The Twelfth Card

for years to get it right.”
    “I’m not going to be sprinting.”
    “Yeah, maybe not, but could you drop into a combat pose if he lights you up with that fucking gun of his?”
    “Yes, I could,” she answered firmly.
    “Well, I don’t think so. So quit arguing and get thecivvies safe.” He cinched his body armor tighter and drew his revolver.
    She hesitated.
    “That’s an order, Detective.”
    She looked at him darkly. But as independent as Sachs was—some would use the word “renegade”—the portable’s daughter knew her place in the ranks of the New York City Police Department. She said, “All right . . . but here, take this.” She drew her fifteen-round Glock and handed it to him, along with an extra clip. She took his six-shot revolver.
    He looked down at the large black automatic. It was a gun with a trigger pull as delicate as a moth’s wing. If he handled this weapon wrong, like he’d done on Elizabeth Street yesterday, he could easily kill himself or somebody on the entry team. Rubbing his cheek once more, Sellitto glanced at the apartment. And hurried to join the others.
    Crossing the street to clear the apartments and houses, Sachs glanced back and watched them go. She turned and continued on to the apartments and houses across the street.
    The limp was gone.
    In fact, she was fine. The only pain she felt was disappointment that she wasn’t on point with the entry team. But she’d had to fake the fall and injury. For Lon Sellitto’s sake. She couldn’t think of any way to save him except by forcing him to take on the job. She’d assessed the risk of his going in on a team and decided that there was minimal threat to him or to anybody else—there’d be plenty of backup, everybody was in armor and they were catching their perp by surprise. Sellitto also seemed to have some measure of control over his fear. She recalled the deliberation with which he’d held and examined the Glock, how his quick eyes had looked over the perp’s building.
    But in any event there really was no choice. Sellitto was a great cop. But if he stayed skittish he’d cease to be any kind of cop at all and his life would be over with. Those splinters of self-doubt had a way of infecting your entire soul. Sachs knew; she battled them constantly herself. If he didn’t go back into combat now, he’d give up.
    She picked up her pace; after all, she did have an important job here, clearing the residences across the street, and she had to move fast; the entry team was going inside at any minute. Sachs started ringing doorbells and getting people out of front rooms and making sure they stayed inside for the time being behind locked doors. She radioed Bo Haumann on the secure tactical frequency and told him that the immediate houses were clear; she’d keep going with those that were farther away, up and down the street.
    “Okay, we’re going in,” the man said tersely and disconnected.
    Sachs continued along the street. She found her fingernail digging into her thumb. Reflecting on the irony: Sellitto fidgeted going into a fight; Amelia Sachs was edgy when she had to stay out of harm’s way.

Chapter Thirty-One
    Lon Sellitto followed the four officers up the dim stairs, to the second-floor landing of the apartment.
    Breathing hard from the climb, he paused, caught his breath. The tactical cops huddled, waiting for word from Haumann that the electricity to the apartment had been cut—they didn’t want any more electrocutions.
    While they waited the big detective had a talk with himself: Are you ready for this?
    Think about it. Now’s the time to decide. Leave or stay?
    Tap, tap, tap . . .
    It all swirled around in his mind: the blood spattering him obscenely, the needles from the bullet ripping apart flesh. The brown eyes that were filled with life one second and then glazed with death a moment later. The icy rush of absolute panic when that basement door on Elizabeth Street opened and his gun went off with a huge, kicking explosion, Amelia Sachs cringing, reaching for her weapon, as the bullet dug chunks of stone out of the wall just a few feet from her.
    The bullet from my own goddamn gun!
    What was happening? he wondered. Was his nerve gone? He laughed grimly to himself, comparing the kind of nerve he was thinking of to Lincoln Rhyme’s, whose physical nerve, the one in his spine, was literally destroyed. Well, Rhyme fucking well dealt with what happened to him. Why can’t I?
    It was a question