career with several tours in field offices, working on every type of case from breaking up drug rings to organized crime and kidnapping. It was on his last case as a junior agent, the kidnapping of the three-year-old daughter of a wealthy oil tycoon, that he began to experience the first glimmers of doubt about the FBI way of life.
The kidnappers had been clear — and to Greenfield’s mind, entirely serious. The money was to be delivered or the girl would die.
He’d watched dumbfounded at the political maneuverings that had taken place over what to do. The father, who had insisted on calling in the FBI over the mother’s protest, supported the FBI plan to nab the kidnappers at the pickup. If the girl wasn’t with them, they would force whoever they got to lead them back to her. Everything would be, the agents assured the father, all right. They had used this tactic countless times.
What the father had not asked, but the mother had, was how many times it had worked. Greenfield had watched the senior agent dodge the question, offering soothing remarks about the mother’s state of mind, the horrible tragedy of it all, and advising her to leave it all in their hands. Reluctantly, and only at the insistence of the father, she had acquiesced.
What they had not reckoned on were the kidnappers’ political leanings. One was a former employee at the father’s business, mentally unstable at best, psychotic at worst. The FBI had nabbed the pickup man, who led them back to the house where they were holding the girl. But by the time they’d arrived, both the girl and her other captor were dead. The small crumpled body with its throat covered with hard black bruises was never far from Greenfield’s thoughts.
It wasn’t that he disagreed with mounting a raid on the Smart residence. At least, not in principle. The militia groups rising up around the United States were almost as much a threat to national security as the possibility of a foreign terrorist act. Drug dealers, child pornography peddlers, and domestic terrorists, they were all the same to him.
But however much he might agree in principle, as a law-enforcement action, this mission was something entirely different from any he’d ever been involved with. Operating under the direction of the new Homeland Security policy, and given what was probably domestic terrorism in post-September 11th America, the HSD had decided to take preemptive action. Greenfield knew that the power struggle going on in Washington right now was driving part of the decision to act. The Homeland Security folks were growing increasingly insistent that all domestic law-enforcement agencies should be under their command, including the FBI. The FBI, for its part, was adamantly opposed to being drawn in under the broad HSD umbrella. Having outsiders peering into their private files and their carefully developed informants and sources, changing procedures and practices that had served them so well for decades, was anathema. The FBI needed to be what it thought it was — a lean, mean crime-fighting machine. No matter that layers of bureaucracy and political battling had always been part of its culture, being supervised by Homeland Security was far worse than anything the FBI had ever dreamed up itself.
“Everybody straight on the plan?” Greenfield asked, surveying the faces around him. They were in camouflage, with masks of paint and fabric, and each was armed with an automatic weapon.
One by one, they nodded their readiness. Greenfield cast around for some reason to delay the inevitable, but there was no help for it.
Intel supporting this operation was far too skimpy for his tastes. Greenfield had a hard-won law degree, earned at night at the University of Columbia. Many agents did, but he had the feeling that he took his a good deal more seriously than others. Evidence, probable cause — for most agents, these were artificial barriers to doing the right thing. To Greenfield, the successful preparation of the case was far more important.
He ran through the evidence — if you could dignify the meager collection of facts with that name. A few confidential informants, one whose information had proved to be reliable in the past. Some intercepted e-mails, Kyle Smart’s visits to subversive Web sites, and what sounded like a few hastily spoken political opinions. Hardly sufficient, in Greenfield’s mind, to justify what they were planning.
“All right. Positions, everyone. Wait for the go signal.” More nods of agreement. Greenfield had no doubts about his team. Most of them were experienced field agents, and the ones who weren’t were paired with senior agents. It was the people who had sent them here that worried him.
Five minutes later, a series of clicks on his headset indicated that everyone was in place. Drawing in a deep breath, fighting down his doubts, Greenfield whispered, “Now.”
Kyle heard the dog bark once, a sharp, warning sound, followed by a low growl. The flap covering the dog door made a small scratching noise, and then the dog padded quietly into the bedroom.
Kyle reached for the rifle. He put his hand on Betsy’s mouth to wake her and whispered, “Get the kids.”
Betsy’s eyes went wide with alarm, but she nodded. She slid out from under the covers, pulled a.45 pistol from under the mattress, and moved quietly down the hall to the kids’ rooms.
Now that he was fully awake, Kyle could hear the noises that had alerted the dog. Small sounds like an inexperienced man trying to move silently, an almost inaudible clink of metal on metal. For just an instant, he wondered what unit would tolerate such sloppiness.
He slipped on his shoes, crouching down to avoid being outlined in the window. The dog followed. In the hall, the door that led down to the basement was just closing behind Betsy and the kids. Better that they remain below, out of the line of fire.
The Rottweiler muttered a low warning growl. Not a dream. All too real.
The Rottweiler growled again. He waited.
To Kyle’s right, a front window shattered. Something hit the floor, then rolled, followed by a hissing noise.
Kyle ran to the kitchen and grabbed a dish towel. He wet it down and held it against his nose and mouth. The Rottweiler’s growl turned to a whimper as the tear gas enveloped the room.
Another canister, the metallic gleam noticeable even in the faint moonlight leaking through the curtains. Kyle coughed, the wet towel helping some but not enough.
“FBI with a search warrant!” a loudspeaker blared out. “Open the door slowly, and come out with your hands up!”
Kyle tried to answer, but every time he opened his mouth the gas forced its way into his lungs. His eyes were watering so badly he could barely see. Beside him, the Rottweiler was moaning, writhing in its skin.
“You’ve got until I count to five,” the voice said. “One.”
Kyle stumbled through the living room, headed for the front door. He heard the short, distinctive noise of a round being chambered in a shotgun. If he set foot outside the door, they would kill him. Coughing hard now, he waited.
“Two.”
The back door burst open at the same time the front one did. Men looking like bugs clad in gas masks swarmed into the room, black silhouettes with fluorescent yellow FBI letters on the backs.
“Drop the gun!” one shouted, his voice distorted by the gas mask. “Put it down. Now!”
