The Cold Moon

lit room in the back, K.”
    “A Team, in position,” another ESU officer radioed in a whisper.
    “We’re no-knock,” Haumann told the teams. “On my count of three, flashbangs into the rooms that have the lights on. Throw ’em hard to get through the shades. On one, simultaneous dynamic entry front and back. B Team, split up, cover the ground floor and basement. A Team, go straight upstairs. Remember, this guy knows how to make IEDs. Look for devices.”
    “B Team, copy.”
    “A, copy.”
    Despite the freezing air Sachs’s palms were sweating inside the tight Nomex gloves. She pulled the right one away and blew into it. Did the same with the left. Then she cinched up the body armor and unsnapped the cover of her spare ammo clip carrier. The other officers had machine guns but Sachs never went for that. She preferred the elegance of a single well-placed round to a spray of lead.
    Sachs and the three officers on the primary entry team nodded at one another.
    Haumann’s raspy voice began the count. “Six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . .”
    The sound of breaking glass filled the crisp air as officers flung the grenades through the windows.
    Haumann, continuing calmly: “Two . . . one.”
    The sharp crack of the flashbangs shook the windows and bursts of white light filled the house momentarily. The burly officer with the battering ram slammed it into the front door. It crashed open without resistance and in a few seconds the officers were spreading out in the sparsely furnished house.
    Flashlight in one hand, gun in the other, Sachs stayed with her team as they worked their way up the stairs.
    She began hearing the voices of the other officers calling in as they cleared the basement and the rooms on the ground floor.
    One upstairs bedroom was empty, the second, as well.
    Then all the rooms were declared clear.
    “Where the hell is he?” Sachs muttered.
    “Always an adventure, huh?” somebody asked.
    “Invisible fucking perp,” came another voice.
    Then in her earpiece she heard: “S and S One. Light in the attic just went out. He’s up there.”
    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