When she reached them, she surveyed their disheveled appearance without blinking. Then she offered a smile.
“I’m Criminal Intelligence Officer Sabban. Are you reporting a crime or requesting protection?”
“Both. But not in the lobby,” Olivia responded with a glance at Hanna.
“Come with me.”
Marielle and Olivia exchanged a look. They had a fighting chance of being believed.
Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut.
Seventeen
Omar sat in the back of the white work van, orange vest over his shirt, hard hat in his lap, and watched the street through the tinted windows. Dawn had barely broken. The sky above the apartment building was still gray.
The street was quiet, still asleep except for two men who loitered on the corner holding takeout coffees. They wore baseball caps and casual clothes. They weren’t looking at the building, but weren’t not looking at it either.
The first stakeout team. Exactly where they were supposed to be.
Jake drove past slowly, circling the block. Trent sat in the passenger seat with a tablet showing the building schematic. Omar scanned the surroundings, cataloging exits and threats.
“There.” Trent pointing. “The service entrance is down that alley.”
Jake turned into the narrow alley and parked alongside the building. They sat for a moment, engine idling, all three of them watching.
No one appeared. No one challenged them.
“No team on the side? Nobody in the back?” Omar asked.
“Taking a leak? Fell asleep in their car?” Jake posited.
Omar’s gut tightened. Then he shrugged. He knew better than anyone that stakeouts were mind-numbingly boring. He almost had sympathy for the poor saps.
They climbed out. Grabbed their toolboxes. Walked to the service door like they did this every morning.
Trent had his lock pick in his palm, ready to do his magic. But when he tried the door, it swung open. Unlocked. He stowed the pick and held the door open.
They stepped into a dingy hallway that smelled like garbage and cleaning chemicals. They walked single file to the staircase and started climbing.
The safe house was on the fourth of six floors. They took the stairs two at a time, boots echoing in the concrete stairwell.
Omar’s heart hammered and adrenaline sharpened the smell of old paint, the sound of his breath, and the weight of the Glock tucked under his vest against his still-sore ribs.
They reached the second floor landing.
Third floor.
No one stopped them. No one asked questions.
“Well,” Trent said as they were halfway between the third and fourth floors. “This is easy.”
Omar stopped. “Too easy.”
Jake and Trent turned to look at him.
“What?” Jake asked.
“Think about it.” Omar gestured back down the stairs. “Two guys on the street corner. Nobody at the service entrance. Unlocked door. Empty stairwell.” He met Jake’s eyes. “If they wanted to grab our guys if they left, they’d have coverage on every exit. They’d have someone inside positioned at the stairwells.”