James Patterson - I, Alex Cross

"There will be some heavy hitters inside, but for us, it's going to be SOP all around," Ned told the group. "I want SWAT in first, then agents, and I want all exits secure at all times. You should be prepared for any scenario, including sexual situations and even violent resistance. I'm not expecting the latter, but it's possible; anything is. The idea is to work fast and safe, and to clear this place out as cleanly as we can."

Surveillance showed that the main house had entrances on the north, south, and east sides. Mahoney divided us into three units accordingly. I'd be going in the front door with him. There were also several outbuildings, which were supposed to be empty, at least tonight. I couldn't help wondering about the kind of parties held in them.

Before we left, Ned gave me an FBI jacket and a new Aramid vest from the back of his car. The vest was lighter than anything I'd used before, which was okay, since we were hiking in from a couple of miles away.

It took forty-five minutes to get there through pretty thick woods and brush. After the first mile or so, we switched to night vision only, those with goggles leading those without.

All conversation dropped off at that point, except for the occasional radio exchange between Mahoney and the SWAT commander.

The main house came up quickly over a steep rise, all three stories of it. We hung just out of sight, about seventy-five yards off the front. Ned sent SWAT out to do a quick three sixty, and I borrowed a pair of binoculars for a better look while we waited for the action to start.

It was a really large limestone mansion; there's no other word for it. And the driveway was a virtual car show tonight – Mercedes, Rolls, Bentley, even a vintage Lamborghini and a red Ferrari.

Tall mullioned windows ran along the first floor, which was well lit inside, but there were no people that I could see. Presumably, the action was taking place upstairs, where all the windows were dark or at least shaded.

Was this where Caroline had been killed? The thought came over me like a shroud. Was it also where her body had been so horribly desecrated? For that matter, were we about to crack open somebody's butcher shop or just a rich man's playground? It was a strange feeling to have no idea what to expect.

Word finally came back to Mahoney. I couldn't hear anything from his headset, but it looked like the main event was about to happen. He radioed a standby to the other units, which had spread out around the property, and then gave me that gallows humor grin of his.

"You ready for Coitus Interruptus?"

"As I'll ever be," I said.

"Here we go, then. Should be a gas." He went back to his headset and counted off. "All units, on the ready. Don't hurt anybody; don't get hurt."

A few seconds later, SWAT was out of the woods with the rest of us just behind, sprinting toward the impressive house of ill repute.

AN EXPENSIVE-LOOKING WALNUT front door splintered and then gave way. SWAT was inside with no difficulty. I had my Glock out, hoping I wouldn't have to use it. The last time Ned and I had worked together, we'd both been shot.

Not this time, I hoped. This was white-collar crime, wasn't it? As soon as we got the "all clear" from SWAT, Ned left two men at the door, then led everyone else inside.

My first impression was just, well, money .

The foyer was three stories high, with a checkerboard marble floor and huge chandeliers dangling like outrageous jewels overhead. The furniture was gleaming antiques, and there was something odd about the light. It looked like gold in here.

The second impression I got was of stunningly beautiful women – a lot of them – some in evening gowns, others in various stages of undress. Three were naked and not being very shy about it, hands on their hips like we'd just busted into an apartment they all shared.

The escorts, expensive ones . From clean-cut all-American to exotic Far Eastern.

I moved through the foyer and turned right, past another agent shuttling two dark-skinned men speaking Arabic and a tall black woman toward the front. All three were naked, and they were cursing out the agents as if they were household help.

I passed open, empty parlors on either side, then came to a glass-walled smoking room at the end of the house. It stank of cigars and sex, but nobody was inside at the moment.

When I doubled back, I could hear shouting from near the entrance. Somebody was objecting to our presence – and loudly.

"Get your hands off me! Don't touch me, you wanker!" A tall blond man with an English accent was attempting to come down the big main staircase while two FBI agents held him back.

"This is an illegal search, goddamnit !" The Englishman had some spine; I could see that much. They finally had to put him down on the marble landing just to get a zip tie around his wrists.

I took the stairs two at a time, to where Mahoney was trying to question the guy. "Are you in charge here? You're Nicholson, right?"

"Piss off! I've already called my attorney. You're trespassing, every one of you." He was well over six feet and didn't seem to be losing steam. "You're breaking the law just being here. This is private property. Goddamnit, let me up! This is an outrage. This is a private party in a private house."

"Keep him separated from the others," Mahoney told the agents. "I don't want Mr. Nicholson talking to anyone else."

We quickly established a couple of holding areas on the first floor and started working through the house, culling the paying customers from the staff, taking names as best we could.

"Yes, my name is Nicholson – very soon you won't be able to forget it!" I heard from one of the rooms. " Nicholson, like the moving-picture star."

IT WAS AS bizarre a raid as I'd seen since I'd been on the force. Pretty funny, actually, if you have a sense of humor like mine.

We pulled one joker out of a concrete-block room, where he was still manacled to the wall in his thong underwear, presumably ditched there by his dominatrix. In fact, most of the people I saw were in one state of undress or another – completely naked, satin underwear, skimpy see-through robes – and one soaking-wet couple in towels, including turbans, the male smoking a cigar.

The men were a mix of Saudi and American. From what I gleaned, one was a billionaire by the name of Al-Hamad. He was having a birthday party that night. And a very happy fiftieth to you. One you won't forget.

We kept the English manager – if that was what he was – in a small study downstairs. By the time I got back to him, he'd settled into a stubborn silence. When I asked about the bruise on his cheek, Mahoney told me he'd taken to spitting at the arresting officer. Never a good idea.

I stood in the doorway, watching him sulk on an antique settee, surrounded by high shelves of books I couldn't imagine anyone had ever read. He was obviously a nasty son of a bitch and presumably a pimp. But was he also a killer? And why was he acting so arrogant about the raid?

His lawyer got there less than an hour later, wearing suspenders and a bow tie in the middle of the night. If I'd seen him on the street, I'd never have expected he was tied into something like this. He was Dilbert, minus the pocket protector.

Unfortunately, his paperwork was very good.

"What's this?" Mahoney asked, as the lawyer handed it over to him.

"Motion to quash. As of this moment, your ex parte's void, and this raid is illegal. My client will generously allow you five minutes to clear out. After that, we're looking at contempt of court and criminal trespassing."