Guilty Minds

77

Slowly, as if I belonged there, as if I owned the place, I walked around the back of the truck, to the front door, pulled open the screen door, and entered the house.

I was in the small foyer. There was a painting on the wall, something forgettable, an umbrella stand, a demilune table. All very ordinary and domestic. Nothing compoundlike about it at all.

Only then did I notice the closed-circuit TV camera mounted on the wall in the small foyer, pointed at the door.

If anyone was watching the monitors, I was in trouble. Especially if Vogel was watching. Because he knew my face. And although I was wearing a UPS uniform, I was not otherwise in disguise.

But maybe no one was watching the monitors. Maybe they were all investigating the bomb.

Or maybe not. In any case, I had to move quickly. I had a choice between going left and going right, and I arbitrarily chose left. Into a small living room that stank of old cigar smoke. The walls were raised-panel wainscoting, stained dark walnut. Mounted to one wall was a huge flat-screen TV. There was no one here. I dropped the second duffel bag in front of a long black leather couch.

Maybe the bomb had worked, and everyone inside the house was now focused on the fireball out back. Distracted, at least momentarily.

But not, as it turned out, everyone.

A tall and lanky guy appeared in the doorway. In a two-handed grip he was pointing a weapon at me, matte black, a semiautomatic. It looked like another Glock. Apparently Vogel had gotten a bulk price on Glocks.

“Freeze!” he shouted.

He was the smart one. He’d immediately connected the blast to the arrival of the UPS truck. He’d figured out where the danger was really coming from.

I froze.

“What the hell?” I said.

“Get down!”

I wasn’t holding the Ruger. That was in a pancake holster concealed by my brown UPS shirt. I was holding the electronic clipboard instead.

For a split-second I considered pulling out the Ruger.

But the clipboard, used correctly, was the better weapon at that moment.

“I need a signature, right here,” I said, thrusting the clipboard at him, as if trying to show him something.

All I needed was a moment of disruption. To disengage his brain from his trigger finger for a second or two. A break state, it was called. An interruption of thought, breaking the coordination between his mind and his weapon as he figured out whether I was for real. Because even though he’d deduced I wasn’t a UPS driver, he wasn’t entirely sure.

The lanky guy hesitated for a second. He glanced at my uniform, at my clipboard, in the space of maybe a second and a half.

I turned my left foot and flung the clipboard at his eyes. He jerked his head away. I thrust my left arm over his right, clamping down hard, while with my right hand I grabbed the barrel of his gun. I twisted it clockwise, up and away. He screamed as his trigger finger snapped.

Then I lunged at him, knocking him to the carpeted floor, my knee at his throat. I had his gun now and jabbed it into his forehead. He screamed again, said, “Jesus, no!”

“Where’s Vogel?” I said.

“His... his wing.”

“Where?”

He thrust his thumb to his right, my left. He indicated a set of double doors.

“Turn over. I said turn over.”

I shoved him, and he complied. I yanked out a couple of the heavy-duty cable ties, but apparently he wasn’t finished. He reared up, jerked his right hand back toward me, and I smashed the barrel of the Glock into his left temple.

He slumped immediately. He was dazed, semiconscious. I secured his wrists together, then his ankles. He didn’t fight me anymore.

These particular zip ties he wasn’t going to escape from.

Then I got up and went to find Vogel.