Неизвестный - 3. In Pursuit Of Justice

“No matter what we do here,” Rebecca reminded her gently, “it won’t make any difference to them. Not tonight, at least.”

“I know,” Catherine replied tonelessly, not looking directly at Rebecca. “Ten minutes. That should be about right.”

Rebecca keyed her mike and instructed the other teams, “We’ll go in ten. Team one, you have the front; team two, the rear. Move into position and wait for my signal.” After terminating the transmission, Rebecca glanced at Sloan. “Are you getting what you need?”

“Looks like it,” Sloan said without glancing up, still rapidly sequencing through programs and downloading as much information as she could.

“Okay, good,” Rebecca said. “You two stay here until the all clear.” She handed Sloan a handy talkie. “I’ll contact you on this as soon as we have secured the location. Then you can get a look at his system.”

“Good enough,” Sloan said. For the first time in the last hour she lifted her gaze from the computer monitor. “Look out for Jason, will you?”

“Absolutely,” Rebecca said. As she lifted the handle, swung open the door, and put one leg out, she glanced briefly again into the rear seat. Catherine was watching her. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“Yes,” Catherine responded softly, her eyes on Rebecca’s face. Memorizing it, as if it hadn’t already been indelibly carved on her heart.

As Rebecca slipped away into the darkness, Catherine wondered once again what it was that made someone do that. What was it that allowed an individual to place herself in imminent peril to right some wrong or correct some injustice. She continued to stare at the house, barely able to make out a flicker in the shadows which she imagined would be Watts and Mitchell and perhaps the Justice agents. She tried to imagine what they were thinking, and finally decided that there was no way she could, not without having experienced it. Suddenly, she understood some of why it was that police officers rarely had friendships outside the force. She also understood why they had such a high rate of divorce. How could anyone who did not do this on a daily basis possibly understand what it was to go out day after day and face the unknown. An unknown which could very well kill you.

“She’ll be fine,” Sloan said as if reading her mind.

Without taking her eyes off the front of the building, where she could just see the door but could not see the figures whom she knew must be crouching in the shadows, she said once more, softly, “Yes.”

“Did I tell you or did I tell you?” LongJohn said with a note of both excitement and pride in his voice. “This is the real thing. Primo, man.”

The two men were seated in front of a twenty-one inch flat screen computer monitor in small comfortable easy chairs with a TV table between them. Two open bottles of beer sat on the table flanking a bowl of peanuts. On the screen, the now naked 30-year-old man, a big beefy guy who looked like a college football player gone to fat, stood by the side of the bed while one of the preteen girls performed fellatio on him. Kneeling on the floor next to them, the other girl fondled him. His large hand roamed over her barely perceptible breasts.

“Oh, yeah, it’s everything you said,” Jason said, facing the screen and fixing his gaze on a point two inches above it. He had watched enough to know that this was what they had been waiting for. He didn’t want to see the details. “Worth every penny, guy. And more so. I wouldn’t mind getting this on a regular basis.”

“Like I said, that can be arranged,” LongJohn said, his eyes riveted to the screen. “All you need is a little green and the right connections. We’ll pipe this straight to your bedroom.”

“Just tell me where to sign,” Jason replied. The live download had been running for almost ten minutes and he wasn’t certain how long it would last. More importantly, he estimated that the strike force would make their move soon. Now was the time for a little diversion.

“You know, I’ve been waiting all weekend for this,” Jason said, purposefully lowering his voice and hesitating as if he were having trouble catching his breath. “I’m afraid I might pop in my pants if I don’t do something about it pretty soon.”

“Go ahead, man. Feel free. I’m in need of a little relief myself,” his companion answered.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jason could see LongJohn rhythmically squeezing the crotch of his jeans as he stared fixedly at the monitor. Jason made a show of unbuttoning his chinos and lowering his fly. He wasn’t worried that LongJohn would watch him, because LongJohn wasn’t interested in what Jason had between his legs. He was interested in watching the children performing sex acts on the man on the screen. Jason slipped his hand inside his trousers and faked a moaned. He wasn’t hard, but LongJohn would never know that. He spread his legs wider and murmured, “Oh yeah, that’s better.”

Next to him, he heard the sound of a zipper sliding down followed by a grunt as LongJohn reached inside his jeans. The sounds from the speakers were mostly moans and strangled grunts and fragmented bits of dialogue that combined with Jason’s intentionally audible breathing and LongJohn’s escalating groans. Jason hoped the noise would help mask the sounds of the police entry and add to the general confusion when the strike force descended on them. His only concern now was that LongJohn would be quicker to the finish line then he had anticipated. The guy had freed himself from the confines of his pants, and from the sound of his breathing and the rapid creaking of the chair as the other man rocked his hips in an ever increasing crescendo, Jason feared that his diversion would be shot before Frye and friends arrived.

And he hadn’t planned a second act.

“On three,” Rebecca whispered into her mike. “Three, two, one… GO.”

Watts hit the door with his considerable bulk and it broke loose from the frame, crashing inward with a splinter of wood and popping screws. Rebecca was surprised at the speed with which the big man moved. In an instant he had disappeared into the darkened room, Mitchell close behind. Distantly, she heard an echoing crash from somewhere in the depths of the house. Clark ’s team.

Rebecca moved low through the doorway, stepping up quickly next to Mitchell. They turned their backs to one another, guns extended in two-handed grips, each of them scanning opposite sides of the room. Watts was out in front, beside the door on the wall opposite the entry, peering around the corner into the next room.

“Clear,” Mitchell shouted.

“Go,” Rebecca ordered, and they all surged forward. Within a matter of seconds they were in a large recreation room filled with computers, video machines, and graphics equipment. On a large monitor on an elevated shelf the sexual scene they had observed from the car continued to run. Moans and cries and hoarse oh yeahs provided a backdrop to the general confusion.

Watts yanked the suspect, a youngish white male in a T-shirt and jeans, from the chair and pushed him spread-eagled onto the floor. Kneeling with one meaty leg in the center of the stunned man’s back, Watts glanced up at Rebecca with a satisfied smile. “What do you think, huh, Sarge? Caught the scumbags with their dicks in their hand.”

“Just read him the card,” Rebecca said, referring to the Miranda warning. Mitchell had Jason, who was loudly protesting for all to hear that he’d no idea LongJohn planned to show a sex video, in the same position on the floor and was snapping cuffs onto him as she recited his rights in a flat monotone. She lifted her radio and said, “Sloan, come on ahead.” Then, switching frequencies, “Dispatch, this is Detective Sergeant Frye. I need the crime scene team at…”