Pulaski asked, “How’d you beat the polygraph?”

“Oh, that’s tradecraft one oh one. See! That’s my point. This business isn’t about pushing buttons and playing computer games.” He sat back. “Oh, hell, just arrest me and have done with it.”

“Scanning,” the voice hissed through an earbud. “No transmissions, no signals.”

The whispering probably wasn’t necessary. The men were in a wooded area well out of earshot of anyone in Spencer Boston’s house.

“Roger that,” Jacob Swann acknowledged, thinking the phrase sounded somewhat ridiculous.

No transmissions, no signals. This was good news. If there had been other officers around to back up Boston’s arrest, the chatter would have shown up on Bartlett’s scanner. Bartlett, a mercenary, was as dull as a slug but he knew his equipment and could find a microwave or radio transmission inside a lead box.

“Any visuals?”

“No, they came alone. The woman detective – Sachs – and the uniform with her.”

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.

The wood chipper. Oh, hell. The police had ordered it – to obscure the sound of the helicopter.

Goddamn.

A setup. They knew all along we were coming.

“Drop your weapons! Lie facedown. Or we will  fire.”

The voice was clattering from a speaker on the helicopter. Or maybe from somewhere on the ground. Hard to tell.

Loud. And no nonsense. The commander meant what he was saying.

Swann noticed that Bartlett complied at once, flinging his own H&K away, lifting his hands and practically falling to the ground. Jacob Swann looked past him and saw that the upstairs window of the house behind Boston’s was open and a sniper was aiming into the backyard. He would have the Shoe covered.

The voice from on high: “You, on your feet. Drop your weapon and lie facedown! Do it now!”

A debate.

Swann looked at the house.

He tossed his gun to the ground and got down on his belly, smelling the piquant scent of grass. It reminded him of Chartreuse, the strident liquor that he used in one of his few desserts – peaches in Chartreuse jelly, part of the tenth, and last, course on Titanic ’s first class menu. As the helicopter lowered he gripped the key fob he’d been holding. He pressed the left button once and then the right for three seconds. And closed his eyes.

The explosive in the backpack, which he’d hidden nearby, detonated with more force than he’d expected. It was a diversionary charge only – for eventualities like this, to draw an enemy’s attention, get them to turn away momentarily. But this charge, right at the edge of the trees, exploded in a massive fireball, pitching the helicopter sideways a foot or two. The craft wasn’t damaged and the pilot controlled it immediately but it had bobbled enough that the gunmen lost their targets.

Jacob Swann was on his feet in an instant, leaping over the prone Bartlett and charging for the house, a smoke grenade in his hand. He flung the compact cylinder through the front window, shattered by the backpack bomb, and leapt through the frame after it.

Inside, Swann slammed into a coffee table, scattering candy bowls, statuettes and framed pictures, and he rolled onto the floor.

The explosion had surprised Boston, Sachs and the other cop and when the smoke grenade bounced into the room they’d scrabbled away for cover, apparently expecting not covering haze but another bang.

Hostages. That was all Swann could think of to buy some time, negotiate his way out. Boston, coughing fiercely, was the first to see him. The man made a halfhearted lunge for his attacker but Jacob Swann drove a fist into the man’s throat and doubled him over.

“Amelia,” came a voice from somewhere on the other side of the spewing grenade. The young cop’s. “Where is he?”

Swann then saw the woman detective, on her side, coughing and squinting as she gazed around her. A Glock was in her hand. Swann went for it – he hadn’t had time to collect his pistol outside. He recalled her limping and the occasional wince, recalled too her references to the health problems he’d learned about when he’d hacked her phone. He now saw a frown of pain cross her beautiful face as she tried to rise and draw a target on him. The delay was enough for him to leap forward, tackling her before she fired.

“Amelia!” came the voice from the distance once more.

As they grappled fiercely – she was stronger than she looked – she shouted, “Shut up, Ron! Don’t say anything more!”