The King Tides

Chapter 41 Divide and Conquer

“We need backup to do this right,” Daniels said. “Do you have a contact at the sheriff’s office that will help us?”

“I’m still friends with my former supervisor,” he said.

“Call him.”

He called his former supervisor to request a SWAT team. The Broward County Sheriff’s Office had a twenty-four-hour SWAT team at its disposal to deal with active shooters and possible terrorist activity. The only issue would be traffic, which could seriously delay their arrival. An automated receptionist answered, and he punched zero to speak to an operator. Canned music filled his ear.

“What’s taking so long?” she asked.

“Must be a busy day,” he said.

A minute passed. He sniffed the air.

“They just put the steaks on,” he said. “Mates bought three New York strips, which take about ten minutes to cook. We’re running out of time. What do you want to do?”

“I’ve never stormed a house before,” she said. “You were the SEAL. Make the call, and I’ll back you up.”

He pocketed his cell phone, marched over to his car, and popped the trunk. The floor panel and spare tire had been removed, making the compartment extra deep. Three long plastic storage boxes were arranged side by side. He popped the lid of the first box, where a bulky bulletproof vest lay inside. He handed it to her.

“Just one?” she asked.

“I usually run solo,” he explained.

“You should wear it.”

“I insist. Don’t argue with me, Beth.”

She fitted on the vest and tightened the belt. He opened the second storage box. Inside was a Beretta Tx4 Storm 12-gauge shotgun, which he also gave to her.

“This is a Beretta. It’s gas operated and absolutely deadly at close range,” he said. “It also won’t take your shoulder off with the recoil.”

“What’s the load?” she asked.

“One-ounce slugs. They’re perfect to take down a door.”

“Gotcha.”

The third box contained four handguns arranged on a piece of carpet. It was always best to match the equipment with the goal. He chose the Luger with the double stack magazine that held seventeen rounds and slammed the trunk shut.

“Ready when you are,” he said.

Daniels took her badge from her wallet and pinned it to the shoulder strap on the vest. They moved to the sidewalk in front of the grocery and looked both ways. Sistrunk was a nocturnal community, and there was not a soul to be seen.

“What’s our plan of attack?” Daniels asked.

“Divide and conquer,” he said. “One of them is in the backyard grilling the steaks, and the other is inside preparing the meal. We’ll deal with them individually. I’ll go around back while you count to sixty. When you reach sixty, go to the front door and blow it open. I’ll deal with the guy in back and enter the house through the back door. That will let us trap whoever’s inside. That sound good to you?”

“I like it,” she said. “When should I start counting?”

“When we reach the other side of the street.”

They crossed. Lancaster said a silent prayer. He didn’t believe in God but always said a prayer in tight situations, just in case. Daniels started counting as her foot touched the sidewalk. The moment she did, he dropped into a crouch and scurried around the side of the house. The property had a waist-high chain-link fence that would be easily jumped. He saw no sign of a guard dog or security cameras. Mates and Holloway obviously felt safe living here, the bad neighborhood a perfect deterrent.

He stopped at the corner of the house and peered through the fence. Holloway stood at a charcoal grill with a cell phone in his hand. He was gazing at the cell phone’s screen and did not see his visitor. In the back of the property was a carport, where the white van they’d used to case the Pearls’ house was parked.

Lancaster waited. He had dealt with serial killers before. What always surprised him was their ordinariness. They were not cannibals who wore flesh masks and danced naked beneath the full moon. They went to ball games, ate fast food, and wore regular clothes. They were as dull as dirt, except when that inner alarm clock in their heads went off, telling them to kill again. Then the monsters came out.

He heard a thunderclap. Daniels had taken down the front door. Holloway put the cell phone away and moved toward the house. Lancaster rose to his full height and took aim.

“Freeze.”

Holloway’s mouth dropped open. “Who the hell are you?”

“You heard me. Put your hands up.”

Holloway didn’t obey. Instead he came toward Lancaster in slow, measured steps. With each step, his arms lowered another few inches. There was a handgun hidden somewhere on his body, and he was planning to use it.

Lancaster had given him a chance. It was a lesson that had been drilled into his head during SEAL training. You gave your adversary a chance to save himself, and if he didn’t take it, you took him out. Without another word, he pumped three bullets into Holloway’s chest and saw him fly backward and knock over the grill on his way down. Burning charcoal covered his body, and he quickly caught on fire.

Lancaster jumped the fence and entered the house through the back door. The kitchen had an island where a salad was being prepared. Instant potatoes were cooking on the stove, and a loaf of bread sat waiting to be cut. There was also an old Kodak camera sitting on the island for when the meal was done. It was called a Brownie and this particular model was small enough to slip into a man’s shirt pocket. Every serial killer had a ritual that was religiously followed, and he wondered if it was part of the flawed wiring in their brains.

He passed into the dining room. The table had three place settings and an open bottle of red wine. Mates stood across the room, pressing the barrel of a handgun to the head of a freckle-faced teenage girl, who he guessed was Ryean Bartell. Mates’s other arm was around her throat, from which hung a gold Saint Jude medal.

Ryean begged Mates not to kill her.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Mates told her.

The dining and living rooms were connected. Daniels stood in the center of the living room, pointing the shotgun. She wasn’t backing down, and neither was Mates.

“Let her go,” Daniels said.

“Fuck you,” Mates said.

Lancaster decided to change the odds. He aimed at Mates’s head and closed one eye. He’d put a bullet into the head of an al-Qaida militant in Yemen and managed not to hurt the hostage, and was willing to try it here.

“Do you want one of us to shoot you?” Daniels asked.

“I’ll take my chances,” Mates said.

He took aim. Mates realized he was being sized up and jerked Ryean from side to side so Lancaster couldn’t get off a clean shot. Ryean started to sob.

“How did you figure out it was us?” Mates asked.

“Blame him,” Daniels said.

Mates gave Lancaster a murderous look. It was eating at him.

“You left a lot of clues,” Lancaster said, trying to rattle him.

“Bullshit. You just got lucky,” Mates said.

Mates was buying time while formulating a plan. He was going to make a last stand and hope it paid off. Ryean would either get killed in the crossfire or Mates would put a bullet in her before he ran out the door. Either way she was a goner. Lancaster decided to tell her, and see where it led.

“They were going to kill you after lunch,” he said. “You knew that, don’t you?”

Ryean blinked. She was drugged and having a hard time focusing.

“But I didn’t do nothing,” the girl sobbed.

“Doesn’t matter. They were still going to kill you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mates said.

“They’ve killed fifteen girls,” Lancaster told her. “Each victim was abducted from a mall and brought to a house. She’s pumped up with so many drugs that she loses her will. Then she’s fed a nice meal and murdered. You were number sixteen.”

“But I didn’t do nothing,” she said again.

“Doesn’t matter. Your time was up.”

“I said, shut the fuck up,” Mates roared.

Ryean had reached the breaking point. She sank her teeth into Mates’s forearm, and her abductor momentarily loosened his grip on her neck. Throwing her weight forward, she grabbed a steak knife off the table. Her arm came straight back and she blindly plunged the tip into Mates’s eye. Mates screamed and discharged his handgun.

Ryean wrestled free. Instead of running, she pushed Mates into the wall and stabbed him repeatedly. Mates tried to protect his face, and she went straight for his jugular. It was over in seconds, and Mates fell to the floor and did a death crawl.

Lancaster went to Daniels’s aid. The stray shot had caught her thigh, and there was a pool of blood on the floor. He tore off his shirt and made a tourniquet, getting the blood to stop. Ryean hovered behind him, still clutching the steak knife.

“You okay?” he asked.

She said yes. He tossed his cell phone to her.

“Call 911.”

Ryean made the call. She went outside to read the address off the mailbox to the dispatcher, then returned. The wait was unbearable. Lancaster held Daniels’s hand and said another prayer. The FBI agent stared at the ceiling, her eyes unblinking.

“Tell my sister that I love her,” Daniels said.

“You’re not going to die,” Lancaster said.

“Just in case. Will you do that?”

“Of course.”

Daniels sniffed the air. “I smell something burning.”

He lifted his head and glanced into the kitchen. He’d left the back door open, and smoke was pouring into the house.

“I shot Holloway. He fell on the grill and caught on fire,” he said.

“Good going,” she said.