; she’d keep going with those that were farther away, up and down the street.

“Okay, we’re going in,” the man said tersely and disconnected.

Sachs continued along the street. She found her fingernail digging into her thumb. Reflecting on the irony: Sellitto fidgeted going into a fight; Amelia Sachs was edgy when she had to stay out of harm’s way.

Lon Sellitto followed the four officers up the dim stairs, to the second-floor landing of the apartment.

Breathing hard from the climb, he paused, caught his breath. The tactical cops huddled, waiting for word from Haumann that the electricity to the apartment had been cut – they didn’t want any more electrocutions.

While they waited the big detective had a talk with himself: Are you ready for this?