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“First floor’s generated. No warm bodies there,” Roarke said.
“Surveying second level.” Feeney nodded at the small screen. “And it’s clear.”
“We’re on three,” McNab announced. “Knocking down the bullshit.”
“And that’s one.” Callendar’s satisfied voice came through. “Single heat source third floor, north corner facing west, behind shielded window.”
“That’s not the girl.” Eve hunkered down for a better look. “Too tall.”
“She could have gone out for food,” Peabody suggested, “supplies.”
“I don’t think so. He’s on duty. He’s waiting for us. We’ll give it thirty, in case. If she went out for food, that’s enough time. Baxter, Trueheart, split off, take a walk, check takeout joints, 24/7s, delis, any market still open within a three-block radius. If you spot her, don’t let her make you.”
“Peeling off now.”
“If she’s outside, bringing home some egg rolls, we take her down—fast, hard, done. We may be able to bargain Mackie into surrendering if we have her as weight.”
“But you don’t think so.” Feeney turned to her. “He sent her out, stay covered, stay safe so you can finish the mission. He’s the distraction.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s my gut on it, but we have to see it through. She could be anywhere. Lowenbaum, we need him alive. He can be hurting, but we need him breathing. Have you got a shot?”
“He knows how to keep covered, Dallas, and that’s what he’s doing. We can punch some holes in the barricades, but right now, we can’t take him out.”
“Battering ram would take down the door,” she considered, “but give him time for whatever he has in mind by the time we get to the third floor. Taking out as many of us as he can, taking himself out. Worse, targeting civilians.”
She closed her eyes a moment, held up a hand so nobody spoke and interrupted her thoughts. “Lowenbaum, does Tactical have anything handy that’ll cut through those crappy walls—the common wall?”
After a beat of silence he answered. “Yeah. Yeah, we’ve got something.”
“Stay where you are. I’m coming to you. Can you spare Roarke?” she asked Feeney.
“I think the kids and I can handle things.”
“You’re with me. You don’t look like a cop.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Peabody, give me that stupid coat.”
“My coat!”
“Pink coat, snowflake hat.” She pulled it out of her pocket. “I don’t look like a cop.”
“Beg to differ,” Roarke murmured.
“I know how to not look like a cop. I need like a . . .” She gestured.
“Purse?”
“Yeah, yeah, a bag thing. Tool or tools can go in that. What’ve we got in here?”
Feeney pulled open a drawer. “McNab’s old satchel.”
The old satchel was a wild green just short of fluorescent, with a jagged lightning bolt pattern done in Peabody pink.
“Christ, it’s nearly as bad as one of Jenkinson’s ties.”
“I heard that,” Jenkinson said in her ear.
