The Kill Room

didn’t seem to expect an answer. “I orchestrated two regime changes in Central America and one in South. Drinking in shitty bars, bribing journalists, sucking up to mid-level politicos in Caracas and BA. Going to the funerals when my assets got accidentally on purpose killed in a hit-and-run, and nobody could know what a hero they’d been. Begging Washington for money, cutting deals with the boys from London and Madrid and Tokyo…And when it came time for a new director at NIOS, who’d they pick? Shreve Metzger, a fucking kid with a bad temper. It should’ve been me . I’ve earned it! I deserve it!”
    “So when you realized Shreve had made the mistake with Moreno you decided to use that to bring him down. You leaked the kill order and the intel. You expected you’d be his replacement.”
    He muttered angrily, “I could run the place a hundred times better than he could.”
    Pulaski asked, “How’d you beat the polygraph?”
    “Oh, that’s tradecraft one-oh-one. See! That’s my point. This business isn’t about pushing buttons and playing computer games.” He sat back. “Oh, hell, just arrest me and have done with it.”

CHAPTER 87
    S CANNING,” THE VOICE HISSED through an earbud. “No transmissions, no signals.”
    The whispering probably wasn’t necessary. The men were in a wooded area well out of earshot of anyone in Spencer Boston’s house.
    “Roger that,” Jacob Swann acknowledged, thinking the phrase sounded somewhat ridiculous.
    No transmissions, no signals. This was good news. If there had been other officers around to back up Boston’s arrest, the chatter would have shown up on Bartlett’s scanner. Bartlett, a mercenary, was as dull as a slug but he knew his equipment and could find a microwave or radio transmission inside a lead box.
    “Any visuals?”
    “No, they came alone. The woman detective—Sachs—and the uniform with her.”
    Made sense, Swann reflected, only these two and no backup. Boston was a whistleblower and possibly a traitor but he wasn’t dangerous in the resisting-arrest sense. He’d kill you with a Hellfire in Yemen or ruin your political career by planting rumors that you were gay in an ardently Catholic South American country. But he probably didn’t even own a gun; two NYPD cops would be plenty to bring him in.
    Swann moved in closer, through the woods to the side of Boston’s house, keeping clear of the windows.
    He now checked his Glock, which was mounted with a suppressor, and the extra mags, inverted, in his left cargo pants pocket. On his utility belt, of course, his Kai Shun chef’s knife. He pulled down his black Nomex tactical face mask.
    Nearby a commercial tree service was chipping a tree they’d just taken down. The roar and grind were loud. Jacob Swann was grateful for the noise. It would cover the sound of the assault; while he and his team had sound suppressors, it wasn’t inconceivable that one of the cops inside might get off a shot before they died. He transmitted, “Advise.”
    “Position,” Bartlett said, and the same message was delivered a moment later by the other member of the team, a broad-shouldered Asian American named Xu, whose only substantive comment since they’d rendezvoused had been to correct Jacob Swann’s pronunciation of his name.
    Xu.
    “Like Shoe. ”
    I’d change it, thought Swann.
    “Scan, interior,” Swann said to Bartlett.
    A moment later: “Have three souls, all ground floor. Right of the front door, six to eight feet, sitting. Right of the front door, four to five feet, sitting. Left of the front door, four to five feet, standing.” Their electronic expert was scanning the house with an infrared sensor and SAR.
    Swann asked, “Any visuals, surrounding premises?”
    “Negative,” transmitted the Shoe. The houses on either side of Boston’s were out of range of the infrared but they were dark and the garage doors were closed. This was afternoon in suburbia. Children in school, moms and dads at work or shopping.
    Another convenient roar of the chipper.
    “Move in,” Swann commanded.
    The others acknowledged.
    Bartlett and Swann were going through the front door. The Shoe, the rear. The approach would be a dynamic entry, shoot on sight. This time Amelia Sachs would have to die, not just join Rhyme in the world of paralysis. If she’d cooperated earlier at least she would have survived.
    Leaving his backpack in the bushes, Jacob Swann stepped onto the lawn, crouching. Bartlett was twenty