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I set the phone down, wondering again if Bree and Muller had been foolhardy. Gordon was an exceptional pistol shot. God only knew the carnage he could have caused with his state-of-the-art gun and the six full clips they’d found on him.
Mahoney came to my window, said, “They’re in position. No activity in the yard. The powwow looks to be inside the house.”
“You trace the license plates we gave you?” Sampson asked, getting back in the driver’s seat.
The FBI agent nodded. “A few. The black Suburban? Hobbes. The Range Rover? Fender, who is a scary SOB.”
“So we heard,” I said. “When do I call?”
“Now,” Mahoney said.
I punched in the number of Colonel Whitaker’s cell, courtesy of the Naval Academy, and put the phone on speaker. He answered on the second ring.
“Whitaker.”
“This is Alex Cross, Colonel.”
There was a long pause before he said, “Yes. How can I help, Dr. Cross?”
“You can give yourself up, you and your followers, the Regulators.”
After another, longer pause, Whitaker chuckled softly and said, “Now, why would we ever do such a cowardly thing?”
“Because you’re surrounded, and we want to avoid unnecessary bloodshed,” I said.
“Always the noble one, aren’t you, Dr. Cross?” Whitaker said. “Well, the Regulators are not surrendering. We are prepared to fight to the last man.”
“Why?” I said.
“Ask John Brown,” Whitaker said. “His goals are our goals.”
“You’re wanted for murder and treason, Colonel. The arrest warrants have already been written and are ready to be served. It doesn’t have to end in a firefight.”
“Ah, but it does, Dr. Cross,” Whitaker said. “A fight to the death is how all slave rebellions begin.”
He ended the call.
Mahoney picked up a radio and ordered his tactical team to move closer, probe for booby traps, and try to get infrared on the house. Five minutes later, the same report came back from all sides of Whitaker’s home: The lights were on, but the shades and drapes were drawn. Infrared showed fifteen people in the house, fourteen sitting around the living room and one up front talking.
“No one’s moving inside and no one’s posted outside,” the tactical agent in charge said over the radio.
“All in one room,” Mahoney said. “Take them before they fan out.”
“Roger that. We are go.”
Mahoney’s blue sedan soon squealed out of the barnyard with us behind, tearing up the country road toward Whitaker’s place. We stopped in front of the driveway, barring any exit, and got out, drawing guns even as the first flash-bang grenades went off.
Sampson said, “I promised Billie I wouldn’t play cowboy.”
“And you’re not,” I said. “We’re doing the rational thing, letting the pros handle the rough stuff.”
We trotted down the driveway expecting World War III to erupt at any moment, but all we heard after the grenades was doors and windows breaking and voices calling “Clear.”
The wind had picked up again, and it was starting to rain as we followed Mahoney up into the house and saw the fifteen mannequins arranged around the room in various poses.
Every one of them was connected to electrical lines through sockets embedded in their heels. Their plastic skin was warm to the touch.
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