Free Edge by Jeffery Deaver Page B

it in. . . . Garcia?”
    â€œClear on the flank still.”
    â€œOkay, we’re moving. Out the front.”
    â€œHe’s out there!” Ryan cried.
    â€œNo, he’s not,” I said. “The couple behind you, the Knoxes—what do they drive?”
    â€œA Lexus and a Ford.” He glanced out quickly, ducked back. “That’s their car! He killed them! Oh, shit.”
    â€œGod, no . . . no,” Joanne whispered, clutching her sister, who was sobbing, her own arms around her camera, which she’d retrieved and was cradling like a baby.
    â€œIt’s Teddy Knox in the car, not Loving,” I said.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Ryan asked. “He’s a hostage?”
    â€œNo, he’s the one shooting.”
    â€œTeddy wouldn’t do that. Even if Loving forced him to.”
    â€œLoving is forcing him. He’s threatened his wife, who’s back in the house. But Teddy’s not supposed to hit anybody. He’s just shooting at random, to drive us out the back. That’s where Loving’s waiting for us. In their house, or maybe the bushes. He’ll have a partner. He wouldn’t try an open assault alone. We go out the front. Freddy, you and Garcia stay in the house and cover the side yard, the one with the trees, and the back. Ryan, when we go, you cover the field on the other side. Don’t shoot unless you see somebody engaging with a weapon. We’re going to be getting neighbors on the street any minute. I don’t want collateral damage.”
    Ryan hesitated, looking toward the front of the house. He was debating: follow my orders or not?
    Joanne said, “Do what he says, Ry! Let’s do what he says. Please!”
    â€œGo to my SUV fast but not so fast you hurt yourself falling. Okay?”
    â€œHurt ourselves falling ?” Ryan blurted, at my bizarre concern.
    The delay from a twisted ankle could kill us all.
    â€œWhat if Loving’s in the car, the backseat?” Freddy asked.
    â€œWouldn’t be logical,” I called, then turned to Ryan. “The side yard? Loving could be prone and crawling up. You saw his picture. If you can confirm it’s him, try for a nonlethal shot. We need to know who hired him.”
    â€œI can park one in his shoulder or ankle,” Ryan said.
    â€œGood. Better to aim low. Avoid the femoral. I want him stopped but not bled out.”
    â€œGot it.”
    I hit the button on the key fob that started and unlocked the Nissan, then opened the front door to the house a few inches, drew a target on the driver of the silver Ford, which was sitting half on the parking strip, half in the street. He was in a baseball cap and sunglasses, tears running down his cheeks. He appeared to be mouthing, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” A black pistol was secured to his hand with duct tape. The slide was back; he’d run out of ammunition.
    â€œTeddy!” Joanne called.
    Miserable, the man shook his head. Thinking of his wife, the edge, at home—with Loving holding a gun on her, or so he thought. Loving had likely killed her the moment her husband pulled out of the driveway. The lifter’s plan was good. It was what I would’ve done had I been in Loving’s position, limited personnel attempting to snatch a principal who was an armed cop, with several other law enforcers inside, in daylight, no less.
    I looked around and ushered Ryan, Joanne and Maree out. We moved steadily toward the Armada, about twenty-five feet away.
    Though I was convinced that Loving and any backup were waiting behind the house I checked the garage first. It was clear. We continued on.
    Like a hungry wolf, Ryan kept his eye on the far side yard, weapon up and finger outside the trigger of his revolver.
    We arrived at the Armada and I got everybody inside and locked the doors.
    Maree was still crying and shivering, Joanne was blinking, her eyes wide, and Ryan was scanning for