Any cop will tell you that there is no more frightening sound than a shell being jacked into a shotgun. I knew the sound still sent chills down my spine, and I watched Linderman pump his Mossberg and march out from behind the shed.
I drew my Colt and followed Linderman across the backyard with sweat pouring down my back. Through the open kitchen window came Neil Bash's voice on the radio. There was something otherworldly about hearing Bash and knowing he was dead. Buster's cold nose pressed against my leg.
“Time to lose your fiancé,” Linderman said.
I pointed at a shady spot beside the house.
“Sit,” I said.
My dog made me proud and went into a perfect sit in the shade.
Linderman stopped at the back door and raised his leg. The door was dead bolted and took several hard kicks to bring down. We both rushed inside. The kitchen was L-shaped, with fading linoleum floors and stacks of dirty dishes piled high in the sink. On the radio Bash was talking about a heavy-metal concert that had taken place several months ago.
“Damn,” I said under my breath.
Linderman was moving fast. I followed him down a short unlit hallway into a living room with mismatched furniture and a weight bench in the corner. Jonny Perez, his brother Paco, and a dark-skinned guy whom I assumed was Alberto stood in the room's center, pointing automatic handguns at Theis and Cheever, who stood inside the front doorway with their arms stretched to the ceiling. A pair of binoculars lay on the couch by the window.
“FBI,” Linderman announced. “Drop your weapons.”
Jonny Perez glanced suspiciously over his shoulder at us.
“No. You drop
“That's not an option,” Linderman said.
Perez whispered in Spanish to his brother. Paco turned and pointed his automatic at the far wall of the living room.
“If you don't drop your weapons,” Perez said, “my brother will shoot through the wall and kill the girl in the bedroom.”
“Do that, and we'll kill you,” Linderman said.
“I ain't afraid of dying,” Perez said.
“Me neither,” Paco said.
The third guy, Alberto, simply grunted.
Linderman hesitated. He didn't want to lose Theis and his hostage. Sensing weakness, Perez let out a sickening laugh.
“Jack,” Cheever called out.
I focused on my friend while continuing to train my Colt on the others. Cheever was sweating as badly as I was. But his face was defiant.
“Don't you dare trade with them, Jack,” Cheever said.
“Shut up, Claude,” I said.
“Don't do it.”
“I said shut up.”
“No, you shut up,” he said, his voice rising. “You'll only end up dead, and so will both of us. I'm telling you not to do it. Hear me?”
I looked into Cheever's eyes and realized he meant every word of what he'd just said. Then I looked at Theis. The FBI agent dipped his chin, making it unanimous. They were both wearing bulletproof vests, while Perez, Paco, and Alberto were not. It was the last thought to go through my mind as I squeezed the Colt's trigger.
Paco was the closest to me, so I shot him in the chest. The bullet penetrated his heart-what cops call a kill shot. The gun dropped from his hand, and he fell onto the couch as if he'd decided to take a nap.
At the same time Linderman's shotgun let out a deafening roar. The blast hit Alberto in the waist, doubling him over like he'd been sliced in half. Alberto fell backwards and joined Paco on the couch.
Perez was not touched, and he fired several rounds into Cheever and Theis, causing both men to groan and crumple to the floor. Perez glanced over his shoulder at me, then took off running. Within moments he was out the door. I ran after him.
“Take him out,” Linderman shouted.
I stopped at the open doorway. The school bus had dropped a slew of happy kids onto the sidewalk. They were playing tag, oblivious to what was going on. I blocked them out as best I could, aimed at Perez, and fired.
The bullet popped Perez in the ass, and he flew through the air like someone doing the triple jump, then landed on the front lawn, holding his buttocks and screaming in pain. Half the kids ran away, while the rest simply ran around him.
I went down the path and frisked Perez. He was clean, and I retrieved his gun off the lawn. Cheever came down the path covered in blood.
“Lie down before you bleed to death,” I told him.
“I'm okay,” Cheever said.
“You don't look okay.”
“They're flesh wounds. Go find Melinda. I'll watch this little shit.”
I tossed him Perez's gun and went inside the house. Theis lay on the floor inside the doorway with his eyes shut. He had taken a bullet in the side of the neck. Linderman was pressing a towel to the wound while talking Theis through it.
“Did you call 911?” I asked.
“Yes. Is Perez dead?”
“Shot him in the ass.”
Linderman glared at me. I wanted to tell him not to worry; I was never trying out for the FBI. Instead, I went looking for Melinda.
The back of the house felt like a crash pad, not a place anyone had spent much time in. There were two cramped bedrooms, each with a mattress on the floor and a small electric fan beside it. Walking down a hallway, I came to a closed door.
I twisted the knob and entered. The room had no furniture, save for a video camera and tripod in the room's center and a boom box on the floor. The camera was pointed at a closed closet door. I opened it expecting to find Melinda. Instead, I let out a startled cry.
Hanging from a metal pole was a naked young woman I'd never seen before. A purple rag was stuck in her mouth to keep her from screaming. Everything about her looked dead, except for her face. There was a trace of pink in both cheeks, and I pulled the rag free and untied her wrists. She fell limply into my arms, and I gently laid her down on the floor.
“Wake up. Come on, you can do it,” I said.
At first she did not respond. Then a cough escaped her throat.
It was a tiny sound, like a dead car battery with a spark of life.
Her eyelids fluttered, and she started to breath normally. She stared at me without lifting her head off the floor.
“You're not Skell, are you?” she asked.
I shook my head, and she started to cry.
“I was a present for Skell,” she said.
“Did they tell you that?”
“Yes. Over and over.”
“There's an ambulance coming,” I said. “Everything is going to be all right.”
She was eighteen if she was a day, and conscious that she was lying naked in front of a stranger. I went to the bathroom, grabbed two bath towels, and used them to cover her. If one thing defined the gang's victims, it was their beauty. Every one of them was a feast for the eyes. Even in her distressed state, she was no exception,
