Pop. Pop. Pop.
We heard the announcement over the tactical mic that power would be turned on, and each CIRG agent took up a protective position in the house, knowing that more men might be hiding inside. The green haze turned to black, and the monitors went full color as the lights came on.
Two firefights began then, and a loud boom sounded.
“There are citizens out in the street,” Cassie said, moving to the window.
My eyes stayed on the monitors. On the lower floors, CIRG agents were zip-tying militia members. I counted four injured bodies.
“D.C. police and HRT will get them inside,” I said to her, my gaze still locked on the TV screens.
“Ten enemies dead,” a voice came through the audio. “Five total wounded, including one of ours.”
The CIRG and SWAT agents moved from room to room, checking every crevice and closet but touching nothing else.
“All clear,” a voice said. “We’re going to remove the wounded and clear the street. Let SABT inside to search for explosives and collect cell phones.”
Two helmet cams moved outside, and the bodies of the injured were loaded into the back of the armored trucks.
Poulton had a walkie in front of him. He informed the lead agent that an ambulance was a block away and would be at Walter Reed in twenty minutes for our injured man.
I walked over to the window with the clearest view and peeled off the craft paper. A handful of citizens were standing on their stoops,holding up iPhones and filming the melee as the injured were removed from the residence. Two CIRG officers carried their colleague outside, and our Hostage Rescue Team moved onto the street.
The target residence was a pink row house with only two feet between its structure and the next house over. I continued to watch as HRT agents entered the homes on either side and removed residents for their own safety. For other citizens in the street, SWAT went door-to-door, ordering them back into their homes. Soon D.C. police arrived on the scene, using their cars as barricades to block traffic onto New Hampshire Avenue.
“First estimate,” the voice from CIRG said. “Ninety-four assault rifles. Eighty-one shotguns. A hundred and forty handguns of various makes. Two thousand assorted rounds. None of this includes the twenty-two cases of ammo that just got here. That’s still unloaded.”
The haul of weapons was enough for an army of two hundred to head to the White House or Congress. I stepped back from the window as Poulton walked toward me. His face was relaxing now, the stress beginning to dissipate.
“I told you a year ago,” he said.
I nodded. “You said we’d do great things together.”
“There’s that memory,” he said, pointing. He took a wrapped cigar and stuck it in my shirt pocket. Then he turned to Cassie and Frank. “You, too, Roberts. You’re a dirty dog, but you always come in clutch when needed. And the good lady as well.” He motioned at Cassie, clearly not remembering her name.
Poulton’s assistant Olivia tapped him on the shoulder. I heard her whisper the wordenvoy, which was the current code name for the president. Poulton told us he owed a call to the White House and began walking away.
Audio from the lead CIRG agent crackled to life from the monitoracross the room, and I stared out the window, watching the soldiers exit the house.
“I’m going down to the basement,” the voice said. “Check out all this ammo.”
Some small, but critical detail was missing. Like a single sentence removed from a book. I scanned my brain for it, my memory flicking through every memo, email, and text about the case.
An image flashed in my head.
Sandoval, leaving the Rotten Coconut.
Dead eyes.
“Something’s wrong,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
And when I found the detail, I knew I needed to move.
Fast.
Or innocent people would die.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
