In the small bedroom toward the back they found a trapdoor in the ceiling, a thick string hanging from it. A pull-down stair. An officer shut out the light in this room so it would be harder to target them. They stood back and pointed their guns at the door as Sachs gripped the string and pulled hard. It creaked downward, revealing a folding ladder.

The team leader shouted, “You, in the attic. Come down now. . . . Do you hear me? This is your last chance.”

Nothing.

He said, “Flashbang.”

An officer pulled one off his belt and nodded.

The team leader put his hand on the ladder but Sachs shook her head. “I’ll take him.”

“Are you sure you want to?”

Sachs nodded. “Only, let me borrow a helmet.”

She took one and strapped it on.

“We’re set, Detective.”

“Let’s do it.” Sachs climbed up near the top—then took the flashbang. She pulled the pin and closed her eyes so the flash from the grenade wouldn’t blind her and also to acclimate her eyes to the darkness of the attic.

Okay, here we go.

She pitched the grenade into the attic and lowered her head.

Three seconds later it detonated and Sachs, opening her eyes, charged the rest of the way up the ladder into the small area, filled with a haze of smoke and the smell of explosive residue from the flashbang. She rolled away from the opening, clicking on her flashlight and sweeping it in a circle as she moved to a post, the only cover she could find.

Nothing to the right, nothing center, nothing—

It was then that she fell off the face of the earth.

The floor wasn’t wood at all, like it seemed, but cardboard over insulating crud. Her right leg crashed through the Sheetrock of the bedroom ceiling, gripping her, immobile. She cried out in pain.

“Detective!” somebody called.

Sachs lifted the light and the gun in the only direction she could see—straight in front of her. The killer wasn’t there.

Which meant he was behind her.

It was at that moment that the overhead light clicked on, almost directly above her, making her a perfect target.

She struggled to turn around, awaiting the sharp crack of a gun, the numb slam of the bullet into her head or neck or back.

Sachs thought of her father.

She thought of Lincoln Rhyme.

You and me, Sachs . . .

Then she decided no way was she going out without getting a piece of him. She took the pistol in her teeth and used both hands to wrench herself around and find a target.

She heard boots on the ladder as an ESU officer charged up to help her. Of course, that’s what the Watchmaker was waiting for—a chance to kill more of the officers. He was using her as bait to draw other cops to their deaths and hoped to escape in the chaos.