Page 97 of The Children of Eve

“Let’s give it two more—”

The shape against the tree tipped over on its side to lie still on the ground, and the first agent ditched the Sonim for the general radio.

“We have one guard down, possibly two. Advise.”

There was no way of knowing if the guards were dead or simply incapacitated. A dead body cooled at about 1.5 degrees per hour, so it would be a while before any change registered on the thermal imaging.

“Do you have motion?”

“Nothing. If he was shot, it came from outside.”

“Hold.”

They held. The voice returned.

“Wait.”

They waited.

LA SEÑORA WAS ALMOSTat the bottom of the stairs when one of Vaughn’s men ambled from the kitchen, a glass of milk in hand, to be confronted by a vision from an abattoir, trailing bloodied footprints across the carpet. He dropped the glass and reached for his gun, but she was on him before his hand could pull it from its belt, the impact of the blade driving him back into the kitchen, where he died as easily or as hard as the rest.

Now the woman had no choice but to finish off the last of them before retrieving the child. She picked up the fallen glass. Beside her, by the door leading to the living room, was a console table. She climbed on top of it before throwing the glass against the wall.

“Marek?” a man’s voice called.

La Señora heard him approach the door. He was being cautious, but not enough to escape her notice. He made his final move quickly, the compact Bushman submachine gun held close to his body. Wherever he might have been expecting the threat to come from, it was not from above, as La Señora drove the blade into the side of his neck. It sank to the hilt and the man went down, La Señora on top of him. He hit the floor, a finger spasmed, and shots were fired.

BOTH FIXED SURVEILLANCE TEAMSheard the gunfire from Vaughn’s house. Within seconds, agents were descending on the property. Seeley watched them go. Bern had revealed that Devin Vaughn might be under surveillance. Whether true or not, Seeley, aided by Acrement, had taken precautions.

The first device exploded inside a car parked at the eastern perimeter of the house, and the second, moments later, in a stolen SUV not far from the rear entrance to the south. The latter was the larger of the two blasts, the SUV packed with a mixture of fertilizer and fuel oil. It was, on reflection, a miracle no one died, not that Seeley bothered to check the surrounding area before activating the device. The explosion shattered windows, set off alarms, and scattered debris across the street, as well as demolishing a section of the late Devin Vaughn’s back wall. La Señora stepped through the gap shortly after, a bundle at her breast, her departure wreathed by smoke and fire. By the time the agents managed to get past the bomb site, the woman, the child, and Seeley were gone.

CHAPTERLXXIII

On my second morning at the hospital, I woke to find Angel and Louis standing over me.

“Is this where you tell us we should see the other guy?” asked Angel.

“I am the other guy,” I said.

I made some tentative movements to test my ribs. Breathing in was like having someone bang nails into my side.

“I picked up some fresh clothes from your house,” said Angel. “Also, a detective is waiting in the lobby to take your statement.”

I’d told the officers at the scene that it was Wyatt Riggins who had attacked me, but I wasn’t in a position to go into more detail. I’d have to be careful about what I shared with the law until I’d had a chance to confront Zetta Nadeau, who had used up any remaining quota of goodwill.

“I’ll talk to the detective,” I said. “In the meantime, one of you could look for a doctor to give me the all-clear to leave. After that, I’ll need some help getting dressed.”

“Be still, my beating heart,” said Angel.

“I meant find a nurse.”

“Thank God.”

They both left. A minute later, a Somerset County detective namedPorter Hammond, known in law enforcement circles as Portly Hammond, arrived to take my statement. I told him I’d been hired by Zetta Nadeau to locate her boyfriend, Wyatt Riggins. When she dispensed with my services, I kept looking for Riggins because I’d never managed to overcome my adolescent OCD. Unfortunately, Riggins didn’t want to be found, or certainly not by me. Ammon and Jerusha Nadeau had done nothing wrong beyond providing refuge for a man who preferred to do his talking with a big stick. Hammond dutifully recorded everything I said, but was too experienced not to spot when he was being fed scraps from the table.

“There are gaps in this story I could fall through and hurt myself,” he said, which was quite the claim, given his girth.

“I won’t be filing for assault,” I said. “Not yet.”

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