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Made sense, Swann reflected, only these two and no backup. Boston was a whistleblower and possibly a traitor but he wasn't dangerous in the resisting-arrest sense. He'd kill you with a Hellfire in Yemen or ruin your political career by planting rumors that you were gay in an ardently Catholic South American country. But he probably didn't even own a gun; two NYPD cops would be plenty to bring him in.
Swann moved in closer, through the woods to the side of Boston's house, keeping clear of the windows.
He now checked his Glock, which was mounted with a suppressor, and the extra mags, inverted, in his left cargo pants pocket. On his utility belt, of course, his Kai Shun chef's knife. He pulled down his black Nomex tactical face mask.
Nearby a commercial tree service was chipping a tree they'd just taken down. The roar and grind were loud. Jacob Swann was grateful for the noise. It would cover the sound of the assault; while he and his team had sound suppressors, it wasn't inconceivable that one of the cops inside might get off a shot before they died. He transmitted, "Advise."
"Position," Bartlett said, and the same message was delivered a moment later by the other member of the team, a broad-shouldered Asian American named Xu, whose only substantive comment since they'd rendezvoused had been to correct Jacob Swann's pronunciation of his name.
Xu.
"Like Shoe."
I'd change it, thought Swann.
"Scan, interior," Swann said to Bartlett.
A moment later: "Have three souls, all ground floor. Right of the front door, six to eight feet, sitting. Right of the front door, four to five feet, sitting. Left of the front door, four to five feet, standing." Their electronic expert was scanning the house with an infrared sensor and SAR.
Swann asked, "Any visuals, surrounding premises?"
"Negative," transmitted the Shoe. The houses on either side of Boston's were out of range of the infrared but they were dark and the garage doors were closed. This was afternoon in suburbia. Children in school, moms and dads at work or shopping.
Another convenient roar of the chipper.
"Move in," Swann commanded.
The others acknowledged.
Bartlett and Swann were going through the front door. The Shoe, the rear. The approach would be a dynamic entry, shoot on sight. This time Amelia Sachs would have to die, not just join Rhyme in the world of paralysis. If she'd cooperated earlier at least she would have survived.
Leaving his backpack in the bushes, Jacob Swann stepped onto the lawn, crouching. Bartlett was twenty feet away, closer to the house. His mask was down too. A nod.
Fifty feet from the house, then forty.
Scanning the windows. But the attack team was to the side and couldn't be seen from where Bartlett had assured him the occupants were sitting and standing.
Thirty feet.
Looking around the lawn, the houses.
Nobody.
Good, good.
Twenty-five feet.
He would--
And then the hurricane hit.
A massive downwash of breathtaking air slammed into him.
What, what, what?
The NYPD chopper swept in fast, dropping, cantilevering to a stop over the front yard.
Swann and Bartlett froze as the lithe aircraft spun broadside and two Emergency Service officers trained H&K automatic weapons on the men.
