The Twelfth Card

the librarian in front of him, a few feet away.
    I didn’t . . .
    Tap, tap . . .
    Life becoming no life.
    Those eyes . . .
    He wiped his shooting hand on his suit trousers, telling himself that he was sweating only because of the body armor. What was with the fucking weather? It was too hot for October. Who the hell wouldn’t sweat?
    *   *   *
    “I can’t see him, K,” Sachs whispered into her microphone.
    “Say again?” was Haumann’s staticky reply.
    “No sign of him, K.”
    The warehouse into which Unsub 109 had fled was essentially one big open space divided by mesh catwalks. On the floor were pallets of olive oil bottles and tomato sauce cans, sealed in shrink-wrap. The catwalk she stood on was about thirty feet up, around the perimeter—level with the unsub’s apartment in the building next door. It was a working warehouse, though probably used only sporadically; there were no signs that employees had been here recently. The lights were out but enough illumination filtered through greasy skylights to give her a view of the place.
    The floors were swept clean and she could find nofootprints to reveal which way Unsub 109 had gone. In addition to the front door and back loading-dock door, there were two others on the ground-floor level, to the side. One labeled Restroom, the other unmarked.
    Moving slowly, swinging her Glock ahead of her, her flashlight beam seeking a target, Amelia Sachs soon cleared the catwalks and the open area of the warehouse. She reported this to Haumann. ESU officers then kicked in the loading-dock door of the warehouse and entered, spreading out. Relieved for the reinforcements, she used hand signals to point to the two side doors. The cops converged on them.
    Haumann radioed, “We’ve been canvassing but nobody’s seen him outside. He might still be inside, K.”
    Sachs quietly acknowledged the transmission. She walked down the stairs to the main floor, joining up with the other officers.
    She pointed to the bathroom. “On three,” she whispered.
    They nodded. One pointed to himself but she shook her head, meaning she was going in on point. Sachs was furious—that the perp had gotten away, that he had a rape pack in a smiley-face bag, that he’d shot an innocent simply for diversion. She wanted this guy nailed and she wanted to make sure she had a piece of him.
    She was in the armored vest, of course, but she couldn’t help thinking about what would happen if one of those needle bullets hit her face or arm.
    Or throat.
    She held up a single finger. One . . .
    Go in fast, go in low, with two pounds of pressure on the two-and-a-half-pound trigger.
    You sure about this, girl?
    An image of Lincoln Rhyme came to mind.
    Two . . .
    Then a memory of her patrolman father imparting his philosophy of life from his deathbed, “Remember, Amie, when you move they can’t getcha.”
    So, move !
    Three .
    She nodded. An officer kicked the door open—nobody was going near any metal doorknobs—and Sachs lunged forward, dropping into a painful crouch and spraying the flashlight beam around the small, windowless bathroom.
    Empty.
    She backed out and turned to the other door. The same routine here.
    On three, another powerful kick. The door cracked inward.
    Guns and flashlights up. Sachs thought, Brother, never easy, is it? She was looking down a long stairway that descended into pitch-black darkness. She noted that there were no backs on the stairs, which meant that the unsub could stand behind them and shoot into their ankles, calves or backs as they descended.
    “Dark,” she whispered.
    The men shut out their flashlights, mounted to the barrels of their machine guns. Sachs went first, knees aching. Twice she nearly tumbled down the uneven, loose steps. Four ESU officers followed her.
    “Corner formation,” she whispered, knowing she wasn’t technically in charge, but unable to stop herself at this point. The troops didn’t question her. Touching one another’s shoulders to orient themselves, they formed a rough square, each facing outward and guarding a quadrant of the basement.
    “Lights!”
    The beams of the powerful halogens suddenly filled the small space as the guns sought targets.
    She saw no threat, heard no sounds. Except one fucking loud heartbeat, she thought.
    But that’s mine.
    The basement contained a furnace, pipes, oil tanks, about a thousand empty beer bottles. Piles of trash. A half dozen edgy rats.
    Two officers probed the stinking