“Do we know who built the house? Is it part of a subdivision?”

“It’s out in one of those crappy little housing developments,” Strom said.

“We may be able to get a floor plan right from the company’s website or see if they have tours of other available units nearby.”

“They try to alter them more now than they used to though. Build to fit, you know.”

“Is the hostage still on the phone?”

“No, they think the suspect may have figured out that she had the phone. But they’re not sure.”

“Which means he may be expecting us,” Nic said. “Okay, Strom and I will approach the house alone and on foot, just to do some recon and maybe toss in a robot if we have an open opportunity. The rest of you maintain a perimeter with the uniforms. I want to have a breaching plan in place before the Sergeant arrives on scene. Now, bring it in, boys.”

Everyone stuck their fists together and hung their heads.

“Take care of each other out there,” Nic said. “Concentrate, focus. Who’s singing it with me?”

Strom shook his head. “It’s my turn, but I’m not doing it.”

“You have to, or you’ll jinx the whole damn thing. Now … If you’re lost, you can look and you will find me …”

Stromberg rolled his eyes. “Time after time.”

“You have to sing, rookie. If you fall I will catch you, I’ll be waiting!”

Strom’s big Nordic features cracked into a smile, unable to maintain his composure another second. In a surprisingly pleasant baritone, Strom sang, “Time after time.”

Nic said, “Very nice! Remember, you watch the six of the guy next to you, and he’ll watch yours. You do that, and we go home safe and happy. Time after time.”

He ended with a quick prayer, and a moment later, the BearCat pulled up to the outer perimeter of uniformed police officers already on scene. The team hopped down from the armored transport and immediately went to work.

Chapter 7

The 911 call had originated from inside one of a hundred identical rental homes that were elbowing out the Creosote bush and Jimson weed on the outskirts of Henderson. As Nic and Strom approached the rows of tightly packed ranch-style homes, there were plenty of opportunities for cover. The problem wouldn’t be approaching the house without being seen. The problem was going to be sneaking past all of the neighbors without them making a fuss or—what happened most often—warning the person they were trying to reconnoiter.

They had stripped off some of their gear and helmets and had then covered up their uniforms with tear-away clothing that they used in certain clandestine infiltration missions. The goal was to blend in enough to reach the target residence without being identified as police. That pretty much meant not being seen at all, since some people seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to spotting cops.

When Nic graduated from the police academy, his Uncle Romeo had told him that he smelled like a cop now, like Nic had been defiled by his choice of profession. Uncle Romeo had always been notorious for sniffing out police officers, an ability that almost seemed ingrained at birth for some people. Especially those who grew up in the world of organized crime.