House Rules (2 of 4 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
House Rules by Mike Lawson. Copyright 2008 by Mike Lawson.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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PROLOGUE (CONT'D)

The garage had two doors: a normal door, like the door to a house, and a slide-up garage door operated by an electric garage door opener. There were also two small windows. On Merchant's go! the men from both teams belly-crawled forward until all ten agents were pressed up against the walls of the garage. Merchant tapped one of his men on the shoulder, and the agent placed four small C-4 charges on the large garage door, each charge at the corner of an imaginary six-foot square. A fifth charge was placed in the center of the square. Merchant took a breath and whispered into his mike a second time. "On my go. Three. Two. One. Go!"

Three things happened simultaneously: flash-bang grenades that produced a horrific amount of noise and light were shot in through the two windows; a door knocker--a heavy piece of pipe with a plate welded on one end and equipped with handles--was slammed into the small door, ripping it open; and a button was pushed on a remote control and the five small charges on the garage door exploded, blowing a hole in the door. Merchant's men were inside the garage in less than three seconds, screaming like banshees out of some urban nightmare.

It went down perfectly, like a training exercise at Quantico. The two men inside the garage were both on the floor, knocked down by the concussion of the door being blown open. They'd been blinded by the flash-bangs, had their fists pressed against their eyes, and were wondering why their ears didn't work. Merchant's guys had handcuffs on the mutts less than a minute after they breached the building.

Jesus, Merchant thought, they're just kids. Then he looked inside the truck. Holy shit! That was a lot of fertilizer. There had to be at least a ton, maybe two.

"Merchant to Charlie Team Leader. Garage secure. Perps in custody. Get the bomb techs in here now, right now, to tell me if this goddamned thing is armed." Turning to the agent in charge of Bravo Team, he said, "Harris, take your people and do a quick sweep of the house and make sure the third guy's not in there. Clemens, you take these bastards to the command vehicle and stand by. I'll wait here until the bomb techs show."

Merchant looked into the truck again. Man, that was one big bomb! He wondered what--or who--these guys had been planning to blow up.

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He was two blocks away when he saw all the flashing red and blue lights. He stopped the car and took the binoculars from the glove box. There were so many lights that he could see the scene as clearly as if it were noon instead of 4 A.M. He could see a fire truck, two ambulances, and more than a dozen marked and unmarked police vehicles. There were also two armored trucks, one truck looking like something a bomb disposal squad might use. The other truck, with the satellite dishes on the roof, was probably a command and communications center. There were uniformed men milling about and men wearing windbreakers over white shirts and ties. FBI, he assumed. Standing off to one side was a group of men dressed in helmets and black clothes, shaking hands, patting each other on the back, acting like athletes who'd just won a game.
There were also a lot of people standing outside their homes wearing robes or clothes they'd just thrown on, wondering what was happening in their peaceful American neighborhood.

What had those fools done wrong?

He had to leave immediately; he was particularly vulnerable now. He hoped he hadn't left anything inside the house or the garage that would identify him, but if he had there was nothing he could do about it. They could have cars patrolling the area and if they stopped him he had no doubt they'd detain him because of the way he looked. He made a slow turn into a driveway, backed up, and began driving in the direction from which he'd come, forcing himself to drive slowly.

His right leg was on fire; it always hurt when he'd been sitting for a long time. He needed to get out of the car and walk around a bit, but he couldn't do that. He would bear the pain--as he'd always borne the pain--until it was safe to stop.

He headed in the direction of the freeway. With God's blessing, he'd be in Philadelphia in two hours. There he had a place to go, a place set up in advance. There he might be safe.

What had those fools done?

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