A Maidens Grave

and divided the men into two new teams. Bravo would make its way under the dock to the southeast side of the slaughterhouse. Alpha would position itself atthe north door, further to the back but closer to the hostages.
    Upon entry, Alpha would split in two groups, three men going for the hostages, three advancing on the takers, while the four-man Bravo team would enter through the south door and engage the HTs from behind.
    Tremain considered the plan: Deep gullies to cover their approach, absolute surprise, stun then flash grenades, crossfire. It was a good scenario.
    “Home base to all teams and outriders. On my mark it will be forty-five minutes to green-light order. Are you ready? Counting from my five . . . . Five, four, three, two, one, mark.”
    The troopers acknowledged the synchronization.
    He would—
    An urgent, staticky message: “Bravo leader to home base. We have movement here. From the loading dock. Somebody’s rabbiting.”
    “Identify.”
    “Can’t tell. They’re slipping out from under the loading-dock door. I can’t see clearly. It’s just motion.”
    “An HT?”
    “Unknown. The dock’s shot to hell and there’s crap all over it.”
    “Mount your suppressors.”
    “Yessir.”
    The men had suppressors on their H&Ks—big tubes of silencers. For at least a clip or two of ammunition the sound of the guns would be merely a whispering rattle and with this wind the troopers in the skiff would probably not hear a sound.
    “Acquire target. Semiauto fire.”
    “Acquired.”
    “What’s it look like, Bravo leader?”
    “Real hard to make him out but he’s wearing a red, white, and blue shirt. I can probably neutralize but can’t make a positive ID. Whoever it is, he’s staying real low to the ground. Advise.”
    “If you can make a positive ID on a taker you’ve got a green light to take him out.”
    “Yessir.”
    “Keep him acquired. And wait.”
    Tremain called Outrider Two, who risked a look through the window. The Trooper responded, “If anybody’s bolting, it’s Bonner. I can’t see him. Only Handy and Wilcox.”
    Bonner. The rapist. Tremain would love the chance to bring God’s revenge down upon him.
    “Bravo leader. Status? He’s going into the water?”
    “Wait, yeah, there he goes. Just slipped in. Lost him. No, got him again. Should I tell the officers in the boat? He’ll float right past them.”
    Tremain debated.
    “Home base, do you copy?”
    If it was Bonner he might get away. But at least he wouldn’t be inside for the assault. One less person to worry about. If—though it seemed impossible—it was a hostage there was a chance she might drown. The current was swift here and the channel deep. But to rescue her he’d have to give away his presence, which would mean calling off the operation and jeopardizing the other hostages. But no, he thought. It couldn’t be a hostage. There was no way a little girl could escape from three armed men.
    “Negative, Bravo team leader, do not advise the troopers in the boat. Repeat, do not advise of subject’s presence.”
    “I copy, home base. By the way, I don’t think we have to worry about him. He’s going straight out to mid-river. Doubt we’ll ever see him again.”

7:46 P.M.
    “What’s that?”
    Crow Ridge sheriff’s deputy Arnold Shaw didn’t know and he didn’t care.
    The lean thirty-year-old, a law enforcer all his young working life, had been in his share of boats. Dropping stinkers for catfish, trolling for bass and muskie. He’d even been water-skiing a couple of times down at Lake of the Ozarks. And he’d never once been as seasick as he was right now.
    Oh, man. This is torture.
    He and Buzzy Marboro were anchored twenty yards or so into the river, keeping their eyes “glued like epoxy” on the dock of the slaughterhouse, as their boss, Dean Stillwell, had commanded. The wind was bad, even for Kansas, and the shallow skiff bobbed and twisted like a Tilt-A-Whirl carnival ride.
    “I’m not doing too well,” Shaw muttered.
    “There,” Marboro said. “Look.”
    “I don’t want to look.”
    But look he did, where Marboro was pointing. Ten yards downstream, something was floating away from them. The men were armed with battered Remington riot guns and Marboro drew a lazy target at the bobbing mass.
    They’d heard a splash coming from the dock not long ago and had looked carefully but found no takers escaping through the water.
    “If somebody did jump in—”
    “We woulda seen