Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) - Karen Rose Page 0,168

It could be a block away. Two blocks, even. Probably no farther than that.

Grabbing a tactical helmet from the back of the Bureau van, Tom strapped it on and shrugged into a bulletproof vest.

“Going somewhere?” the agent asked him.

“For a walk. Belmont is here. I know it.”

“Give me a second to gear up. I’ll go with you.”

The two of them walked the Sokolovs’ neighborhood, eyes peeled for anything out of place. They still didn’t have an ID on the woman Belmont had murdered the night before and they didn’t know what kind of car had been stolen. But they were looking for anything out of place. Anything that caught their attention.

It didn’t matter, though. There were no cars visible in driveways. All had been parked in the garages or had been driven out of town by the homes’ occupants.

“I see nothing,” the agent said when they’d walked two blocks in each direction.

Tom blew out a breath. “Me neither. Dammit, this is so frustrating. I know he’s here.”

“Maybe he’s hiding somewhere else after last night.”

“Maybe. But this is a prize that Belmont won’t be able to easily ignore. Mercy is here and so is Gideon. He has to know that. He was watching last night. He knows that we had SUVs going back and forth to the airport. I can’t see him walking away from this opportunity.”

“If he makes a move, we’ll be ready. If only we had search warrants for the neighborhood.”

“I wish,” Tom muttered as they started the walk back to the Sokolovs’. When they’d reached the van, he took off and stowed the tactical gear.

He needed to tell Rafe about the dead cops before he and Mercy were driven home. Rafe needed to be on full alert, even if he didn’t share the reason with Mercy.

Tom entered the house, flinching at the roar of noise that assaulted him. The house was normally boisterous, but today . . . It was as loud as a home team crowd at the Garden.

Some days Tom missed playing basketball, but he did not miss that noise. Bracing himself, he walked toward the kitchen, pausing once again in the doorway of the living room. Liza was sitting on the sofa in the corner, just as she’d been when he’d left for his perimeter check.

She watched Abigail playing, her expression a mix of subdued contentment and grim determination. He knew what she was thinking about. On Tuesday she was walking into a nest of hardened criminals. For Mercy. And for the little girl who sat on the floor playing with Irina’s grandchildren.

Liza might not walk out alive. But she was willing to take the risk. She’d done it before.

Please let her walk out whole and unhurt.

Rafe’s angry voice snapped him to attention. “Dammit, Hunter, we need to talk.”

Well, shit.

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

SUNDAY, MAY 28, 3:35 P.M.

DJ lowered his rifle and stepped away from Smythe’s spare bedroom window. He’d wanted to pull the trigger so damn badly. But he hadn’t. Because it would have been suicide.

The tall guy was a Fed. Special Agent Tom Hunter. DJ had seen him on the news coverage of the two dead cops and the still-unidentified female victim. Hunter had been at the crime scene the night before, with an Agent Croft, both looking serious.

Hunter and another man appeared to be on guard duty, dressed in tactical gear. DJ had seen them from his window and had felt a slight panic when they’d stopped, looking around them as if searching for something specific.

Me.

He’d grabbed his rifle out of habit and guessed he could thank his bum shoulder for keeping him from doing anything stupid. He’d felt the burn of pain when he’d lifted the rifle, which had broken the reflexive response that he’d built through hours of practice. Position, focus, fire. Kowalski had taught him how to use a rifle. DJ had perfected his skill, but this time he was glad he hadn’t automatically pulled the trigger.

The Fed would be able to track the bullet’s trajectory pretty damn quickly, and there was a small army protecting the Sokolovs’ house today. He’d be surrounded before he could blink.

“Tomorrow, then,” he murmured. “Or whenever your little party is over.”

He had time. Pastor was going to be in rehab for weeks, after all. He’d fantasized about simply blowing the Sokolov house to smithereens with the party inside, but he didn’t have the makings for a bomb. Not yet.

But Kowalski had explosives. DJ had seen him use them, and soon he’d have them, too.

He set