Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

In five or ten or twenty minutes, they would devour the meat entirely. And the weight would begin its fall.

Despair.

But then came a flash of joy.

Yes, yes, thank you, God, praise be to Him. He had remembered his daughter’s name.

Muna...

At least he would have her name — and the memory of her happy face, her thick curly hair — to accompany him to his death.

They tried. Both of them tried, slamming into the front door of the farmhouse.

But houses built in an era before alarms, when solid oak and maple had to provide the front line of defense, were not easily breached. Then or now.

Ercole had called Rossi again, who in turn had located the closest police station. It was the rival Carabinieri, but for a case like this every officer in Italy was on the same side. A car would be there in ten to fifteen minutes. The Police of State dispatched earlier would be about the same.

‘Shoot the lock out,’ Ercole said to Sachs.

‘That doesn’t work. Not with handguns.’

They circled the farmhouse quickly, still staying vigilant. They had no evidence that the Composer wasn’t inside or nearby. And by now he could know he had visitors. And would have seen or at least guessed it was police.

Ercole stumbled over an old garden hose and jumped back to his feet, wincing. He’d cut his palm on some broken crockery. Not badly. She was keeping her eyes — and concentration — on the windows, looking for both threats and for a means of entry.

She found one. A window in the back, one they’d looked through earlier, was unlocked.

Out came her small but blinding tactical flashlight. ‘Stay back, away from the window,’ she called to Ercole.

He dropped into a crouch. She clicked the light on and, holding it in her left hand, high above her head, stepped quickly to the window and played the beam inside while aiming the Beretta with her right. If the Composer were inside, armed and ready to shoot, he would instinctively aim for the light or near it. She might take a round in the arm but would have a second or two to fire before she collapsed in pain.

Or died from a brachial artery shot.

But the room yawned back, its only occupants dusty boxes and furniture covered with mismatched sheets as drop cloths.

‘Boost me up.’

He helped her inside, then he vaulted the sill and joined her.

They walked to the closed door that led to the hallway.

He tapped her arm. She smiled. He was holding out rubber bands.

They put them on their feet. He whispered, ‘But no gloves. Tactical.’

Nodding, she whispered, ‘We clear every room. That means we assume that he’s on the other side of any closed door or he’s hiding behind anything big enough to hide behind. I’ll hit the room once, fast, with the light, high, like I did at the window. Then back to cover. Then we go in low , crouching. He’ll be expecting us standing. And I mean low .’

‘And if we find him and he doesn’t surrender, we shoot for his arms or legs?’

She frowned. ‘No, if he’s armed, we kill him.’

‘Oh.’

‘Shoot here.’ She touched her upper lip, just below the nose. ‘To hit the brain stem. Three shots. Are you okay with that?’

‘I—’

‘You have to be okay with it, Ercole.’

‘I am.’ A firm nod. ‘ Sì. D’accordo. ’

A few deep breaths, and so began the hunt. This was a game you never got used to, a game you hated and yet was the most exquisite drug ever concocted.

First, she directed him to the den, where she’d seen the rifle. They cleared the room and she lifted the gun down and removed and pocketed the bolt, so it couldn’t fire. Then they began a room-by-room search, from the back of the house to the front. Most rooms were empty. There was a small bedroom that had to be the Composer’s. A single Converse Con sat beside the bed.

The kitchen, too, had been used with some frequency.

They continued on.

And hit every room on the ground floor of the place, then upstairs. The Composer was not here.

Finally, they returned to the door that Sachs believed led to the cellar.

She tested the wrought-iron latch slowly. It was unlocked.

Amelia Sachs hated basements. With a full tactical operation, you could pitch down a flash bang grenade, stun a barricaded suspect and leap down fast. But now? Just the two of them? She’d have to descend the stairs, her legs then hips then torso in full view of whatever weapon the Composer had. When he’d stolen the rifle, had he gotten away with a pistol as well?

Two shots to the knees and she’d fall, helpless and screaming in pain, ready for the final kill.

She glanced up and noted that Ercole, while he would not have had any such experience, was determined and calm. She was confident he’d do fine, if anything happened to her.

She whispered, ‘If Khaled is anywhere, it’s down there. Or the garage. More likely here, I’m thinking. So let’s go. You pull the door. And I go down, fast.’

‘No, I will be the one.’

She smiled. ‘This is my thing, Ercole. I’ll go.’

‘Let me. If he fires or attacks you will be able to shoot him better than I can. It is not a subject I excelled in at training. Truffle smugglers rarely carry AK-Four-Sevens.’ A smile.

She gripped his arm. ‘All right. Go fast. Here’s the light.’

He took a deep breath. And muttered something. A name. Isabella, she believed. Maybe a saint.

‘Ready?’

He nodded.

She yanked the door open. It crashed into the wall with a cloud of dust.

Neither moved for a moment.

It wasn’t a cellar. It was a closet. Empty.

Breathing fast.

‘Okay. Garage. We need something to break the padlock.’

They rummaged for tools and, in the kitchen, Ercole found a large hatchet. They left the house and made their way, crouching, to the outbuilding.

They prepared for entry again — different this time, since they could both establish a field of fire. He would break the lock and pull the sliding door open, while Sachs crouched and aimed into the small building with her flashlight and Beretta. He would do the same.

She nodded.

One swing of the tool and the padlock flew off. He yanked the door open... and just like the closet, empty space greeted them.

A sigh. They put their weapons away and walked back to the house.

‘Let’s see what we can find.’

How much time did they have until Khaled died? Not much.

They walked into the living room and, donning blue gloves now, looked over the desk, the papers, files, notes, strings. Searching for anything that might give a clue where the Composer and Khaled might be.

Her phone hummed — she’d put it on silent before the entry.

‘Rhyme,’ she said into the microphone attached to her earbud cords. ‘It’s his hidey-hole. But they’re not here. The Composer or the vic.’

‘Massimo says the Carabinieri should be there any minute.’

She could hear the sirens.

Rhyme said, ‘There’s not much time. He’s uploaded his video. Massimo sent the link to Ercole’s phone. The Postal Police are trying to track his proxies through the Far East. He doesn’t have Edward Snowden’s chops but it’ll still be a few hours before they get a specific site.’

‘We’ll keep at it here, Rhyme.’

She disconnected and continued the search, telling the Forestry officer, ‘Check your phone.’

Ercole showed her the screen. ‘Here.’

The video showed the unconscious form of Khaled Jabril, sitting in a chair, a noose around his neck, mouth gagged. Even through the small speakers of the mobile, it was easy to hear the bass beat, keeping time to the waltz that played underneath the visuals. The tune was eerie.