“Six, not counting those.” Willy pointed to the two corners of the house ahead, where the walls and roof met.

“Think he knows we’re coming?”

Instead of answering, Willy speed-dialed his phone and said to whoever answered, “A heads-up: this is better rigged with cameras than a movie set. You might want to start sniffing for electronic signals, just for laughs.”

“Fred?” Joe asked, his eyes ahead.

“Yeah.”

Joe hesitated before proceeding. “You still good to go?”

Willy’s enthusiasm was evident in his response. “No bullet holes in the windshield yet.”

“Swell,” Joe replied and slowly brought them the rest of the way.

Under their coats, they were wearing ballistic vests, which Joe revealed to one of the cameras as he rang the doorbell. “Mr. Shaw?” he said loudly. “It’s the police. We have a warrant. Open up.”

Willy was standing to one side, as watchful as a hound on the hunt.

“Try the door,” he suggested after a minute of utter silence.

Joe followed his body language, pressed his own shoulder against the wall, and reached over to twist the large knob, keeping himself clear in case a heavy-caliber round came crashing through the door.

None did, and the door swung open without complaint or resistance.

Joe glanced at his partner opposite, who braced himself, drew his handgun, and prepared to enter in tactical mode, moving low, fast, and to one side.

Once in, crouching with their backs against the log walls, all they saw was an overarching lobby with a hallway beyond. It was well furnished and appointed, in masculine hunting lodge fashion, with rough wooden chairs and tables and heavy, rough rugs. There was an oversized antler chandelier overhead.

“This is the police,” Joe tried again in a loud voice. “We have a warrant.”

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Willy chanted under his breath. “Boss,” he then said, his voice still low.

“Yup?”

“Work yourself around the edge of the rug to the door. Stay on the hardwood.”

“You see something?”

“Not yet. Don’t want to, either.”

Joe understood his concern. People with Willy’s background were more attuned to detail than the average observer. But they were also familiar with hidden explosives in an unusual way. Willy had often rigged what were known in his trade as “access denial” devices—antipersonnel charges designed to defeat anyone creeping up behind him as he lay motionless, hidden, and vulnerable, seeking a quarry.

Willy was a man with an eye for covert ordnance.

The interior of the house was as he’d described it from seeing the plans, with clear lines of sight and strategic ambush spots as they went. And yet, there was no opposition.

At least, not in human form. At each doorway, Willy conducted an assessment, and in almost every instance, there was something—a camera, a sensor, a pressure plate under a rug. They didn’t know if these were attached to surveillance, alarms, or explosives, but given the silence so far, the first seemed the better bet.