The 6th Target - James Patterson [81]
I took the bullhorn and stood behind my open car door. I called out, “Paul Renfrew, this is Sergeant Boxer. We have a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of homicide. Please come out slowly with your hands in the air.”
My voice boomed out over the quiet suburban block. Birds took flight, drowning out the flutter of the chopper blades.
Conklin said, “Movement on the second floor.”
Every muscle in my body tensed. My eyes flicked across the face of the house. I saw nothing, but my skin prickled. I could feel a gun pointed at me.
I lifted the bullhorn again — pressed the button.
“Mr. Renfrew, this is your last and best chance. There’s enough artillery aimed at your house to reduce it to rubble. Don’t make us use it.”
The front door cracked open. Renfrew appeared in the shadows. He called out, “I’m coming out. Don’t shoot! Please, don’t shoot!”
I cut a look to my left to see how the FBI response team was reacting. A dozen or more M16 rifles were still aimed at the front door. I knew that on a roof somewhere, maybe a hundred feet away, a sniper had a Remington Model 700 with a high-powered scope trained on Renfrew’s forehead.
“Step outside where we can see you,” I called to the man in the doorway. “Good decision, Mr. Renfrew,” I said. “Now, turn around and back up toward the sound of my voice.”
Renfrew was standing under the pediment that defined the entryway to the house. Thirty feet of clipped green lawn stretched between us.
“I can’t do that,” Renfrew said in a weak, almost pleading voice. “If I go out there, she’ll shoot me.”
Chapter 113
RENFREW LOOKED FRIGHTENED, and he had reason to be. If he made a wrong move, his life expectancy was something under two seconds.
But he wasn’t afraid of us.
“Who wants to shoot you?” I called out.
“My wife, Laura. She’s upstairs with a semiautomatic. I can’t get her to come out. I think she’s going to try to stop me from surrendering.”
This was a bad turn. If we wanted to learn what happened to Madison Tyler, we had to keep Paul Renfrew alive.
“Do exactly what I tell you!” I shouted. “Take off your jacket and toss it away from you. . . . Okay. Good. Now turn out your pants pockets.”
The mic on my radio was open so that everyone on our channel could hear me.
“Unbuckle your belt, Mr. Renfrew. And drop your trousers.”
Renfrew shot me a look, but he obeyed. The pants went down, his shirt covering him to the tops of his thighs.
“Now turn around slowly. Three hundred sixty degrees. Hold up your shirt so I can see your waist,” I said as he struggled to comply. “Okay, you can pull up your pants.”
He hurried to do so.
“Now I want you to hoist up your pants legs all the way to your knees.”
“Nice legs for a guy,” Conklin said to me over the roof of the car. “Now let’s get him outta here.”
I nodded, thinking that if the wife charged downstairs, she could blow Renfrew away through the open door.
I told Renfrew to release his pants legs, come out, and hug the wall of the house.
“If you do what I say, she can’t get a bead on you,” I said. “Keep both hands on the walls. Make your way around the south corner of the house. Then lie down. Interlace your hands behind your neck.”
When Renfrew was on the ground, a black Suburban rolled up onto the lawn. Two FBI agents jumped out and cuffed him, patted him down.
They were folding him into the backseat of their vehicle when I heard glass breaking from the second floor of the gabled house. Oh, shit.
A woman’s face appeared at the window.
She had a gun in her hand, and it was pressed against the temple of a little girl whose expression was frozen into a slack-mouthed stare.
The little girl was Madison Tyler.
The woman who held her captive was Tina Langer, aka Laura Renfrew, and she looked like a killer. Her face was furrowed with anger, but I didn’t see a trace of fear.
She called out through the window, “The end of the game is the most interesting part, isn’t it, Sergeant Boxer? I want safe