TRENT DAVIS GRIPPED his fully loaded Smith & Wesson M&P 45 semiautomatic pistol and motioned to his fellow officers who had approached the abandoned brick building with as much stealth and expertise as his Special Forces team had used in Afghanistan. They plastered their backs against the outside walls. All wore Kevlar vests and navy windbreakers with yellow ILPD patches on the back. Trent tried the rickety door. It was locked. He gave a hand signal that said he would bust it down.
“Police!” Trent bellowed with a voice that used to thunder down rocky mountains and desert terrain, as he kicked the door in.
The heroin dealers were sitting at a table counting money, just as the two undercover officers had planned. Both Sal Paluzzi and Bob Paxton had been Green Beret just as he was. They’d been to Iraq while Trent had been all over the Middle East. The three of them had worked closely on this sting for two months.
Trent knew a lift of an eyebrow, sidelong glance or nod of recognition could blow future efforts if this bust didn’t go well. Trent had worked undercover a few times and never liked it. He didn’t like living amid criminals even for a single day. He wanted them behind bars where they couldn’t sell dope to a kid or pull the trigger on an innocent bystander.
Trent worked best as the leader. The first guy in. The one who might have to take a bullet for his men, but who knew he could take down any obstacles in his path.
Trent was not just good at his work, he was excellent. He knew it. The United States Army had plastered ribbons and stars on his chest because they knew it, and now the Indian Lake Police Force knew it.
He was prepared for anything. Even to die.
Instantly, Trent recognized Sal and Bob slouched in their metal folding chairs watching the gang leader count money. Behind the table was a stack of plastic-wrapped heroin. Five-pound bags, Trent assumed. All of it looking like innocent sugar.
There has to be half a million dollars of dope in that pile.
Sal and Bob shot to their feet, whipping their guns out from under their shirts.
In a nanosecond, the tall, lean Asian dealer whisked his semiautomatic off the table, spun around and away from the table, making himself a tougher target to hit. Immediately he fired, spewing bullets at Sal and Bob.
Trent fired and winged the perp. Right shoulder. It didn’t faze the creep, who kept firing. Trent dropped to the floor, belly down flat, aimed and shot the perp’s gun out of his right hand. Blood sprayed the man’s face. He screamed and hugged his hand to his chest.
Another gang member, as rotund as he was tall, spilled off his chair, hit the floor and rolled, spraying bullets randomly from his black .40-caliber Smith & Wesson. Bullets pierced the tin ceiling, pinged off pipes, but, mercifully, didn’t hit anyone. Trent guessed the guy was a wheelman.
Trent shot the jerk in the foot. He squealed like a pig.
More bullets from the third gang member zinged through the air as he spun the table on its side, sending money fanning in all directions. The guy was quick. He moved like the wind toward a far wall where a window was covered by a sheet. The man was tall, dark haired and stared at Trent with black, cunning, evil eyes.
Eyes Trent had seen once before. Eyes on a terrorist in Afghanistan who’d held Trent dead in his sights. He’d thought he’d been a dead man for sure. But he’d been too fast for the poorly trained al-Qaeda shooter. Trent tried to shake off the memory, but it held him like