An explosion far out in the ocean made Kara jump. “What was that?”
“A distraction?” Matt said. He pulled out his phone, started texting people on the team.
“Garrett,” she muttered. “Dammit, it had to have been Garrett coming for her. Zack found that she owned two boats, right? Want to bet that she sabotaged the one Garrett had access to?”
“I won’t take that bet,” Matt muttered, waiting for answers.
Catherine said, “Security system is completely down, teams A and B are going in.”
Michael heard the explosion, glanced out at the horizon. Smoke rose at least a mile out. Was that Clara Dolan? Had she slipped through their net again?
Or was that Garrett Reid coming to meet her?
Michael had moved seamlessly with the SWAT team that had been put together. He’d been a part of FBI SWAT in Detroit before Matt recruited him to the Mobile Response Team. He missed it.
The FBI was team B, coming from the beach. The local sheriff’s was team A, and the sheriff’s water patrol was team C, monitoring activity in the boathouse.
The Coast Guard was holding with two boats; one was now being sent to investigate the explosion.
“System down, on three,” the team leader, Grant Cole, said.
Three. Two. One.
Michael followed the leader’s signal and moved with the group toward the rear of the house.
The property was a nightmare with too many exits. His team split into three pairs to cover each one. Michael was with Cole.
The garage door opened to a narrow side path, shielded by thick ivy and shoulder-high hedges. Movement—quick, almost imperceptible—flashed through the green. Michael and Cole froze a moment to assess, then moved in.
No one was there. But the door hung open, swaying slightly.
Cole pointed toward a dark trail that wound through neatly trimmed man-sized hedges. Michael saw a figure darting out of sight through the foliage. Female, agile. They were in pursuit.
Cole whispered into the comm. “We’ve got an unidentified suspect, likely Dolan, fleeing through the garden between the house and boathouse. Pursuing on foot.”
The distance between the house and boathouse was at least a hundred yards, but it wasn’t a straight shot as decorative hedges, flowering bushes, and trees filled the area.
Michael ran just behind Cole. They glimpsed her again—black clothes, but the telltale blond hair bounced behind her like a flag.
She was fast, running parallel to the boathouse. Where the hell was she going?
Cole updated the team. In Michael’s earpiece, chatter crackled: the sheriff’s men had breached the main house and were clearing rooms.
Please don’t let her have rigged it, Michael thought. Clara Dolan was smart enough to turn the whole place into a deadly trap.
Then team C reported, “Boat motor just engaged.”
“Negative,” Cole snapped. “We’ve got eyes on the suspect—she’s not near the boathouse. I repeat, she’s running southeast of the boathouse.”
“We’re checking it out,” team C leader replied.
“Use extreme caution,” Cole warned. “She may have an accomplice.”
They pressed forward through the hedges. The faint light from the rising sun and tall hedges made visibility poor, making every step a risk. Ten minutes from now they’d be able to see better; they didn’t have ten minutes.
A metallicclank.
Then Cole screamed and went down.
