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"Dellray's bumping the INS down a notch."
"Peabody won't like that."
"At this point Fred's in no mood to care about what people like and don't."
"Good," Rhyme said. "We need somebody to take charge. We're groping around in the dark on this one. I don't like it." Then he asked, "Casualties?"
"A few officers and civies wounded. Nothing serious." She noticed Eddie Deng. "I've got to get the Wus' children, Rhyme. I'll call you back after I run the scene."
She disconnected the call and said to Deng, "Need some translation help, Eddie. With the Wus' kids."
"Sure."
Pointing to the bullet-pocked four-by-four, Sachs said to another officer, "Keep it sealed. I'll run the scene in a minute." The cop nodded in response.
Deng and Sachs walked to the apartment. She said, "I don't want the kids to go downtown to the INS alone, Eddie. Can you sneak 'em out of here and get 'em to their parents at the clinic?"
"Sure."
They walked down the few stairs that led to the basement apartments. Garbage littered the alleyway and Sachs knew the rooms here would be dark, probably infested with roaches and would undoubtedly stink. Imagine, she thought: the Wus had risked death and imprisonment and endured the physical pain of their terrible journey just for the privilege of calling this filthy place their home.
"What's the number?" Deng asked, walking ahead of Sachs.
"One B," she answered.
He started toward the door.
It was then that Sachs noticed a key in the front-door lock of the Wus' apartment.
A key? she wondered.
Deng reached for the knob.
"No," Sachs cried, unholstering her weapon. "Wait!"
But it was too late. Deng was pushing the door open anyway. He leapt back--away from the slight, dark man with his arm around a sobbing teenage girl's waist, holding her in front of him as a shield, a pistol pressed against her neck.
Chapter Twenty-five
"Ting, ting!" Eddie Deng shouted in panic.
The young detective's weaponless hands rose above his spiny hair.
No one moved. Sachs heard a multitude of sounds: the girl's whimpering, the low hiss of traffic, horns from the street. The gunman's desperate orders in a language she didn't understand. Her own heartbeats.
She turned sideways, to present a smaller target, and centered the blade sights of her Glock on as much of his head as presented. The rule was this: as difficult as it was, you never sacrificed yourself. You never gave up your weapon, you never turned it aside in a standoff, you never let a perp draw a target anywhere on your body. You had to make them understand that the hostage wasn't going to save them.
The man started forward very slowly, motioning them back, still muttering in his unintelligible language.
Neither Sachs nor the young detective moved.
"You in armor, Deng?" she whispered.
"Yeah" came the shaky reply.
She was too--an American Body Armor vest with a Super Shok heart plate--but at this range a shot could easily do major damage to an unprotected part of their bodies. A nick in the femoral artery could kill you faster than some chest shots would.
"Back out," she whispered. "I need better light for shooting."
