Неизвестный - 3. In Pursuit Of Justice

He looked around the room, which was one large space with a dozen small tables equipped with Internet terminals. At the far end of the room was a small bar where you could get coffee and a limited selection of junk food. Almost every table was occupied, and no one looked particularly suspicious. Of course, what did your typical pedophile look like? At any rate, no one seemed to be paying special attention to him.

He wasn’t particularly nervous. Playing roles for him was something that came naturally. The threat of physical danger didn’t particularly worry him either. He wasn’t a kickboxer like Sloan or a Kung Fu master like his lover, but he could handle himself in an altercation if he needed to. If things played out the way he and Sloan had theorized, when the time for the bust came, he doubted that LongJohn was going to pose much of a threat.

He glanced at his watch and smiled to himself. Five minutes till showtime.

“Smoke?”

“No thanks.”

“You mind?”

Mitchell stared at the detective in surprise. “It’s your car, Detective.”

“Yeah, but the Sarge always busts my balls about it.”

“Well, I guess she can.”

“Yeah.” He fumbled through the pocket of his jacket until he found the crumpled pack of Camels and fingered one free. Cracking the window a couple of inches, he made an attempt to direct the smoke in that direction. “You ever been on a No Knock bust before?”

“No, sir.”

“I’ll go through the door first, and I want to feel your balls—uh, your—whatever, right up against my back the whole way. You stick to me like we’re two dogs who just finished screwing.”

“I can handle that,” Mitchell said expressionlessly. She wondered if Watts had any idea what cadet training was like at West Point. She could crawl through ditches under live fire without flinching. Had done it, leading a platoon of cadets.

“Good. I don’t want you getting separated and ending up shooting me.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, Detective.”

He glanced at her, assessing her tone and expression. She looked perfectly steady and certain. “You scared, kid?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.” He settled his butt a little more comfortably on the seat and continued to smoke in silence. Until he had gotten hooked up with Rebecca Frye, he’d never worked with a woman before. Not one on one. Now he couldn’t get away from them. It sure was a different world.

Precisely 14 minutes later, Jason McBride exited through the doors of the Upstairs Connection and walked to the intersection of 17th and Market. A blue Mercedes SUV driving south on 17th pulled up next to him and the driver’s window descended electrically. Rebecca saw Jason lean down, nod once, and walked around the front of the vehicle to slide into the front seat through the passenger door. She keyed her mike and started her engine. “We have contact.” She gave a verbal description of the vehicle, knowing that Mitchell and Watts would run it through VI, Vehicle Identification, as they drove. She pulled into traffic allowing several cars and a minivan to move between her and the SUV. They drove just below the speed limit through the city to the on-ramp to Interstate 95. A minute or two later, Mitchell’s voice came over the radio.

“No identification on the vehicle,” Mitchell reported. “The plates are not registered.”

“Forged, probably,” Rebecca muttered. “Roger that.”

After another minute, she dropped back and the black Buick driven by Watts pulled out from several cars behind her and passed to take over the lead position. They would alternate like this as long as needed until Jason’s vehicle stopped. Somewhere behind them, Clark followed as well. If the SUV began to take evasive maneuvers, suggesting that the tail had been spotted, the third car would split off to triangulate an interception point. For now, whoever was driving the dark Mercedes ahead of them did not appear to be aware of their presence.

“Do you think that’s LongJohn driving?” Sloan asked at one point.

“Most likely,” Rebecca said, eyes fixed on the traffic ahead of her. “I can’t see him inviting someone else to the party at this point. Any potential customer might get spooked meeting someone they hadn’t anticipated. These guys are pretty suspicious as a group.”

“I wonder what the hell they’re talking about?” Sloan mused.

Rebecca shook her head. “I’ve got a feeling it’s not the weather or sports.”

“Well, whatever it is,” Catherine interjected, “Jason is fast on his feet, and he and LongJohn have a relationship. That’s why no one other than Jason could have done this at this point. He’ll be okay.”

He better be , Sloan thought. Because I can’t take one more person I care about getting hurt.

Twenty minutes later they had circled nearly the entire city on expressways and arterials. They were approaching an area less than a mile north of Sloan’s loft which still retained the flavor of a working-class neighborhood. The neighborhood, called Fishtown, consisted of row houses and singles interspersed along narrow streets where a few trees still managed to grow.

“Here we go,” Rebecca said as the Mercedes signaled and pulled right towards an exit ramp. Once again, she opened the frequencies to the other members of the team. “Subject vehicle has turned right into a driveway on the corner of Girard and 4th. Single, two-story, white frame house—no number visible. Detached garage, front and rear entries likely. I am preceding around the block and will approach from the north.”

She deployed the other two vehicles where the officers and federal agents could easily approach the house from opposite directions. She and Sloan needed to be as close as possible so that Sloan could hack in and monitor the live download. Two minutes later, they were parked between several vehicles on the adjoining street where they had a clear sightline to the house. Lights were visible in a rear room on the first floor.

“We might be lucky,” Rebecca said. “The doors should be fairly easy to breach, and if they’re in that room, we should be inside and have containment in less than 10 seconds.”

Sloan didn’t reply, feverishly running through programs attempting to establish a strong enough signal to trace the activity from LongJohn’s computer. Finally, after what seemed like an interminable wait, an image flickered and then stabilized on her screen.

Three pairs of eyes focused on the 15 inch color monitor. For a moment, the images were indistinct, and then the focus cleared and they were able to see two young girls walking naked into a room furnished with a large bed and not much else.

“Got you, you son of a bitch,” Sloan whispered.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

“SHOULD WE GO in?” Rebecca asked Sloan, an edge in her voice. She hated having a man out of sight and hearing, particularly inside a building with a perp of unknown violence potential. Especially while she sat in a car hatching the radio.

From the backseat, Catherine placed a hand lightly on her shoulder and urged, “Wait a few minutes if you can.” She had been sitting quietly, watching the figures on Sloan’s screen. A man had entered the room, joining the two young girls. He wore a nondescript uniform, apparently supposed to represent a delivery person of some kind. The two naked girls feigned surprise and awkward shyness, all of it clearly staged but not nearly as artificial as she might have expected. There was a sense of cinema verité that was all too professional and deeply disturbing given the subject matter. “I’d give—this—a while to run, because I think LongJohn is more likely to be preoccupied the longer this goes on.”

Turning in the front seat to face her, Rebecca glanced sharply at her, aware of the hollow note in her voice. Stakeout operations like these were never easy, not when pent up, adrenalized excitement and the fear of something going wrong invariably combined to make you crazy. This time it was even harder, because she was certain that Catherine must be feeling tremendous sympathy for the young girls who were being degraded and victimized while they watched.