“Well, here’s the thing, Alfonzo. Pinkerton is almost somewhere. But it isn’t where we’re going.”
Pinkerton’s driver turns them off the main road onto a private drive that snakes through the woods. They slow and cut the flashing blue lights on their approach to the gate.
The house looks to Pinkerton like a set of a James Bond movie—one that is going to get the shit blown out of it by the time everyone’s done. It is a surprisingly modest affair given the impressive piece of land that supports it. They are on a small peninsula, as shown on the map, so unless this guy has a Miami Vice cigarette out back with a thousand horsepower, there is no way he is getting out of this.
The house is a natural trap.
What kind of asshole, what kind of moron, would hole up in a place with no exit?
The kind of guy who pushes women out of windows, that’s the kind.
The thin steel gate is set between two stone pillars. To either side of those pillars is a hedge for privacy, though it offers little actual protection. There’s no broken glass on the top, no barbed wire, no spikes.
The gate is wired with an alarm system and a camera.
“Out, everyone out,” Pinkerton yell-whispers. They all stand to the side of their vehicles, weapons readied.
“We’re going to rip off the gate with the winch, flow inside, break into three teams. Tommy has A team and you’re going left around the house. Franco has B team and you’re going right. I’m taking point with Charlie Team and we’re going in the front door. Now let’s take out those cameras and get this gate open. I want the lead vehicle in there in case we need cover. Go, go, go!”
Tommy and his silenced nine-millimeter sub-machine gun shoot out the camera by the gate as Gary Simkins pulls the winch line from the front of the pickup, wraps it around the gate, and signals the driver to back it up, which he does, snapping the lock and pulling the gate open as ordered. They disconnect the winch line and the F-150 rolls in with A-team staying close and low beside it until they are almost at the front door.
This is how Pinkerton wants it: Quantico quick and deep-space silent. Urban warfare by the numbers.
It’s a stylish house but it isn’t garish. The frame is a three-story custom timber peg with an inviting entrance, but it isn’t extravagant. The car out front is a Ford Mondeo in dark blue, not a Porsche or Land Rover. Someone is keeping a low profile, Pinkerton figures. Drug dealer? Mafia boss? Terrorist financier?
“After me, after me,” says Pinkerton, crouching down and moving slowly to the front door. Gun up, knees bent, he turns the knob on the front door and is confused to find it open. Pushing it gently inward, he releases the knob and presses his gloved finger to his lips.
Not a sound, boys, not a single goddamned sound.
When the door is a quarter ajar and all his men are behind him, he gives the countdown—five . . . four . . . three . . . two —and on the final beat, he rams the door with his shoulder and careens into the front hall with his rifle raised. Seven other men flood the room, weapons up, shoulders low, ready to take down the devil and his minions if that’s what they are called on to do.
With the skill of former military personnel, they proceed to the living room, dining room, kitchen, the rest of the lower floor and the bedrooms on the upper.
No one’s there.
When Pinkerton descends the staircase after declaring the second floor “secure,” he finds Ricky standing with his rifle shouldered, hands in his pocket, looking at a wall of framed photographs.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Pinkerton asks.
Ricky is leaning close to one as if at a museum. “I think that’s Ang Lee.”
“Who’s Ang Lee?”
“You kidding?” Ricky starts counting off on his fingers: “The Hulk. Brokeback Mountain. The Crouching Tiger thing. Sense and Sensibility, obviously . . .”
“Have you lost your mind?” Pinkerton asks.
At that moment, and before Ricky can answer the question, a woman walks through the front door. The police officers are pressed aside by the force of her gaze as she steps into the living room that—apparently—belongs to her. The woman is tall and in her late fifties, with enormous and stunning brown eyes, a somewhat severe jawline, thin lips, and an expression that puts her in command.
“Well, well,” the woman says, “I just lost a bet. Do you realize yet that you’re in deep trouble or are you still processing?”
“On the floor, down!” yells Pinkerton, raising his weapon.
Instead of following his directions, though, she cocks her weight to the side, striking an architectural pose. “Put that down right now, you imbecile,” she says.
It is Ricky who immediately places himself between the woman and Pinkerton’s line of fire and says, “Sir, you need to put that down right this second.”
“Why?” Pinkerton says, still training his weapon on the defiant woman through Ricky’s chest, which he uses as a shield.
“That’s Sigourney Weaver, sir.”
“Who?”
“Sigourney Weaver, sir. Ghostbusters? Aliens? Galaxy Quest?” Ricky turns to Ms. Weaver and addresses her over his shoulder. “You were wonderful in The Ice Storm, ma’am. I’m married too. I know what it can be like.”
“Thank you,” she says to Ricky. “Now tell your monkey that I’m going to call the lieutenant governor now and have him fired. You should take the gun away too.”
“Yes, ma’am,” says Ricky, “and we—the police—will leave right now, and we look forward to getting the bill for the gate and the camera.”
Pinkerton lowers his weapon but he doesn’t look convinced.
He doesn’t look entirely present, either. It seems as though he has withdrawn into a dream that is, before Ricky’s eyes, floating away with Pinkerton in it. And as it rises higher into the atmosphere, it pops.
“Sir?” Ricky says to Pinkerton. “Can you hear me?
