Page 1 of Blood Money

Chapter One

Gray paused, inhaling the building’s thick, stuffy air. This op bugged the shit out of him to the point where he’d almost called it off.

A bomb-sniffing K-9 named Max had already gone through the building and detected nothing, but Gray’s nerves were lit up like a subway station.

Something isn’t right.

His gut warned him they were about to fall ass-deep into a trap. For eight months they’d been digging around without success trying to find the safe house used by Ahmed Methopolis, the now-dead Pyramid assassin who’d tried to kill Gray’s sister, and two days ago an anonymous call came in on the NYPD Crime Stoppers tip line. As the lead detective in the Intelligence Unit—and lead investigator on the Pyramid case—Gray had first crack in deciding how to proceed.

He pushed the stairwell door open wider and froze.

The hairs on his neck spiked to attention, and a droplet of sweat trickled down his back. Gray’s stomach churned away at the rot-gut coffee he’d had an hour ago. Even though Methopolis was long dead, he wasn’t taking any chances. Pyramid assassins were infamous for booby-trapping their safe houses.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Dom raise his brows, questioning Gray’s hesitation. Since some explosive devices could be triggered by radio frequency transmission, no radios were permitted within a hundred yards.

We good? Dom mouthed the words.

Warning signals continued sparking up and down Gray’s neck and back, but without a valid reason to articulate why he shut down an op mobilizing nearly fifty department personnel, three fire trucks, and two buses—aka ambulances—from the FDNY, and cleared an entire city block, there was no turning back now. If he did, his captain would either cut off his balls or relegate him back to a uniformed beat in the South Bronx. Maybe both.

He nodded, drew his Glock, and gripped it in both hands. Behind him, Dom and the other detectives did the same. He turned left into the hallway, toward Methopolis’s door. Gray’s boots barely made a sound on the carpeted floor. Only slight swishes of clothing and tactical gear came to his ears as the rest of his team quietly followed.

Every one of the men on his six was hand-picked by Gray and Dom, all with experience under fire. Yet another one of Gray’s unbreakable rules: in a bad spot, take only the best. Particularly when he didn’t know what—or who—might be waiting for them on the other side of the door. The only addition to his team was the tagalong FBI agent who he’d had no choice but to include. The moron was wearing a suit, for Christ’s sake! Who the hell wears a suit to a high-risk warrant? On top of which, the guy had been late this morning and missed half of the pre-op briefing. Fucking feds.

Outside the apartment door, Gray and the others stepped aside so that TARU could do its thing. The NYPD’s Technical Assistance Response Unit began scanning the walls on either side of the door with thermal imaging units to detect any devices attached to the inside of the door. Two bomb squad guys accompanied the team, one of whom was Sgt. Pete Miller. Although Gray hoped to hell Pete’s expertise wouldn’t be necessary.

Moments later, the lead TARU officer gave Gray a thumbs-up. No devices were detected at the door. Next a thin camera probe was inserted between the bottom of the door and the threshold. A small, portable device on the floor displayed a TV-like image of what the camera saw. The interior of the apartment was devoid of life, with only sparse furniture showing on the display. Another thumbs-up.

Though Gray had a search warrant in his pocket, building management had been strangely unable to locate the spare key to the apartment. Even the best locksmith would take too much time and would easily be heard puttering outside the door. For safety reasons, there would be no knock-and-announce.

Time to blow the door.

Gray signaled the Apprehension Tactical Team officer holding Big Bertha, the battering ram used for tactical entries. Behind Big Bertha was the bunker, the guy holding a shield in one hand and a handgun in the other. Next in line were the remaining A-Team members who would clear and secure the apartment. The rest of the men, including the FBI suit, stacked up behind Gray against the wall. At least the suit had the sense to draw his weapon and point it to the floor, not at the back of the guy in front of him. To the other side of the door, Pete and his partner, Finelli, waited, both wearing heavily padded green Gumby suits.

Gray listened for sound inside the apartment. Nothing. All he heard was heavy breathing from his team and the rapid beat of his own heart.

He held up his fist and counted to three with his fingers. On three, Big Bertha’s thirty inches of epoxy steel slammed against the door. The sound of metal on metal reverberated in the hallway. With a loud creak, the door partially gave way. One more swing and Big Bertha tore the heavy door off the top two hinges. The door creaked as it twisted backward on the remaining hinge and crashed to the floor.

The A-Team charged in first, M4s and MP5s raised, heavy boots pounding on the parquet floor. Gray, Dom, and the rest of the detective squad swarmed in behind. Shouts of “clear” echoed in the apartment as the interior rooms were deemed empty of human threats.

Still, Gray’s heart hammered.

He and the other detectives separated and began a sector sweep of each room for explosive devices and other evidence, being careful when lifting or opening anything, and not turning on any light switches that might set off a hidden charge.

The main room held basic furniture, no photos, nothing personal, which was no surprise. Pyramid assassins were professionals, and the service they provided to their wealthy clients was completely anonymous. According to INTERPOL, when a Pyramid assassin moved on, his location was cleaned of all evidence, so Gray didn’t really expect to locate anything useful. But maybe they’d get lucky. Even the best occasionally slipped up.

“Got a laptop,” Dom called from another room.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Gray muttered as he hustled into the small bedroom on the south side of the apartment.

Perched on a wooden desk was a closed silver laptop. No power cord, no cables. With the lights still off and the shades down the way they were when they’d made entry, the room was dimly lit at best.

Gray flicked on his tactical flashlight and knelt to shine it under the desk. No wires and no devices. That he could see.

“Pete,” he shouted over his shoulder to the bomb squad leader.

“Whatddya got?” Pete and Finelli entered the room. Each carried a black, hard-sided case.

“Sniff the laptop.” Gray stepped aside to give Pete and Finelli room to work.