The Twelfth Card

that had to be answered, because if he stepped up now and he caved or flubbed the takedown again, people might die. Probably would, given the stone-cold perp they were after.
    If he stayed back, took himself off the detail, his career would be over, but at least he wouldn’t’ve jeopardized anyone else.
    Can you do it? he asked himself.
    The leader of the team said, “Detective, we’re going in in about thirty seconds. We’ll batter the door, spread out and clear the apartment. You can come in and secure the crime scene after. That all right with you?”
    Leave or stay? the lieutenant asked himself. You can just walk downstairs. That’ll be it. Give up your shield, hire on as a security consultant with some corporation. Double your salary.
    Never get shot at again.
    Tap, tap, tap . . .
    Never see eyes wincing and going lifeless inches from yours.
    Tap . . .
    “Is that okay?” the leader repeated.
    Sellitto glanced at the cop “No,” he whispered. “No.”
    The ESU officer frowned.
    The detective said, “Take the door out with the ram, then I’ll go in. First.”
    “But—”
    Sellitto muttered, “You heard Detective Sachs. This perp isn’t working alone. We need anything we can find that’ll lead us to the prick who hired him. I’ll know what to look for and I can save the scene if he tries to fuck it up.”
    “Let me call in,” the ESU man said doubtfully.
    “Officer,” the detective said calmly, “that’s the way it is. I’m senior here.”
    The team leader looked at his second in command. They shrugged.
    “It’s your . . . decision.”
    Sellitto supposed the third word of that sentence was originally going to be “funeral.”
    “As soon as they pull the juice we go in,” the ESU officer said. He put on his gas mask. The team pulled on theirs, Sellitto too. He gripped Sachs’s Glock—kept his finger outside the trigger guard—and stepped to the side of the door.
    In his earpiece he heard: “We’re cutting the electricity in three . . . two . . . one.”
    The leader tapped the shoulder of the officer with the battering ram. The big man swung it hard and the door crashed open.
    Flying on adrenaline, forgetting everything but the perp and the evidence, Sellitto charged inside, the tactical officers behind, covering him, kicking doors open and searching the rooms. The second team came in from the kitchen.
    No immediate sign of Boyd. On a small TV a sitcom played—the source of the voices and most likely the source of heat and noise that S and S had found.
    Most likely.
    But maybe not.
    Glancing left and right as he entered the small living room, seeing no one, Sellitto headed straight for Boyd’s desk, piled high with evidence: sheets of paper, ammunition, several envelopes, bits of plastic wire, a digital timer, jars of liquid and of white powder, a transistor radio, rope. Using a tissue, Sellitto carefully checked a metal cabinet near the desk for traps. He found none and opened it, noting more jars and boxes. Two more guns. Several stacks of new bills—nearly $100,000, the detective estimated.
    “Room’s clear,” one of the ESU officers called. Then another, from a different room.
    Finally a voice: “Team Leader A to CP, we’ve cleared the scene, K.”
    Sellitto laughed out loud. He’d done it. Confronted whatever the fuck it was that’d been torturing him.
    But don’t get too cocky, he told himself, pocketing Sachs’s Glock. You came along on this sleigh ride for a reason, remember? You got work to do. So secure the fucking evidence.
    As he looked over the place, though, he realized something was nagging.
    What?
    Looking over the kitchen, the hallway, the desk. What was odd? Something was wrong.
    Then it occurred to him:
    Transistor radio?
    Did they even make those anymore? Well, if they did, you hardly ever saw ’em, with all the fancier players available for cheap: boom boxes, CD players, MP3s.
    Shit. It’s a booby trap, an explosive device! And it’s sitting right next to a big jar of clear liquid, with a glass stopper in the top, which Sellitto knew from science class was what you used to store acid in.
    “Christ!”
    How long did he have before it detonated? A minute, two?
    Sellitto lunged forward and grabbed the radio, stepped to the bathroom, setting it in the sink.
    One of the tactical officers asked, “What’s—?”
    “We’ve got an IED! Clear the apartment!” the detective shouted, ripping off his gas mask.
    “Get the fuck out!”