The Broken Window

turned to his buddy just in time to see the grinning Alabaman turned into a red mass of nothing, thanks to an Iraqi’s rocket-propelled grenade. Until that moment Williams had been more or less fine. Been shot at, spattered with sand from bullets, passed out fromthe heat. But seeing Jason turn into a thing had affected him fundamentally. The post-traumatic stress syndrome he’d wrestled with since was now kicking into high gear.
    Utter, helpless fear.
    “No, no, no, no.” Gasping, struggling to breathe. He’d stopped taking his meds months ago, believing he was better.
    Now, watching the detectives fan out around the house, DeLeon Williams thought blindly: Get the hell out, run!
    He had to distance himself. To show that Janeece had no connection to him, to save her and her son—two people he truly loved—he’d vanish. The man slipped the chain on the front door, the deadbolt too, and ran upstairs for a bag, tossed into it whatever he thought of. Nothing made sense: shave cream but no razors, underwear but no shirts, shoes but no socks.
    And he took one other thing from the closet.
    His military pistol, a Colt .45. The weapon was unloaded—he wouldn’t think of shooting anyone—but he could use it to bluff his way past the police, or hijack a car if he had to.
    All he could think was: Run! Go!
    Williams took a last look at the picture of Janeece and him together, with her son, on a trip to Six Flags. He started to cry again, then wiped his eyes, slung the bag over his shoulder and, kneading the grip of the heavy pistol, started down the stairs.

Chapter Ten
    “The forward sniper’s in position?”
    Bo Haumann, former drill sergeant and now head of the city’s Emergency Service Unit—NYPD’s SWAT team—gestured at a building that provided a perfect shooting location, covering the tiny backyard of the detached house where DeLeon Williams was living.
    “Yes, sir,” an officer standing nearby said. “And Johnny’s got the back covered.”
    “Good.”
    A graying man, crew cut and tough as leather, Haumann ordered the two ESU takedown teams into position. “And stay out of sight.”
    Haumann had been in his own backyard not far from here, coaxing last year’s charcoal to ignite, when a call came in about a rape/murder and a solid lead to the suspect. He turned over the incendiary mission to his son, donned his gear and sped out, thanking the good Lord that he hadn’t popped that first beer. Haumann would drive after he’d had a couple of brews, but he never fired a weapon within eight hours of imbibing.
    And there was now a chance, on this fine Sunday, that they would see some gunplay.
    His radio crackled and through the headset earpiece he heard, “S and S One to Base, K.” A Search and Surveillance team was across the street, along with the second sniper.
    “Base. Go ahead, K.”
    “Getting some thermals. Somebody could be inside. No audible.”
    Could be, Haumann thought, irritated. He’d seen the budget for the equipment. It ought to be able to say for sure if somebody was inside—if not report their goddamn shoe size and whether they’d flossed that morning.
    “Check again.”
    After what seemed like forever, he heard, “S and S One. Okay, we’ve got only one person inside. And a visual through a window. It’s definitely DeLeon Williams, from the DMV pic you passed out, K.”
    “Good. Out.”
    Haumann called the two tactical teams, which were moving into position around the house now, remaining nearly invisible. “Now, we didn’t have much time for a briefing. But listen up. This perp is a rapist and a killer. We want him alive but he’s too dangerous to let get away. If he makes any hostile gesture, you’re green-lighted.”
    “B leader. Roger that. Be advised, we’re in position. Alley and streets to the north are covered and back door, K.”
    “A leader to Base. Roger the green light. We’re in position on front door, and covering all streets to the south and east.”
    “Snipers,” Haumann radioed. “You copy the green light?”
    “Roger.” They added that they were locked and loaded. (The phrase was a pet peeve of Haumann’s, since it was unique to the old M-1 army rifle, with which you had to lock the bolt back and load a clip of bullets through the top; you didn’t have to lock a modern rifle to load it. But now wasn’t the time for lectures.)
    Haumann unsnapped the thong on his Glock and slipped into the alley behind the house, where he was joined by yet more