“Go ahead.”

“He’s wearing a dark hat, no visual on hair color, carrying a grocery bag. Getting out his keys now, over.”

“Stay alert, people.” Cooper switches focus. “CP1 to P2, we have a possible target coming your way, do you copy?”

“Roger that, I have a visual on target.” Closse on the stairs, watching through the glass front door and talking quiet.

A voice out of nowhere. “This is S4, I have a jogger passing my position, white male, ball cap—”

“S2 to S4, have you checked my position? I’m jogging in your area, over.”

“It ain’t you, Farnsworth. Jogger is a white male, black training pants—”

“I’m wearing black, you fucken Barney.”

“Cut the chatter,” Cooper barks. “P2, go ahead.”

“This is P2, target’s key is in the door. I’m taking up position, over.”

Silence. Cooper watches the monitor. Martino squints through the viewfinder. Cooper hears the imagined sound of a dozen men breathing soft.

Closse’s voice breaks through. “That’s a negative, CP, repeat, negative. The party has bypassed the mail area and entered Apartment Two. Looks like a resident.”

“Fuck.” Cooper says it off radio, then clicks back on. “Copy that, P2, stand down—”

“Break, break, this is S4, I have a white male jogger approaching target building from rear—”

“S4, are you yanking my chain?”

“Nossir! Jogger approaching the target building fast, sir!”

“What’s happening?” Emma whispers.

Bell’s face is intent as he listens. “Is he seeing the SWAT guy? Sounds like they’re both wearing black—”

A sharp burst of static from the comms and Medhurst winces, holds one headphone away from his ear.

“Target is coming up fast, CP, he’s wearing black training gear, green-and-orange ball cap, break—”

Cooper swivels toward the monitor. “P2, find your position now. S4, go ahead.”

“—blond ponytail, white shoes—”

“P2 in position,” Closse says in a whisper. “Target is in the building.”

“Give me that visual, P2.”

“Target has the letter! Repeat, target has the letter—oh shit—”

Cooper doesn’t know exactly what goes wrong in what order, but it feels like everything fucks up at once.

Closse is young. When the target grabs the letter—from what they will later realize is an unlocked mailbox carefully propped to look shut tight—Closse starts down the stairs and gets the fright of his life when the target charges in his direction. Jumping back, all training forgotten, Closse trips over the step behind his feet and nearly knocks himself out on the banister. His headset flies free. By then the target has bolted.

The lack of clarity about which door the target is exiting from acts like a flashbang burst: Men positioned to cover the rear grounds converge at the back of the building, police at each end of Woodburn 2 sprint closer. Paziewski’s cruiser team turns onto Woodburn 2 with a disorienting whoop of sirens.