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“You think we didn’t go through that building, pull in those supplies, and seal it up?” Eve dropped down into a chair. “You’re wasting my time.”
“If she couldn’t get into the building or if she felt it was being surveilled, there’s a flop on Lex, between Thirty-Ninth and Fortieth. If she needed time to regroup, or wait for me, or let things cool, she’d go there, lay low. Wait it out.”
“What’s she carrying?” When he hesitated, Eve leaned forward again. “You want her taken alive? What’s she carrying?”
“She’s got a Tactical-XT, military, with long-range scope. Night-vision option. Two hand blasters, a police-issue stunner, pump laser, six flash grenades.”
“Sharps?”
“Combat knife, flip sticker, telescope baton with bayonette.”
“Body armor?”
“Full body. Plus helmet, of course.”
“If you’ve left out so much as a penknife and she uses it on one of my people, that agreement isn’t worth jack.”
“She’s got a multitool. It’s got sharps. Tell her I said to stand down. Tell her that her father said to stand down and live. The basement of the apartment or the flop on Lex. Those are the planned retreats.”
“Then you’d better hope we find her. Interview end.”
—
She turned him over to uniforms, with instructions to put him on suicide watch. She let Reo deal with the legalities. Lowenbaum had already moved out of Observation, barking orders into his comm.
“You want to ride with us?” he asked her.
“No, I’ve got my own to set up. I’ve got two detectives in that area already. If she’s there, I don’t want her making them and popping off strikes. Get your op set up—odds are on the flop. She could get into the basement, but it’s a wrong move when she knows we’ve been in that location. She wouldn’t make that wrong a move.”
“Agreed, but we’ll sweep for heat source—if I can pull your EDD team with us.”
“Take them.” She pulled out her own comm as she strode toward her bullpen. “Baxter,” she began, then filled him in.
“Reineke, Jenkinson, suit up. Uniform Carmichael, pick six and do the same. Santiago, Detective Carmichael, you’re second unit, full suits. Suspect is Willow Mackie, age fifteen. She is armed and dangerous. Weaponry includes military-grade Tactical-XT with scope and night vision, two blasters, stunner, pump laser, flash grenades, various sharps. Do not, repeat, do not let her age deter you from stunning the living shit out of her. We want her alive. SWAT is moving in to surround and secure. Peabody, get a fricking map of the sector on this half-assed screen.”
Eve worked it out as she went. “She won’t go easy, and if she spots us or Lowenbaum’s team, she will attempt to pick us off. She’s not in the fricking basement,” Eve muttered. “It’s bad planning. She’d want higher ground, an eyeline. We’ll clear it, but that’s not where she is. The flop . . .”
“Would you like the building’s details?” Roarke said from behind her.
“Helpful.”
He stepped over to Peabody, interfaced his PPC with the comp. “Post-Urban construction,” he told Eve. “Currently an SRO primarily used by low-level LCs, transients, addicts, and petty criminals. Eight stories, twelve rooms per story. A small lobby with droid service. Cash only. Rooms by the half hour, hour, night, and week. No soundproofing, no privacy screening.”
“Got it. Heat sourcing will give us occupied rooms—and anyone who’s alone. She won’t have company. Ears may help.”
She paced back and forth in front of the image. “We’ll hit the droid, get verification. If she’s in there, we’ll get people out—if possible. Single room, single window, single door.”
“She may have the door booby-trapped, LT,” Reineke said.
“Yeah. I would. I don’t like it.” She paced again. “It’s not a basement, but where the hell’s her out? Fire escape? She’d know we’d have the exterior covered.”
“She may believe she can fight her way out,” Mira put in. “She’s fifteen. Indestructible, and the star of her own personal drama.”
“Maybe.”
But it niggled at her, niggled as she refined the op, as she prepared to move out.
“I’m with you,” Roarke told her.
