Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

She looks at me then, really looks at me.

"Smoky . . ." Her voice trails off for a moment. "Whatever happens, don't let him hurt you or anyone else. Even if it means"--her voice cracks--"that it doesn't all work out the way I want it to. I can't be responsible for this anymore. No more. No more."

"You're not responsible, Sarah. Let it go. It's up to us now."

She looks away, and that's all she's going to say for now. Bonnie catches my eye and gives me a look.

Be careful, she's saying.

I smile.

"Always."

Elaina nods at me, bald and wonderful, and turns her inner beauty back to Sarah. If anyone can revive that girl's soul, Elaina can. Kirby appears at the door. "Ready to rock?" she asks, ever perky. Not really, I think, but let's go.

56

EVERY FBI FIELD OFFICE HAS ITS OWN SWAT TEAM. LIKE POLICESWAT, they spend every working hour training, unless they're handling an actual situation. They keep themselves on the knife-edge and they look it.

The team leader is an agent named Brady. I don't know Brady's first name. I only know him as Brady. He's in his mid-forties. He keeps his dark hair short and tight, military-style. He's tall, very tall, probably six foot four, with an all-business amiableness to him that is neither friendly nor unfriendly. Shaking hands with him is like shaking hands with a rock.

"This is your show, Agent Barrett," he says. "Just tell us what you need."

We're in the conference room on the floor below my offices. Everyone's present and looking grim. Except for Kirby. She's gazing at the six members of the SWAT team in a hungry way, like they're a bunch of yummy, overly fit hot fudge sundaes.

"Gustavo Cabrera," I begin, dropping an eight-by-ten photo we'd printed out of him. "Thirty-eight years old. He lives in a house in the Hollywood Hills. Big place, old place, sitting on four acres of land."

One of the SWAT members whistles. "That'll be worth some dough."

"We have maps of the location, as well as plans for the house." I drop them onto the table. "Here's the thing: We need him alive. But we're pretty sure that he's been told to get himself killed. He's probably got a decent arsenal, and I imagine he's supposed to make it look authentic."

"Swell," Brady says in a dry voice.

"On top of that, we need it to look authentic too. We don't want to kill Cabrera. But we want The Stranger to think we did."

"How are we going to do that, exactly? Without getting ourselves shot to hell, I mean?"

"Diversion, boys," Kirby says, stepping forward. "Diversion."

"Who the hell are you?" Brady asks.

"Just a blonde with a gun," she drawls, in a fair imitation of him.

"No offense, ma'am," one of the younger members of the SWAT team says, "but you look about as dangerous as my girlfriend's poodle."

Kirby grins at the young SWAT officer, and winks. "Is that right?"

She walks over to him. His nametag says Boone. He's stocky, muscular, and very sure of himself. Classic type-A.

"Check it out, Boone," she says to him.

It happens in a blur. She slams a fist into Boone's solar plexus. His eyes bug out as he falls to his knees, gasping for air. In the instant it takes the other SWAT team members to react, she's pulled her gun and pointed it quickly at each one, saying: "Bang, bang, bang, bang--"

"Bang," Brady says, in time with her. He'd managed to whip out his weapon and point it at Kirby before she'd pointed hers at him. She holds the pose for a moment, considering. Then grins and holsters her weapon. She ignores Boone, who's breathing again and is taking in huge, whooping gasps of air.

"Pretty good, old dude," she says. "Guess that's why you're the boss-man, huh?"

He grins back at her. It's like watching two wolves get along.

"Get up, Boone," he barks. "And let it go."

The young SWAT officer struggles to his feet. He shoots Kirby a dark look. She waggles a finger at him.

"Are we done with the testosterone display?" AD Jones asks. "Both the male and the female version?"

"He started it," Kirby observes. "If he'd been nicer, I would have touched him somewhere else."

Everyone chuckles. Even Boone smiles, against his will. I see Brady appraising Kirby, realizing the same thing I have. Kirby isn't just a good operative. She's command material. In her own haphazard way she's managed to relieve the tension in the room, lighten the mood, and get the guys to like and respect her at the same time. It's impressive.

"So what's your name?" Brady asks.

"Kirby. But you can call me 'Killer,' if you want." She flashes him a smile. "All my friends do."

"You have many friends?"

"Nope."

He nods. "Me neither. So explain what you meant by 'diversion.' "

"Sure thing. You and your macho killer commando squad hit the front, by the book. Bullhorns and 'Give up! Give up!' and all that stuff. While you're doing that, and he's distracted, Smoky and I will go in through the back."

"Quiet, you mean?"

"Smooth as my inner thigh. And that's smoooooth, Mr. Brady, sir."

"Uh-huh. And you don't think he'll be watching the back?"

"Maybe. But that's why you'll have to blow some stuff up."

Brady raises an eyebrow. "Come again?"

"Blow some stuff up. You know--'kaboom.' "

"How do you propose we do that?"

"Can't you drop a bomb on his lawn or something?"

Brady looks at Kirby, thinking. He nods his head.

"Okay, youngster. The concept's sound. But I think we can exe cute a little better and not have to--how'd you put it?--'blow some stuff up'?"

Kirby shrugs. "Whatever. I thought you guys liked blowing stuff up."

"Oh, we do," he assures her. "We just try to avoid it unless we have to. Makes the neighbors nervous." He leans forward and spreads out the map of the estate. "Here's what I propose. We're going to have a problem anyway with the size of the grounds if we come on foot. He'll see us from a mile away. Shit, he could have the place mined for all we know. We'll go in from the air, instead."

"Chopper?" Alan asks.

"Yep." He points to a position in front of the house. "We'll hover up and at an angle. Makes it harder for him to get a shot. We'll have to hope he doesn't have a bazooka or some such nonsense. We'll lay out a field of fire. Real serious shit--I think I can get our hands on some fifty cals--along with some smoke grenades. Get his attention, make it sound like World War Three out front."

"Okay," Kirby says.

"Yeah. While all that's happening, you two will make your way to the back. Then on your mark, we'll fill the place with tear gas. You infiltrate and . . ." He spreads his hands.

"And hopefully we don't have to kill the poor guy," Kirby finishes for him.

Brady looks at me. "How's that sound?"

"Like a really bad idea," I say, "but the best under the circumstances." I check my watch. "It's four o'clock now. How soon can you be ready?"

"We can be airborne in a half hour. What about you? You'll need vests and masks."

"No vest for me," Kirby pipes up. "Just slows me down. I'll take a mask, though."

"Your funeral." Brady shrugs.

She punches him on the arm. "You don't know how many times I've heard that before."

Just like Alan had a day earlier, Brady looks surprised and rubs his arm where she'd punched him. "Ow."

"That's what they all say," she quips. "So can we go shoot some stuff now?" She holds up the weapon she'd drawn earlier. "New gun,"

she explains. "I need to break it in."

57

U N L I K E KIRBY, I WANTED A VEST. I UNDERSTAND WHY SHEdoesn't like them, but I lack her predator's edge. Kirby was born to do this, to kick in back doors and enter houses filled with tear gas and flying bullets. Kirby doesn't have a Bonnie waiting for her. I do.

"This damn mask is going to give me the hat-hair from hell," she observes, examining the thing.