Джек Марс - House Divided

The screens marked NEWSAM and RODRIGUEZ both showed a snowy walkway, and a red door at the top of some steps. ANDERSON showed an alleyway, a house to the right and bushes to the left. ANDERSON was moving fast. STAMOS showed the same view, except with a tall man in a yellow safety vest running just ahead, slipping and sliding just a bit in the snow. MARSHALL and KING showed a tall wooden fence, then the POVs went right over the top of it. Now there was a tan house with a wide back porch covered in snow.

“Agents converging,” Swann said. “Anytime you’re ready, Ed.”

The camera marked NEWSAM was right in front of the red door. A hand reached out and its index finger pressed the doorbell.

Ding-dong!

The camera marked STAMOS showed a thin black man, also in a yellow reflective vest, and with his visor in place now, standing with his fist in the air. Then the camera turned to a back door.

Luke held his breath. They were about to take that door down with a battering ram. Then they were going to throw a stun grenade in, a so-called flash-bang. Both of these things would make loud noises. Luke didn’t love loud noises. The flash-bang would make one hell of a loud noise.

Just then, he got a text on his phone. It vibrated in his hand; he had set it to silent mode. He glanced down. It was Gunner.

Hi Dad. Where r u?

“Spell out your words!” he said in his mind. The simplified Orwellian language kids used in texts drove him crazy. Still, he let it drop.

He texted back. At work. Where are you?

Snow day 2day. Wanna get lunch?

Luke smiled. Did he want to get lunch with Gunner? Of course he did.

“Back porch, go!” Swann said, nearly shouting. “Go! Go! Go!”

On the screen marked KING, two men reared back and swung the battering ram.

“Help you?” the man who answered the front door said.

He was a young guy in a blue T-shirt and red track pants, flip-flops on his bare feet. His brown eyes were flat and more than a little annoyed. His hair stood up in tufts. He had a full beard.

“Yes, hello,” Ed said. He indicated the clipboard in his left hand, and tiny Rodriguez standing to his right. “We’re from the electric utility. We’ve been getting reports of power outages from the storm in this neighborhood. We need to come in and check your smart meter to see if your system is working properly.”

The guy made a sort of grimace. “What? Why would you have to – ”

Suddenly, there was a loud noise somewhere deep in the house.

BAM!

The guy turned halfway around. It sounded like something in the kitchen had —

Ed punched him in the side of the head. He didn’t rear back – he just uncorked it from halfway. It wasn’t hard enough. The guy’s eyes were dazed, but he was still conscious and on his feet. Ed stepped in, slid a foot behind the guy’s legs, and shoved him onto the floor.

“Rodriguez!” he shouted and ran past the guy. Somewhere, in his peripheral vision, through the eyes in the back of his head, he saw Rodriguez jump on the guy, already turning him onto his face and zip-tying his hands, almost in one movement.

Ed walked down the hallway, moving fast. His Glock had appeared in his hands.

“Flash-bang coming!” someone shouted inside his helmet. “Flash-bang coming.”

He stopped, shut his eyes, and ducked back.

Even behind closed eyes, he could see the flash. Even with his ears protected by sound cancellers, he could hear and feel the explosion.

BOOOM!

Somewhere down the hallway, a child started crying. A young woman appeared, carrying a baby in her arms. She ran past Ed, her face frozen in terror.

Up ahead, four large men suddenly swarmed into the house, shrieking, “Down! Down! Get DOWN!”

The stairs to the upper floor were to Ed’s left. He bounded up them, two at a time. If the floor plans were correct, the master bedroom was to the right. He turned that way at the top of the stairs. He could feel, rather than see, another man right behind him. There was a door straight ahead.

He ran at that door full speed. Surprise was everything today. Speed was everything. He hit the door without slowing down, giving it his right shoulder, blasting through it. It was a cheap wooden door – it looked nice, but there was nothing to it.

Ed came crashing into the room head first, rolling to the ground. A bald man in a sleeveless T-shirt and boxer shorts was crouched on the ground in front of him, pawing through a box.

He turned. He held a small revolver in his hand – an old .38 special.

A shadow flew over Ed, reached the old man, and knocked his gun sideways just as he fired it.

BANG!

Then the old man was on his back, the shadow now resolved into a man – a man with a yellow reflecting vest on. The SRT man – it was Anderson, the former Delta operator – put a forearm across the old man’s throat. The .38 caliber slid away across the floor.

“I think this is the subject,” Anderson said over his shoulder.

Ed stood. “All clear?” Ed said into his microphone. “Give me your all clears.”

“All clear.”

“All clear.”

“All clear.”

“Anybody hurt? Anybody down?”

“We’ve got two young guys trussed up downstairs,” a voice said behind him. Ed turned and it was King. “They’re down, but not hurt. Rodriguez corralled the women and kids and has them in the living room.”

Ed glanced at the bed. It was an old rickety cot. The blankets were kicked all over the place. A pair of eye shades was on the floor. The old man had probably been asleep just a minute ago.

Anderson had zip-tied him and was in the process of putting a black canvas bag over his head.

“Mustafa Boudiaf?” Ed said.

The old man shook his head. “Who wants to know?”

Ed turned back to King. He looked right into King’s body cam. He smiled pretty for the folks back home.

“You seeing this, Stone? Smooth as glass. Hard, fast, totally devastating. No chance for meaningful resistance. That’s how you do the tumultuous entry.”

11:45 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

McLean, Virginia

They met in a diner just across from the famous one-arch McDonald’s. The place was ten minutes from headquarters. Luke was there early, nursing a coffee. He sat in a booth at a big bay window, half-watching CNN on the big TV mounted behind the serving counter.

Luke had just spent two hours with Mustafa Boudiaf. He was having trouble getting it out of his mind.

The one place in the SRT headquarters where smoking was allowed was the interrogation room. They had given Boudiaf coffee and cigarettes, and he had drunk and smoked the entire time. But that didn’t soften him up any.

Boudiaf wanted a lawyer. Boudiaf wanted a phone call. Boudiaf wanted to know if he was under arrest. Boudiaf had apparently watched a lot of television.

“What do you know about the plane crash in Egypt?” Ed said.

The sight of a giant black man looming over him didn’t seem to hold any terror for Boudiaf. He shook his head. “I don’t know anything about a plane crash. I was asleep when you invaded my home.”

“Where did all your furniture go?” Ed said.

Boudiaf shrugged. “I am very poor. That’s America. I work all the time, but I have no money. I don’t have any furniture. What you saw is all I have.”

Luke nearly laughed. “What if I told you we know you sent all your furniture to Pennsylvania three days ago? That’s a strange thing to do, isn’t it? Send your furniture and all your belongings inland? Why would someone do that?”

Luke paused.

“Is that what you were doing?”

Boudiaf looked at him. “Who are you, please?”