up, an elbow bend. They would need to turn it, head down another short, straight length of hallway, round another corner. And then they’d be there.
Easily said.
They ran forward, guns at hip level, eyes sweeping the sides of the hall.
Ricci saw a door open a little. Third ahead on the right. He signaled a halt, pointed to it. His men fanned out, sticking close to the walls for cover.
Watching.
Waiting with their guns angled toward the door.
The crack widened, widened, and then a muzzle poked through.
The wait extended. An eternity of seconds. More of the weapon appeared. A semiautomatic pistol. Its barrel slipped tentatively outward into the hall.
That kind of firearm, that kind of cautiousness, Ricci was betting they were dealing with a cop here.
He looked into the eye peering out at him through the crack.
“Toss it!” he said.
The hand ceased to move but held onto the pistol.
Ricci kept looking into that eye. The man behind the door could see how his team was equipped, the serious ordnance they were carrying. Maybe he’d have the brainpower to realize he was outclassed.
“We’re not interested in you. Or any other officers with you,” Ricci said. “Lose that gun, come out with your hands up, you’ll be fine.”
There was another hanging pause.
Ricci couldn’t afford to delay any longer with this small fry.
“Last chance,” he said. “Give it up.”
The opening between the door and its frame widened.
Ricci lifted his weapon, prepared to fire.
The pistol dropped from the man’s hand onto the corridor floor. Then he stepped out of the office, arms raised above his head.
A uniform, sure enough.
Ricci moved forward, kicked the relinquished gun aside, then grabbed the cop by his shoulder and pushed him face against the wall for a frisk.
He patted him down hurriedly, found a revolver in an ankle holster, and handed it back to one of his men, a young recruit named Newton. The cop wasn’t packing anything else.
Ricci hauled his captive away from the wall and stayed behind him, his gun pressed into the base of his spine, his free arm locked around his throat. Using him for cover in case anyone in the office decided to do something stupid.
At his nod, Grillo and Simmons moved to either side of the half-open door, flanking it, their weapons steady in their hands.
Ricci slammed it the rest of the way open with his booted foot.
The office was nearly bare. A couple of chairs, a metal desk with a push-button telephone on it, a trash can beside the desk.
Two more uniforms were inside, both with their hands high in the air.
Ricci glanced at Newton.
“Dump whatever weapons they’ve got in there,” he said, indicating the trash can with a jerk of his chin. “The phone, too. Then pull the can out into the hallway.”
Newton did as he was ordered.
Ricci thought a moment, then shifted his eyes back to the now-empty phone socket on the wall. He still had the first cop in a choke hold.
“You already ring your boss to tell him we’re here?” he said into his ear.
The cop didn’t respond.
“I can hit the redial button, see who answers, find out what I need to know myself,” Ricci said. “Be better for everybody if you save me the time.”
The cop still didn’t answer.
Ricci pushed the snout of his gun deeper into his back.
“I mean it,” he said.
The cop hesitated another second, then finally nodded his head.
Thirty seconds later, Ricci and Newton had backed into the corridor, leaving the disarmed cops in the office.
“Stay put for half an hour, then you’re free to leave,” he said from the doorway. “You get the urge to do something different, you might want to keep in mind we don’t mean your boss any harm. And that no outsider’s worth getting killed over.”
He pushed the door shut, turned to his men.
“Obeng and his guest of honor know about us,” he said. “But we’re between them and the elevators and stairs, the only routes out of the building unless they want to start jumping out windows, and it’s a long drop down the hill from Obeng’s office. So they either go through us or they’re stuck where they are.”
He looked from one man to the other. Their eyes were upon him.
“Cornered animals fight hard,” he said.
Nods all around.
Ricci inhaled.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s move.”
They continued up the hall toward Obeng’s roost.
At the final bend in the corridor, Grillo held out the search mirror’s curved pole, glanced into it for barely a second, pulled it back, and turned to the others behind him.
“Four of Obeng’s goons, headed straight toward us with AKs,” he whispered to Ricci. “Not a dozen feet away in the middle of the corridor.”
“Take them out,” Ricci said. “I want it done yesterday.”
The strike team launched around the corner in a controlled rush, firing short, accurate bursts with their guns.
Two of the militiamen dropped before they could return fire, their weapons flying out of their hands like hurled batons. The remaining pair split up, one breaking to the left, the other to the right.
Ricci heard the whiffle of subsonic ammo from a baby VVRS, saw the man on the left fall to the floor, arms and legs wishboned.
One to go.
The militiaman who’d run to the opposite side of the corridor was bent low against a closed door, practically flattened against it, seeking a modicum of cover in the shallow recess as he poured wild volleys into the hallway.
Ricci hugged the wall, aimed, fired his weapon, unable to get a clean shot at his target. His sabot rounds whanged against the door frame, missing the gunnie, but causing him to duck back and momentarily lay off the trigger.
Ricci knelt against the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Grillo and the others take advantage of the distraction and dash up the hall toward Obeng’s office.
He held his weapon absolutely still. Let the gunnie lean out of that space one inch. Just a single goddamned inch…
Up ahead, Simmons was sweeping the entrance to Obeng’s office with the ionic vapor detector, checking for explosives that might be rigged to a tripwire or similar gimmick. Good. The rest were in their entry-preparation positions. Grillo and the newbie Harpswell on one side of the door. On the opposite side, another green recruit named Nichols held the rammer, while the more experienced hands, Barnes and Newton, stood behind him.
Suddenly, movement from where the militiaman was huddled. His back still pressed to the door, he lifted his hands. The tip of his AK tilting outward. His knees unfolding slightly.
Ricci inhaled through gritted teeth.
