faint sounds of television from inside the house. Clark, on the latch side, reached up and tested it. Locked. He reached into his back pocket, thumbed open his knife, and gently, carefully, inserted the tip into the mesh and drew the blade down until he had created a six-inch slit. He closed the knife and returned it to his pocket, then reached through and felt around until he found what he was looking for. There was a soft snick. He withdrew his hand and then sat still for a full minute.
Clark nodded at Chavez, who returned it, then crab-walked across the doorway and slid into position behind Clark, who reached up and depressed the door handle. He opened the door an inch, stopped, then tried another couple of inches. No matter their age or condition, screen doors seemed prone to creaking. Maybe it was the exposure to the elements.
This door didn’t disappoint. At the halfway point the hinges peeped. Clark froze. Chavez scooted forward until he could see beneath Clark’s outstretched arm into the house. He pulled back and signaled clear. Inch by slow inch, Clark opened the door the rest of the way. With his gun leading, he stepped inside. Chavez took control of the door, then followed, easing it shut behind him and getting nothing worse than another metallic peep.
They were in a kitchen. Wooden countertops, cabinets, and a sink to the left; round dining table in the center. An arched doorway in the right-hand wall led to another room. Chavez checked it and gave a thumbs-up. They moved through into what was clearly a sitting room. To the right, a set of stairs led to the second floor. Ahead, a short hall. This is from where the television sounds were emanating. Each taking a wall, they moved into the hall, stepping and pausing, stepping and pausing, until they were within ten feet of an open door. Inside, Clark could see the blue-gray light of a television flashing off the walls.
Clark closed the remaining distance and took up position beside the doorjamb. He nodded at Ding, who came up the right wall until he had an angled view through the door. He stepped back a couple of feet and gestured: Two men in chairs. One nearest the door armed. Clark signaled back: I’ll take him; you sweep through.
Chavez nodded.
Clark switched his gun to his left hand and drew the cosh from his belt. With a curt nod, he leaned around the corner, picked his target, and wrist-whipped the cosh into the man’s temple. Even as he slumped sideways, Chavez was in the room, gun up. He stopped. His brow furrowed. He crooked his finger at Clark, who stepped through the door.
Their man was asleep.
Chavez woke him up with a light tap of the gun’s barrel across the bridge of his nose. As his eyes flittered open, Chavez said, “English?”
The man pressed himself as far back in his chair as he could.
“English?” Chavez repeated.
“Yes, I speak English.”
Clark said, “Make sure this one and Mr. Lawn Chair are out of action. I’ll take him.” Chavez shoved the guard to the floor, then grabbed his wrist, dragged him down the hall into the sitting room, and headed outside.
“What’s your name?” Clark asked their host.
No reply.
“If you’re not even going to give me your name, we’re in for a long, ugly night. Let’s start with your first name. No harm in that.”
“Abbas.”
Clark pulled the now-empty guard’s chair out, spun it around, and sat down so they were knee to knee.
The screen door opened and banged shut. Chavez came in with the first guard over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He unceremoniously dumped him beside his partner. “Found some duct tape in the van,” he told Clark, then went to work with it. Once done, he joined Clark.
“Let’s make sure we’re getting off on the right foot,” Clark told Abbas. “You know what that means?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think your name is Abbas. I’m going to have my friend look around your house for anything with a name on it. If it doesn’t say Abbas, we’re going to start hurting you.”
“My name is Obaid. Obaid Masood.”
“Good.” Clark nodded at Ding, who went out and started rummaging around. “Do you want to change your answer while there’s still time?”
“My name is Obaid Masood. Who are you?”
“Depends on how you answer my questions. Cooperate and we’re friends. Don’t cooperate . . . Tell me about your security detail. Why do you think you need them?”