Criminal Enterprise by Owen Laukkanen Page A

he’s already inside. Doesn’t he roll with it?”
    “Maybe he found the receipt on the street. Picked it out of the trash or something,” said Doughty. “It’s not a case-breaker.” He finished his sub. Checked himself in the rearview mirror. Wiped his chin again, and then turned to Windermere. “You ready?”
    They strapped on Kevlar vests as they started toward the gray building. A car passed them, an Oldsmobile with a couple of rowdy kids inside. The driver honked the horn and the kids inside laughed, and Windermere shivered. She felt for her Glock in its holster and looked at Doughty. “We have tactical support here, right?”
    Doughty nodded. “One block over. We say the word and they’re with us.” He stepped to the door, drew himself up, and knocked. Three times, and loud. No one answered.
    Doughty knocked again. “Nolan Jackson,” he said. “Federal agents. Open this door.”
    A door slammed somewhere around the back of the building. Doughty looked at Windermere. “Back door,” he said. “Check it out.”
    Windermere nodded and hurried along the side of the house. Made the corner just in time to see someone hop a fence and start running. She gave chase.
“Stop! FBI!”
    The guy shouted something over his shoulder, kept running. She chased him fifteen or twenty yards. Then she slowed.
He’s just a kid,
she realized.
Twelve or thirteen at most.
She let the kid go. Turned back to the house just in time for the shooting to start.
    Two shots, from the front of the house. Then another. A window shattered. Windermere ran, swearing, drawing her Glock from its holster. She heard another shot, like a firecracker—
POP
—and then she reached the end of the alley and turned toward the front steps. Looked up at the front stoop and swore again, louder.
    The front door was open. Doughty was gone.

32
    W INDERMERE STARED AT the empty front stoop. “Doughty,” she said.
“Damn it.”
    Two more shots from inside the house. Another window shattered. She heard Doughty shout something. Couldn’t make it out.
    Windermere pulled out her radio. Called in for tactical. Then she ducked her head and peered into the house, waiting for the shot that would put her on her ass. “Doughty,” she called. “Where the hell are you?”
    Another shot, like an exclamation mark. Then Doughty:
“Kitchen.”
    “How many are there?”
    “Just one, I think.” He sounded desperate. “He’s got me pinned down, though.”
    Shit.
    Windermere crept through the doorway. The house was dark. A TV played infomercials off to her right. Dead ahead was the hallway, and at the end of it, light. Windermere pressed her back to the wall and crept forward. Outside, the tactical van squealed to a stop. Sirens and doors slamming. The cavalry a couple seconds away.
    “In here.” Doughty’s voice, from the back of the house. From the light.
    Windermere moved slow, working her way down the hall. About halfway and she saw movement at the end, a gun. A moment later, Jackson opened fire.
    Windermere ducked into a side room. Waited until the shooting stopped. Then she leaned out again and peered down the hallway. No sign of Jackson. No sign of the gun. “Nolan,” she said. “Let’s just calm down a second.”
    “Fuck you.”
    Three more shots. Windermere ducked back again. “You hear those sirens?” she called out. “Those are for you, Nolan. In a second this place will be crawling with SWAT.”
    Silence from the kitchen. Dust hung in the air.
    “I kill you both, I can still make it out of here.” Jackson’s voice was ragged, on edge. All false bravado and fear masked as anger.
    “I don’t think so,” she said. “You kill two FBI agents, the whole country comes after you. You give up right now and it gets a lot easier.”
    Another pause. She could hear him moving around the kitchen. “FBI,” he said. “What the hell do you want?”
    Windermere started to answer. Doughty beat her to it. “Bank robbery, Nolan. It’s a federal