party?”
The EMTs came hustling in, carrying their heavy equipment boxes.
“What have we got, Jimmy?” the lead paramedic asked Redwood.
“I don’t know, Barney. Looks like allergic reaction.”
The EMT closed on the body. And stopped.
They looked at each other.
This wasn’t anaphylaxis.
“Oh, shit,” said Barney.
His partner, Paresh, cut a worried look at the crowd and then pulled Tobias closer. He whispered urgently in her ear, “Get everyone out of here, but keep them contained.”
Barney was already on the phone, calling in the visible symptoms. Neither he nor his partner made any attempt to touch Sandra Milhaus.
Tobias looked up at Paresh. “What is it?”
But the EMT shook his head. “I don’t know. But for God’s sake get these people contained, Debbie.
Interlude Thirty-nine
Feasterville, Pennsylvania
December 19, 6:05 P.M. EST
Rafael Santoro did not want to make this call. In all the years during which he had served the Goddess and the Seven Kings he had only had to make such a call twice. This was the third time he would have to report not one failure but two.
The King of Plagues answered, his voice mildly distorted by his scrambler.
Instead of a greeting, Gault said, “I’m watching CNN. I’m hearing a lot about an attack on a house in Jenkintown that ended with four dead and two taken. I’m also hearing about a bunch of trigger-happy wankers who shot up an effing Starbucks. I’m hearing about civilian casualties. I’m hearing about a dead sodding writer. Can you guess what I’m not hearing about? I’m not hearing about Amber-fucking-Taylor and her children being spooned into body bags. I’m not hearing about a dead federal agent named Joe-effing-Ledger. Want to fucking tell me why not?”
Santoro took a calming breath. He was deeply ashamed. “I have no excuses.”
“Who’d you send? The frigging Mousketeers?”
“I used local assets on both jobs.”
“Kingsmen?”
“Chosen. Trey Foster and his team out of Philadelphia were given the Taylor pickup. I used Sarducci and his team for Starbucks. That is the Jersey crew I’ve used for three situations for the Kings over the last year.”
“Did they screw those up, too?” Gault’s voice was loud and full of acid.
“No,” said Santoro calmly. “Both teams have done good work for us in the past.”
“God damn it, Rafael.”
“They were unprepared for the arrival of DMS field teams at both locations.”
“Such calamities are the price when action is taken without planning, yes? Had I been given more time, I would have scouted the area, set watchers on the perimeter, and listened for activity on our information stream. However …” He let the rest hang.
“Describe them to me,” snapped Gault, and when Santoro finished he said, “That’s sodding Echo Team. They’re Ledger’s team, but what the bloody hell are they doing in Southampton?”
Gault shouted more and Santoro endured it, sighing quietly as he drove. As much as he loved and honored the new consort of the Goddess and even though he would gladly die for this man, as he would for any of the Kings, Sebastian Gault could be a tiresome bore. And he was loud. Santoro, however, was never loud. Loud was crass— except for the loud shrieks and cries of his
“How bad is this?” asked Gault.
“Nine of the Jersey team are dead, as are four of the Philadelphia team. Three operatives are in DMS custody.”
“Can you get to them?”
“Impossible.”
“What do they know?”
“Nothing of any value. Even under torture they have nothing useful to reveal.”
Which was only partly true. They knew Santoro’s name and that he worked for the Seven Kings, but Santoro did not think that this provided enough of a threat to risk having the King of Plagues lose his temper again.
“What would you like me to do?”
Gault sighed. “There’s nothing you can do. Let the DMS have them.” He sighed again, deeply and for a long time. Santoro could almost feel Gault’s blood pressure dropping. “Besides … and to be fair, I did ask for this to be splashed across the news feeds. It was. I was hoping that it would reinforce the threatening presence of the Kings … not make us look like imbeciles.”
Santoro did not comment.
“Very well,” said Gault. “We’re going to write this off. Perhaps the Goddess can find a way to spin this in our favor. In the meantime, put a couple of people you can trust on Ledger, and if the opportunity comes up kill the bloody bastard.”
“With pleasure.”
“Meanwhile, we have bigger fish to fry. The Inner Circle should be getting some very bad news right about now. You did good work setting that up,” Gault said grudgingly. “The Goddess is well pleased.”
“It is always my pleasure to serve the Goddess,” said Santoro.
He disconnected and drove randomly through the towns that adjoined Southampton. It hurt him that both of his victims had slipped the punch. Perhaps, if he was lucky and the grace of the Goddess touched his destiny, he would have another opportunity to kill those two. This time, however, he would do the job himself. Not once in his entire life had Santoro failed when he, rather than a team, was the instrument of death. Not once.
Chapter Fifty-seven
Crime Scene
Southampton, Pennsylvania
December 19, 6:06 P.M. EST
We crowded into the back of Black Bess. Top, Bunny, Ghost, and me. The others established a perimeter outside and nobody got past them.
I sat on the bunk opposite the prisoner. Ghost sat on the floor, his head rising above the level of the gurney, his dark eyes filled with predatory intensity. The shooter looked from me, to Ghost, to Top and Bunny and back again. It was evident he didn’t like what he saw in our faces. No reason he should. The TacV was wired for digital recording, and Top gave me a wink to indicate that it was running.
“Here’s the way it sits, dickhead,” I said to the shooter. “You’re in the shit up to your eyeballs. There are eight dead civilians and nineteen wounded. We’re with Homeland and you’ve been designated as an enemy
