“Devin. There was no other way to pull this off. We needed all of the Russians in one place, which meant you and me showing up at the town house to offer an irresistible target,” said Berg. “Ms. Young insisted on staying at the town house. I begged you to get her out of there.”

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” said Marnie. “I needed to see for myself who was pulling the strings. Now I know.”

Scott took a hard left on South Belnord Street, tires screeching.

“Take it easy,” said Rich.

Scott slowed the vehicle down significantly.

“We’ll explain everything later,” said Rich. “Right now, I’m going to drop the two of you off at Devin’s car, and you’re going to run a short SDR to the northeast. Thirty minutes tops. Just get out of the city and into the suburbs. Work your magic in a nice, quiet neighborhood, then back to your mother’s apartment. Stick north of the city on your return. The police will be all over this part of town.”

“What’s happening back at the town house?” asked Devin.

“Bad shit,” said Rich.

“Point-of-no-return shit, to be precise,” said Berg.

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 29

Harvey Rudd had pulled the nylon duffel bag containing their breacher kit onto the sidewalk by the time the entire team had assembled in front of the door. They wasted no time rifling through its contents, removing the battering ram first. Leo Ward took possession of the forty-pound, two-handed chunk of metal, and headed for the town house stoop. Logan Walsh grabbed the shotgun, which they’d preloaded with twelve-gauge slug shots, and followed closely behind Ward. Rick Gentry stuffed a few of the flash-bang grenades into his cargo pant pockets, keeping one out for immediate use.

They stacked up on the door like a SWAT team: Ward with the battering ram first, lining it up with the door handle; Walsh racking the shotgun to chamber one of the lock-shattering slugs and positioning himself on the hinge side of the door—in case the battering ram didn’t do the trick. Gentry stood at the bottom of the stoop, flash-bang grenade in hand, ready to toss it inside if they met with any immediate gunfire. Clark stacked up behind Walsh, ready to rush in and shoot Young. Everything was in place.

Rudd threw the duffel bag in the back seat of the Durango and drew a compact Glock from the concealed holster on his hip.

“Do it! Breach!” he said, heading straight for the town house stoop.

Ward retracted the battering ram, ready to smash it against the handle, when his head snapped sideways, a watermelon-size scarlet blotch exploding against the yellow door. Walsh’s neck erupted a fraction of a second later, painting Ward’s expressionless face deep red. Both of them crumpled to the stoop as bullets tore through the rest of the team.