Unseen (Will Trent / Atlanta Series)

perimeter of the house and make sure no one slipped out through a window or door. Lena had wanted at least eight more bodies on the team, but the operation was already pushing the million-dollar mark and Lena knew better than to ask the brass for more.
    They always worked in twos; no one entered a room alone. The layout of the house was choppy, each room walled off with nothing but a door in and out. Back at the station, they’d taped off the garage, mapping the rooms to scale. Lena and Paul had two doorways to contend with before they reached the basement: den to dining room, dining room to kitchen. Each opening represented a new opportunity to get shot.
    The basement was going to be the trickiest part. The builder’s diagram showed a wide-open space, but that had been drawn in the fifties, when the house was built. Sometime in the last sixty years, the basement had been finished. There would be walls they didn’t know about. Closed doors and closets. There was no door to the outside, only two narrow, boarded-up windows that a grown man couldn’t fit through. The basement was a deathtrap.
    Back at the station, they had drawn straws to see who would go down first. Lena’s team had won, but that was only because she had been holding the straws.
    The van downshifted to a crawl. There were no windows in the back, but Lena could see past the driver’s head. The sun winked underneath the visor. A thick stand of pine trees arced around the side of the house. Aerial photos showed a straight shot to the rural route less than two hundred yards through the forest. If the bad guys decided to run, that was the direction they’d take, which was why two cruisers were assigned to patrolling that stretch of road.
    The van stopped. Overhead, the red light flickered again, this time staying off.
    Lena pumped her shotgun, loading a cartridge into the chamber. She checked the Glock again. Her team followed suit, checking their weapons. The driver, an old-timer named Kirk Davis, whispered into the radio, letting the brass know they’d arrived. The mobile command center was parked a mile away in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. If history was any indication, Denise Branson would wait until Lena’s team had secured the house, then roll in and take credit for everything.
    So be it.
    Lena’s credit would come when she had Sid Waller on the ground, her foot on his neck, thick plastic zip ties cutting into his fat wrists. It was the only thing left in her life that she wanted to do—could do. It got her up in the morning and it went to her empty bed with her every night.
    Lena grabbed the door handle, then looked back at the group, stared each man in the eye to make sure they were ready. There were nods all around. She pulled open the door.
    And the dance began.
    Lena jumped out first, heading toward the house at a fast trot. She heard footsteps pounding behind her—nine guys armed to the teeth and ready to break some heads. She kept her shotgun tight to her chest as she ran toward the carport. Her Glock tapped against her thigh. She scanned the woods around the house, took in the trash littering the ground, the broken bottles and cigarette butts.
    The perimeter team swarmed into position. Lena led the rest of her men into the carport. They lined up two on each side. Paul Vickery jammed his shoulder against Lena’s. He winked at her, like this was nothing, though she could see his chest heaving up and down underneath his vest. Inside the house, they heard the laugh track from a TV show, then music.
The Jeffersons
. “Movin’ On Up.”
    Lena started the timer on her watch. She gave the nod to De-Shawn and Mitch, who were holding the Monoshock, waiting for her signal.
    They swung back the ram twice to build up momentum, then slammed the sixty-pound metal cylinder straight into the door. The wood splintered like glass.
    Lena yelled, “Police!” as they rushed in—guns drawn, ready to light up the place.
    But they were late to the party.
    Two men sat on a yellow corduroy couch opposite the television. Their shirts were off. Jeans slung low. One had his hand tucked into his front pocket. The other guy held a can of beer. Both had their eyes open. Parted lips showed missing teeth. An array of handguns covered the battered coffee table in front of them.
    Neither moved, or ever would again until the coroner came to pronounce them.
    Their throats had been cut. The skin gaped open, showing white tips of vertebrae among the dark red sinew