help checking the remaining avenues of entry. We still need to get in there.”
Mann grumbled but took her advice, and he started off in their direction.
The thick scent of charred wood mixed with a heavy, gritty sulfur haze made breathing a chore.
Vail brought her elbow up to her mouth and suppressed a cough.
“How are they?” Turino asked.
“Unconscious,” Dixon said, “but alive. As to head trauma, no idea.”
Turino clenched his jaw. “When we catch Cortez, I’m going to take a lot of pleasure in hooking him up.”
Vail started toward the house. “I’m going in.”
DeSantos took two long strides and caught up with her, grabbed her arm. “Hang on, there. Let them clear the place, then we’ll go in. A little extra time isn’t going to matter.”
Vail wrested her arm free. “Every minute we delay could be one minute too long. We’ve no idea what’s happening to Robby. If he’s still alive, they could be pulling the trigger right now.” She looked hard into his gaze. “Or
“Jesus Christ, Karen. I’m a cowboy, willing to take all sorts of risks when I’m on a mission. But you’re—you’re just doing dumb things.”
“Really?” she asked, not slowing her stride. “Goddamn it, Hector. What’s wrong with you? If Robby was your partner, you wouldn’t be so cautious and goddamn slow and—and
DESANTOS STOPPED. Vail’s comment was like an ice pick in the eye. A few years ago, his partner, Brian Archer, had been killed during an op they were running on domestic soil. The pain was unrelenting, the thirst for payback as ravenous as parched desert soil awaiting rainfall.
DeSantos bit down hard on his bottom lip. He had not been as emotionally invested in Hernandez’s kidnapping as Vail had been. Not in the same ballpark, the same state. Hell, not even in the same country. He realized now he had largely been going through the motions, treating this as a mission without consequence. A debt to be repaid, nothing more.
Vail’s call to order had done more than she could have envisioned. A comment made in anger roused his memories and rekindled the pilot light that had blown out long ago.
Since Brian’s death, he had been sleepwalking through life. His wife, Maggie, had tried telling him numerous times that his life had lost purpose. Lost passion. But he wasn’t in a position to listen. To hear her. As her pleas morphed into complaints that he was no longer attentive to her needs, he edged further away. His emotions had calloused over like a farmer’s well-worn hands. And it was on the verge of destroying his marriage.
It took an FBI profiler, in a fit of anger, to shake him out of his years-long stupor.
He ran forward, toward the house.
64
Vail stopped at the threshold to the front door, the splintered remains of the frame laid bare. She put her hands on her hips and stood there, unable to step inside.
DeSantos came up behind her. “What’s wrong?”
“My son. That’s what’s wrong.”
“Good decision.”
It was Dixon, approaching from the left.
“An impossible decision. But the only one I can make.” She stole a look at her watch. “How long will it take them to clear it?”
DeSantos looked over the expansive structure. “My experience, three floors, lots of rooms . . . could take awhile.”
The SWAT lieutenant, a neatly trimmed Asian whose nametag read “Kye,” came up from behind. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and said, “Better if you three waited back there, by the Bearcat.”
“How long,” Vail said, “until I can get in there?”
“To be on the ultra safe side, a couple hours. We’re gonna comb through every nook and cranny with mirrors and fiber optic—”
“We don’t have a couple of hours. Can you do a quick once-over, let me in, then do the comb-through?”
Kye shook his head. “Standard procedure dictates—”
“We’ve got an officer who’s missing, lieutenant.”
“I’m aware of the situation,” Kye said firmly. He keyed his mike, then walked off. “All units, I want . . . ”
“You’re asking a lot of men to risk their lives by rushing,” Dixon said.
Vail glanced over her shoulder at Lieutenant Kye. “I’m sure they won’t do it if it’s not safe, Roxx. They’ve got their procedures, I get that. But we’re dealing with extenuating circumstances here. Time is a luxury we don’t have.”
“I’m with Karen on this,” DeSantos said. “Moving too fast is a risk, yeah. But so is moving too slow.”
Kye returned. “We’re going to clear one level at a time. When we’ve got the ground floor cleared, you can poke around there. When we’ve got the second floor done, you can check that out. Meet with your approval?”
“Thank you,” Vail said. “Appreciate it.”
Twenty-five minutes later, the task force was stepping through the littered debris, across the front door threshold and into an opulent mansion. In the background, Vail heard SWAT officers yelling, “Clear.”
Vail moved through the rooms, taking in the marble statuettes, museum-grade artwork—including a Renoir, a Chagall, a Matisse—and several gold-leaf framed family photos neatly arranged on a living room coffee table. Apparently the blast blew outward and left much of the interior intact. She took her time going through the formal living room, the dining area, the sitting and family rooms, kitchen, pantry . . . it wasn’t often she had the opportunity to see firsthand how the very wealthy lived. But lost in all this beauty was the realization it had all been bought with the proceeds from illegal mind- and life-altering illicit drugs.
Vail was the first of the task force to ascend to the second floor. She had just entered the master bedroom when one of the SWAT officers swung his rifle into the doorway and startled her. “Jesus, lady. I damn near shot you.”
“Supervisory Special Agent Karen Vail.” She slowly moved her sweater aside, revealing her badge, which was clipped to her belt. “I thought you were done on this floor.”
“We are now.”
“Anything?”
The man keyed his shoulder-mounted mike and said, “We’re good on two. All clear.” He listened a second, then said, “Roger that.” To Vail, he said, “Team’s on three. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for a few days. Mailbox out front stuffed full.”
Vail turned away and continued her analysis. Nothing here that would indicate the owner was anything but a wealthy businessman.
She stepped into the spacious walk-in closet and stood there a moment, taking it in. Dark suits lined both sides of the room, the apparel evenly spaced on the bars. Highly polished shoes resting on an angled display stand. Cedar trees pressed inside each pair, keeping the leather age- and crease-free.
As she stood there, she asked herself,
In the center of the closet, a double rack held more meticulously arranged dress clothing—slacks, sport coats, shirts. Vail riffled through everything, looking for—what? She wasn’t sure.
She knelt down and spied the walls. No safes or hidden compartments she could see. Her entire time in the house, she hadn’t found one useful tidbit. No lead at all.
Dixon located her and stepped into the closet. “Well?”
“His mind is organized. Either he or his wife is into fine art, and they have good taste. He’s intelligent, detail-oriented. He enjoys the wealth he’s accumulated and doesn’t mind spending it.” She thought back to the photos she saw in the living room. “He’s got young children, and they’re important to him. He appears to have a circle of friends—” She stopped and locked on something.
