“That’s why you’re here, Detective.” I advised everyone, “Bring enough cuffs and zip ties. Okay, time is of the essence. Ready?”

Everyone nodded, though I could see that they all thought we could use more muscle and maybe a more detailed plan of attack. But if there’s one thing I learned from the Feds it was that they overplanned and overmanned. People know their jobs, and less is more. Especially when the clock is ticking. “Let’s go.”

I got behind the wheel of the Blazer, and Tess jumped in beside me.

As I turned the vehicle around, Tess asked, “What’s with you and Detective Penrose?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you must run into a lot of old girlfriends.”

“Detective Penrose was pre-marriage.”

“Okay.”

As I waited for the other two vehicles to get behind me, I asked Ms. Faraday, “You ever do anything like this before?”

“Only in my fantasies.” She asked, “Can I borrow five hundred dollars?”

“Just stick close.” A nice feature of these surveillance vehicles is that you can deactivate the airbags, which I did. “Seat belt.”

I glanced in my rearview mirror, then hit the accelerator and got to Tamorov’s gates in a few seconds. I cut hard left into the closed iron gates and busted through them, waking up the two security guards. I continued up the long driveway past the line of parked cars, and in my rearview mirror I saw the unmarked Chevy right behind me. The Dodge minivan had stopped and Steve and Matt were out and I could see them holding up their creds, guns drawn, screaming at the two Russian security guys who didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. The two Dobermans were trying to eat Steve, but he hit them with Mace.

There are less confrontational ways to gain entry, but I like the gangbuster method. It puts everyone—cops and suspects—in the right head. Also, it’s fun.

I crashed through one of the closed garage doors, which unfortunately was the one opposite the Jag, which more unfortunately I hit, driving the nice car into the concrete wall.

Tess screamed, “Are you crazy?”

“The caterers have arrived.” I jumped out of the Blazer and ran to the service door where the two Russian security guys from the kitchen had appeared, drawn there I suppose by the sound of the crashing objects. They seemed surprised to see us again, and more surprised when Tess pointed her Glock at them and I shoved them back into the storage room and yelled, “FBI! Down! Down! Hit the floorski!”

They understood that we hadn’t returned with the mushrooms and they got down on the floor where I frisked them and relieved them of two MP-443 Grachs—standard Russian military-issue.

Detectives Penrose and Florio arrived and they zip-tied both guys as Tess and I ran into the kitchen with our guns drawn.

Dean also seemed surprised to see us, and the catering staff appeared frightened but not surprised to see the Anglos back with guns. They always knew we were trouble.

I said to Dean, “Party’s over. Collect your people, leave your stuff, and vamoose.”

The staff seemed relieved this wasn’t an immigration bust and they dropped what they were doing and streamed past us toward the door. “Don’t step on the Russians,” I said.

I said to Dean, “Great party. What’s the bill?”

“Uh…”

“I’ll get you twenty thousand from Tamorov. If you keep your mouth shut about this.”

He nodded.

Florio and Penrose came into the kitchen and Tess and I led them into the service corridor. I informed them, “There were three or four security guys on the deck.”

I haven’t had this much fun since my shoot-out in Yemen.

We came onto the deck, where the Beatles were singing, Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. A fog shrouded the beach and a sea mist had settled on the deck, where half the tonga torches and hurricane lamps had gone out.

The party had reached the stupefied stage and no one seemed to notice us, so I sent Beth to the sliding glass doors that led into the house, and Florio went to the staircase that led down to the beach.

Most of the male guests were zonked out in chaises, and six guys were floating naked in the pool. Two other gentlemen were in the steaming hot tub with two hostesses. In addition to the twelve young ladies who’d gone out on the boat, there seemed to be another eight or ten ladies missing, and an equal number of men, so I assumed they were all upstairs having a happy meal.

I looked around and spotted the four security guys at the far end of the deck, sitting around a cocktail table, smoking and joking.

Only two catering ladies were on the deck, retrieving dirty dishes, and the two bartenders were staring off into space. I caught the attention of the two ladies and motioned for them to leave.

I needed to find Dmitry and Tamorov, but first you need to go for the guys with the guns, so I said to Tess, “Stay here and cover,” and I grabbed a metal tray and walked quickly along the rail, past Florio. I caught a glimpse of Steve standing in the fog down on the beach, gun drawn. Beth was still standing near the glass door with her gun at her side, watching me. A few heads turned toward me, and one guy yelled to me, “Vodka!”

The party’s over, asshole.

I got to the end of the deck where the four security guys were sitting around the low cocktail table. One of them puffed on his cigarette, then looked up at me in the dim light, and I could see recognition in his face. He asked me, “Where you go?”

To answer his question, I hit him between the eyes with the metal tray.

That seemed to get everyone’s attention, so I held up my creds, pointed my Glock, and shouted, “FBI! On the fucking floor! Down! Down!”

Nobody went for their gun, though they did hesitate, so to overcome the language problem I demonstrated my verbal command by throwing the stunned gentleman on the deck. “Down!”

The other three men slid off their chairs and lay facedown on the wooden deck.

Florio came over and relieved the men of their guns while I covered him. He had a pocketful of zip ties and he bound the four guys’ hands behind their backs.

Meanwhile, the Beatles were asking, What would you do if I sang out of tune?

All the commotion had roused the sotted guests and they started to stand, which is not what I wanted, so I yelled, “FBI! Down! Get down!”

Florio and Penrose joined in. “Police! Get down!” Florio shoved one guy back into his chaise, and Beth Penrose pushed a tipsy gentleman into the pool, which gave her an idea for how to corral the crowd, and she shouted, “Everyone in the pool! In the pool!”

Steve had run up from the beach and he got right into the action by rolling a wheeled chaise and its occupant into the swimming pool. The Russians must have thought they were back in the USSR.

Bottom line, even through their alcoholic haze, Tamorov’s guests understood this was an FBI and politsiya bust, and they complied with our shouted commands to get into the pool, including the two naked couples in the hot tub. The two bartenders, however, remained at their post in case anyone needed a drink.

Meanwhile, I was looking for Tamorov and Dmitry, but the light was bad, and the air was so misty it was hard to see clearly. Maybe they were upstairs with the girls playing hide the pickle.

But then I saw Dmitry staggering toward the pool, and I would have collared him, but he had no shirt, so I shoved him into a chair and said, “Stay there, Dmitry.”

He was surprised that I knew his name, but then he recognized me and his surprise turned to confusion. “Who is happening?”

Hard question to answer, but his English was good enough for him to answer my questions.

Tess tapped me on the shoulder and pointed, and I turned to see Georgi Tamorov, fully clothed, trying to sneak into his house.

I came up behind him and asked, “Where you going, Georgi?”