warrant.'
'Tell them not to worry about it, we're heading that way anyway.' Henry Lightstone shook his head as he slowly pulled himself to a standing position. He watched as a shaky Larry Paxton helped Stoner up onto one foot, then handed him the set of crutches. 'Snoopy likes to cheat when he busts into computers, so I don't think he'll mind too much if we don't bother to get a warrant.'
Chapter Thirty-Nine
When the Washoe County sheriff, Sergeant Clinton Hardwell, took one look at the cut, bruised, and swollen faces of the three men who had hobbled off the Southwest Airlines plane, he immediately asked to see some identification.
'Sorry about that,' Hardwell apologized as he returned the badge cases to the agents, 'but, honest to God, you guys don't look like any federal raid team I've ever seen before.'
'New Washington Office concept,' Lightstone said as he and the plainclothed sergeant started walking slowly toward the baggage claim area, giving Paxton and Stoner a chance to keep up on their crutches. 'Anybody sees us coming, they're not going to be expecting us to kick in the door.'
'Yeah, I guess not,' the homicide sergeant nodded as he glanced down at Dwight Stoner's horribly swollen knee and then at Larry Paxton's tightly bandaged leg.
After passing the first set of slot machines, the agents took a right turn to the baggage claim area. Their bags were waiting for them, stacked in a neat row next to the stainless- steel carousel and a uniformed sheriff's deputy.
'Uh, listen, you think you guys might be able to stick around a while and give us a hand, in case we run into any trouble?' Lightstone asked as he and Hardwell picked up the bags. They walked through a sliding glass door out into the blazing heat of Reno, Nevada.
'Buddy, let me tell you something,' the deeply tanned homicide sergeant said as three of his detectives helped Stoner and Paxton into the back of two of the unmarked detective units. 'Pete Balloch vouched for you, and he and I go back a long way, so I really don't care who you guys are, or who you're going after. But I can tell you one thing for sure-' he pointedly looked around at all three agents '-I wouldn't miss this operation for the world.'
Just as the Washoe County homicide sergeant had described, the Japanese-style house that Special Agent Mike Takahara had recently purchased in Spanish Springs Valley-a rural development about fifteen miles north of downtown Reno-looked pretty much like all of the other widely scattered ranch-style homes in the quiet and peaceful hillside area.
From their concealed position about a hundred yards down the road, Henry Lightstone listened to the hissing sound of empty tape for another five seconds and then put the cellular phone down on the seat as Hardwell continued to scan the windows with his powerful binoculars.
'Nothing?' the homicide sergeant asked as he lowered the binoculars and looked over at Lightstone.
'No.' Lightstone shook his head.
'You sure you got the right number?'
'Yeah, absolutely sure.'
'Maybe he forgot to check his machine?' Hardwell shrugged.
'Not Snoopy,' Lightstone said as he stared out across the sand-and-sagebrush landscape at the closed garage door. 'Guy's a communications freak. Damn near religious about that sort of thing.'
'Maybe he's found himself a girlfriend,' the homicide sergeant suggested. 'They could be down in the basement, where it's cooler.'
'Yeah, that's always a possibility,' Lightstone conceded, 'but it doesn't sound like him. You sure your guys saw a red Four-Runner in that garage?'
'Pretty sure that's what they said,' Hardwell nodded. 'I'll find out. Need to check in with those guys anyway.'
'Yeah, where the hell are they?' Lightstone asked, looking around as he realized that he hadn't seen any other vehicles with the distinctive police radio antennas in the area.
'Up in the hills, where they've got a better view,' Hardwell said, glancing toward the upper slope. 'The way Pete described these characters, I figured we ought to maintain some distance until you guys got here.'
'Yeah, probably a good idea,' Lightstone said absentmindedly.
Reaching over to the dash-mounted console, Hardwell unhooked the coiled cord mike and brought it up to his mouth. 'Delta Seventeen and Delta Twenty-two, request confirmation you spotted a red Four-Runner in the subject's garage.'
'If it's like our place,' Hardwell said as he put the mike down on the seat next to his leg, 'it's hard to hear the phone in the basement.'
'I don't know,' Lightstone said uneasily. 'Last place this guy had, he put a phone in the john and one at both ends of his workbench so he wouldn't have to get up.'
'Oh.'
Two of Hardwell's detectives cautiously approached the house from the blind garage side, shotguns out and ready, while Larry Paxton and Dwight Stoner slowly worked their way down the road on their crutches.
'Couple of characters like that, I'm surprised we haven't heard from every housewife in the neighborhood,' Hardwell commented dryly. He started to say something else, but then realized that he hadn't received any response from his surveillance team.
'Delta Seventeen and Delta Twenty-two, check in,' Hardwell repeated into the mike in an irritated voice.
Silence.
Lightstone and Hardwell looked at each other briefly, and then Hardwell brought the microphone up to his mouth again.
'Delta Fifteen.'
'Fifteen, go.'
'Did you spot Kenny or Jim on your way in?'
'Negative.'
'Shit,' the Washoe County homicide sergeant cursed.
'You give them authorization to follow if anybody left the house?' Lightstone asked, watching Larry Paxton readjust the miniaturized radio speaker in his ear as the two injured agents began to move at a faster pace toward the house.
'Standard procedure is that one guy follows while the other stays in place and calls for backup,' Hardwell replied in a distracted voice. 'Dispatch, this is Delta Three. Any call-ins from Delta Seventeen or Twenty-two during the past hour?'
'Negative, Delta Three,' the dispatcher's raspy voice came out over the car speaker. 'No radio contact.'
'Delta Fifteen,' Hardwell ordered, 'break off, get up the hill and check on those two.'
'Ten-four, on my way,' the detective acknowledged.
'Delta Twenty and Twenty-one, move in on that garage window, tell me what you see,' Hardwell directed his other two investigators. Then he and Lightstone watched as one of the shotgun-armed detectives knelt down to provide a cover while the second casually dressed investigator ran forward in a low crouch to the garage, flattened himself upright against the cream-colored stucco, and quickly peered in through the side window.
'It's empty,' the detective's voice echoed clearly over the radio static.
Hardwell swore again as he looked over at Lightstone.
'Let's get in there,' Lightstone said, releasing his seat belt and drawing the 10mm Smith amp; Wesson automatic from his shoulder holster.
'All units, move in now!' Hardwell said and then dropped the mike on the seat and accelerated the unmarked detective unit toward the distant driveway as Larry Paxton dropped his crutches and limped toward the far side of the house and Dwight Stoner hobbled furiously up the brick walkway toward the front door.
Henry Lightstone was out of Hardwell's detective unit and running up the brick walkway when Stoner lifted a
