Grant muttered a low curse. “You think Wyatt’s going to wait until some specialist gets here? He’s getting twitchier by the minute. You have to do something now.”
“You’re not in charge here, Grant. Either shut up and let us do our job, or leave. I won’t have you making things worse.”
Grant pointed to the chaos around them. “How much worse do you think this can get? Does Rachel have to die before you’ll move in?”
“SWAT is on standby. We know what we’re doing.”
“Tell that to Rachel,” shouted Grant. “She’s in there, scared to death, and we’re standing around out here waiting for some specialist to arrive. Fuck that.”
Grant turned and stalked away back toward his Mustang. Isabelle turned to follow him, but Mathews stopped her by taking hold of her arm. “Let him go.”
“Are you going to let me talk to Wyatt?” asked Dale.
“Not yet. The longer we stall, the better. Phillips—the negotiator—is good. If anyone can find a way out of this mess, it’s her. All we have to do is stall until she gets here.”
“How long will that be?” asked Isabelle. All she could think about was little Rachel in there, alone and afraid. Something like this would be hard on the strongest child, but Rachel didn’t even have that going for her. She was emotionally frail. Something like this might destroy her.
For all Isabelle knew, it might already be too late.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Grant was good at not being seen, and with all the excitement and people milling around, no one noticed him carrying his duffel bag away from the scene. He slipped silently over a fence, being careful to avoid the yards with dogs in them. The last thing he wanted was to have any attention called to him now.
Wyatt wasn’t going to stop, so Grant was going to stop him. The life of a little girl was at stake, not to mention Isabelle’s and Dale’s lives. He was willing to take the risk in exchange for being sure the job was done right, because although the police had procedures and protocol to follow, Grant didn’t. He might go down for killing the bastard, but prison would be easier than trying to live with himself if he stood by and did nothing.
He found a vantage point in a rotting tree house that had probably gone so long without use it had been forgotten. The structure was sound enough to support his weight and had the added advantage of a straight line of sight into Amanda’s back windows.
Grant loaded his rifle and peered through the scope. Six armed men in black stood waiting outside the back door for the signal to move in. One more was stationed farther back—a sharpshooter. He figured there was at least one more sniper out there, but he couldn’t see him. That was a good sign.
The blinds were mostly shut, but Grant could see movement behind the windows, too big to be Rachel. He settled himself and let the world fall away. Nothing mattered but his target. There was no rush. No pressure. Just the feel of the rifle in his capable hands and his breath moving in and out of his lungs.
Sooner or later, he’d get a clean shot. And when he did, he was taking it.
Wyatt paced the room. This was so messed up. They said they’d send Dale in five minutes ago, but he still hadn’t come. What was taking so long?
He hit redial. The man who called himself Detective Mathews answered. “Everything okay in there?” he asked.
“Fucking great. Where’s Dale?”
“We’re getting him into a vest right now.”
“I’m not going to shoot him.”
“It’s just a precaution. Standard procedure.”
Sweat rolled down Wyatt’s back. They were stalling. He could feel it in his bones. The question was, what for?
A sick, greasy dread filled him up. They were moving in to take him down. He had to get out of here. Now.
Wyatt hung up the phone and grabbed the little girl from where she was huddled over her mother’s corpse, bawling. He picked her up and held her in front of his chest to keep the cops from shooting him.
But where to go?
The phone rang, but he ignored it. The time for talk was over. His only chance now was to get out of here and try to make the trade later.
His car was parked a block over, behind the house. He’d sneaked in through the yard, thinking he’d be less visible that way. Maybe he could get out the same way.
Wyatt peered through the blinds. The brat kicked and fought against his grip, so he squeezed her until she yelped with pain and settled down.
Outside, he could see at least two or three guys. They were waiting for him to come out. Even so, it still beat facing the twenty or thirty cops out front.
And he did have the girl to shield him. No way would the cops fire at him while he was holding a little girl.
As far as he could tell, it was his only chance, and he’d better take it while he could. He had no idea of what they were planning to do with him, but he doubted it would be good.
With his pistol in one hand and Rachel plastered against his chest, he kicked open the back door and eased out into the dark.
Grant saw Wyatt peer through the slats in the blinds, but Grant couldn’t see Rachel, and he wasn’t taking any chances.
There was plenty of time to think. No rush.
The cold sweat sliding over his ribs proved him a liar. This was not the same as taking out a target—killing a man he’d been ordered to kill, or one who was prepared to shoot back at him and his buddies.
This was his call. His decision.
“You can’t do it, Grant,” came Isabelle’s gentle voice from below the tree house.
Surprise rippled through him, making his muscles tense.
“You shouldn’t be here. Go back to Dale.”