“He’s by himself?”
“Seems to be.”
“That’s strange.”
“Yeah, that’s what we’re thinking. I used to be with Homeland, and I’d never make a stop by myself, at least not one I thought I needed my gun drawn for.”
“Don’t get out of the vehicle.”
“We’re licensed to carry in D.C., so we’re not doing anything wrong, but we don’t want to get our names flagged by the cops while you’re doing whatever you’re doing upstairs. Are you going to call off the op or—”
Spiral spoke into his earpiece. “Three, are you hearing this?”
Three was in the front passenger seat of the Ford Expedition parked on New Hampshire, facing the Carriage House condos, two blocks to the east and a half block north of the Audi.
Three replied quickly. “All quiet over here, Spiral. We can’t see the man who went in the loading dock a few minutes ago anymore; he might have gone inside one of the buildings. You want us to go over and support One and Two on the west side?”
“No. But send one man into the loading area to look around. Observe and report only. I want to know if that man is still at street level like the other guy, or if he’s in this building.”
“Roger.”
The back right door of the big black SUV opened. A man in a leather coat and a watch cap climbed out and took a single step into the street, keeping his right arm down to prevent his coat from flying open in the breeze and revealing the pistol on his hip. His number was Five on the Gauntlet team, and as the junior member he knew he’d be the one to climb out into the cold and put himself even closer to what, he assumed, would be the murder of the woman he’d been following for the past day.
A white GMC van approached from the south; he waited for it to pass, but instead it slammed on its brakes right in front of the Expedition, skidding to a stop there next to it.
The man who’d just climbed out of the vehicle froze; the two inside put their hands on their pistols but did not yet draw them.
A lone man leapt out from behind the wheel of the van; he wore a blue coat under black body armor that said “Police ICE” on it, dark blue cargo pants, and a black knit cap. His utility belt held a pistol, radio, and handcuffs. A neck gaiter was pulled up to nis nose.
He lifted a small tactical flashlight with his left hand; his right hovered over his gun.
The man seated next to the driver of the Expedition said, “It’s a fucking immigration cop.”
The light wasn’t bad here on the side of the road, but still the man who climbed alone out of the vehicle shined a flashlight on the three men. “ICE! Let’s see some IDs.”
All three of these Gauntlet men were white males.
The man standing near the vehicle kept his hands down by his sides. The man in the ICE uniform was just twenty feet away and walking towards the SUV, using the light to mask anything he might be doing with his other hand.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” the man standing by the Expedition said.
The big ICE officer repeated, “I need to see some papers, motherfuckers.”
With no Hispanic accent, the driver said, “C’mon, dude. What the fuck are you talking about?”
“IDs, amigos, and I’m gonna need you two to step out of the car.”
The front passenger, call sign Three, said, “Look at us. We’re obviously not illegals.”
“Obvious to who? Not to me. How do I know you’re not illegal Finns, or Swedes? Reach for those wallets, but do it slowly.”
Number Three broadcast to Spiral now, speaking softly, cupping his hand over his earpiece. “We’ve got one man on us at this time. Claims to be with Immigration and Customs Enforcement.”
Spiral’s reply echoed, likely because he was in a stairwell. “What does he want?”
“He’s giving us some bullshit story about looking for—”
The man with the flashlight shined it at the front passenger window.
