Page 68 of The Wolves Come at Night
He flipped the image. Burnkin’s face came onto the screen, nondescript outside of a badly set broken nose and thick jaw. The nose made her think he’d probably played contact sports, once upon a time. Taylor tried to read his eyes but got nothing.
“There’s not much,” Lincoln said. “Got a record, but it’s simple stuff—a DUI when he was in his early twenties, traffic violations, a failure to stop. He did traffic school. Nothing harder. Nothing that screams kidnapper to me. He doesn’t own a Jeep, either.”
“Damn it. None of them have ties to Vanderbilt? If Alice is a nurse, she could have worked there. Maybe they—”
“She’s eighty, Taylor. Retired long before Carson got to Nashville. If there even is a connection between the two, it’s tenuous at best.”
She took a loop around the table, came close to the screen. Traced the X over the cottage with a finger.
“I’m the first to admit I’m grasping at straws. So what do you suggest? Surveillance? Or break down the door?”
“Honestly? I vote we knock. Try polite, be ready for all hell to break loose.”
Assembling an entry team took only an hour. They kept it quiet, off the radios, staged a couple of blocks away so they wouldn’t alert whoever was in the house until they were ready, but time was short. The media listened to the scanners, as did a number of civilians who broadcast on Twitter every move Metro Police, Fire, and Rescue made. If the knock went south, it would be all over town in a heartbeat.
O’Roarke had opted to join them, bronze hair sticking up in the breeze. Lincoln was barking orders, and Simeon Chase was on the Telegram app from back in his apartment near campus, giving Lincoln tracking data as it came in. Taylor had refused to allow the boy access to the crime scene—she had no idea what was about to go down, and didn’t want to chance getting a civilian hurt, even if he was helping them with the tech. There were things the city leaders would forgive, and things they wouldn’t. Simeon Chase was not a cop.
She also reached out to her assistant, Delila, and told her to let Huston know they had a lead on Carson, and that Taylor would be in touch shortly with more info.
“That is the best news, Captain. I’ll let her know.”
She did not call Avery Conway. After their last exchange, Taylor thought it prudent to wait until she had all the facts instead of keeping her promise to keep Carson’s mother up to speed with every step.
SWAT rolled up, and Taylor greeted the team, giving them as concise a briefing as she could. The last time she’d made entry with them, it had been across town in Green Hills, at Hillsboro High School. She shook off the memory, as well as the slithering chill that subsumed her. She’d been forced to kill the teenage suspect to save the student he was trying to murder, and despite extensive therapy, she’d never truly gotten over it. It was only by the grace of her friend Ariadne that she’d found some semblance of self-forgiveness. By killing one, she’d saved so many. Still, the boy’s black eyes haunted her dreams, too often morphing into another, darker presence. The Pretender was dead, too. She was free from his evil.
Get your head in the game, girl.
Once the teams were assembled, they didn’t waste time. They had to be careful, couldn’t just bust down the door without cause. They had no proof Carson was inside this house other than her phone, and Taylor knew the rules. To compensate, she put two snipers on the roofs opposite the little house, thankful, for once, for a tall and skinny that gave them such an advantage over the cottage across the street. There were eight SWAT members geared up behind her. Joe Keller, the department’s hostage negotiator, stood with one arm leaning against the mobile command unit, ready with his phone and script.
Huston called Taylor’s phone, but she ignored it. Not now, boss.
“Can I get a SITREP?” Taylor said into her mic.
The spotter, up with the snipers, had been silent until now, but his mic flared to life, relaying movement in the house.
“Got an adult male, pacing. Living room. Kitchen. By the stairs. Back to the living room. Thank God these curtains are sheer. I have a decent view.”
“Do you have eyes on the girl?” she said into her mic.
“Nothing yet. Looks like he’s alone.”
Someone from the SWAT team who she didn’t recognize unrolled a set of blueprints and slapped them on a hastily-erected card table, knocking a half-consumed cup of coffee to the pavement. Everyone dodged the splash, murmuring and glaring.
“Sorry,” he said, his voice deep and low. “The house has a basement. It’s possible the victim’s down there. So be careful with the flashbangs if you start tossing them in. The place catches fire, she could be stuck underground, unable to get out.”
Taylor’s armor itched. She scratched the tender base of her throat and pulled the shield back into place.
“Okay. Lincoln and I will approach, and I’m going to do the knock. Y’all be ready, stay back so that they don’t see you. But be close enough to come in right behind me if he overreacts.”
The spotter said, “If we’re doing this, we gotta move. Neighbors up your way are stepping out of their houses, we’re drawing attention.”
“We’re going now. Linc? On me.”
She wasn’t wearing her uniform, had donned jeans and a turtleneck over her body armor instead. She knew there was a chance she was going to get reamed by Huston, but she did have her badge strapped to her belt. Lincoln was similarly set up, and with a nod of readiness, the two of them walked down the block to the address.
“Anything?” Taylor said, hoping against hope the spotter could see something, anything, that could tell her what she was walking into.
“Pacing’s done, TV just went on. Looks like he’s settling in to watch something now. He’s seated on the couch, approximately two meters west of the front door entryway.”
