Tracking Shot, Colin Campbell [moboreader TXT] 📗

McNulty shifted in his seat. “The orphanage is his legitimate business. His front. The illicit kids will be somewhere else. Somewhere he’s going to have to clean out. Scorched-earth policy: Leave nothing behind that can be used against you.”

Harris blew out his cheeks in frustration. “I’ve got guys checking his business holdings but that’s going to take forever. There are shell companies and double-blinds and God knows what else.”

McNulty rubbed his temples, trying the ease the headache that was building.

“There must be a first port of call. An import hub. Somewhere he brings the kids in if it isn’t Chester Brook.”

Harris threw his hands up in surrender. “Same applies. He’s got fingers into everything.” He shrugged. “Where to look?”

McNulty and Harris sat in silence. Then Susan uncurled and sat up straight. “I know where to look.”

FIFTY-SEVEN

Linwood Country Club was two miles west of the I-95 along the Boston Post Road. It was deep in the woods in a forgotten triangle of land between the Weston Golf Club, Regis College and Linwood Cemetery. It was nearer the cemetery. There was only one road in and one road out, and it was the same road. Everything else was seclusion and privacy. In the pre-dawn light it felt more private than ever. Harlan DeVries’s import hub. The staging post for onward transmission anywhere in the states.

The compound had a clubhouse, two narrow dormitories and a kitchen block. The kitchen block had a tall brick chimney and a furnace that could melt your fillings. It had often been used to melt more substantial things.

The approach road headed straight north off Chestnut Street and was cleared of trees on either side for a hundred yards. There would be no silent approach. There would be no catching the defenders off guard. When it comes to police raids, there are only two possible techniques, the stealth raid or the all-out assault. Since DeVries knew they were coming stealth went out the window. Next best thing is to make lots of noise with plenty of blue flashing lights and let the defenders know their best option is surrender.

The noise started with the helicopters. And the sound of diesel engines as the heavily armored convoy roared along the approach road. It was still dark but it was nowhere near being quiet. It was the vehicular equivalent of a copper’s boot through the door, and it brooked no argument.

The helicopters thudded overhead and separated once they reached the country club. One circled left and the other circled right, pumping noise and downdraft into the compound and spearing it with brilliant white light from twin searchlights. Thermal imaging cameras ensured nobody escaped into the wooded darkness surrounding the compound.

The compound gates were closed but not for long. The lead vehicle lined up front and center and hit the tall wooden gates in an explosion of splintered wood. The van skidded to a halt in the middle of the courtyard. The second van veered left and the third veered right. Before the convoy had even stopped, the back doors opened and three SWAT teams burst out. All-out assault, not a stealth raid. There was a lot of shouting. Lots of warnings that this was the police and to get down on the floor. Nobody was in any doubt that this was the police.

The SWAT teams went straight to their allotted targets, main clubhouse doors, dormitory one and dormitory two. A smaller group secured the kitchen and furnace. More doors were kicked in. More warnings were shouted. The helicopters drifted wider, one to the west and one to the east. Each observer had an angle on two sides of the exterior walls. Nobody tried to get away. Dawn feathered the horizon and picked out the dust cloud coming along the approach road as the forensics van followed the assault teams. No raid is considered successful until the evidence is gathered and bagged and labeled. Harris didn’t want DeVries skating on a technicality.

The main SWAT team secured the clubhouse and hospitality suites. They went in hard and fast and armed to the teeth. Sterile fluorescents replaced the initial confusion of darting flashlights as the lights were turned on one after another. Three men who looked like they should be working at a golf club lay face down on the floor with their hands behind their heads. They’d seen police raids on TV. They watched movies with bigger budgets than Titanic Productions. Radios squawked. Rooms were declared clear. The three men were searched and restrained with Ziploc ties behind their backs.

The helicopters were still thudding overhead, making it difficult to hear anything else. The SWAT leader had to shout into his radio to check the progress of his other two teams.

Bravo Squad breached the first dormitory in sync with Charlie Squad breaching the second. The shouted warnings were just as loud, but the team leaders were conscious of who would be in the dormitories. They used only as much force as was necessary to disarm the guards, then turned on all the lights so they could search the bedrooms. That’s when the raid became quiet and the evidence became real.

Dawn came fast after the initial horizon feathering. The searchlights were turned off and the helicopters released. The observers had filmed the entire raid from the air to back up the ground teams’ accounts. There wasn’t going to be any dispute about what had happened, and there would be no argument about what they found in the dormitories and the furnace block.

The girls were shy and scared and painfully thin. It wasn’t a full load but the dormitories housed seven girls aged between six and ten. The ten-year-olds were almost too old, having begun to develop stubby little breasts that set them apart from the little children most of the customers preferred. They were clean and well dressed and their rooms were pleasant in a