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Then came the audio recording of the teenage boy’s terrified shouts of “Stop! No!” and the girl begging, “No! Don’t!”

That went on for maybe five seconds.

Then the man shouted: “Do as I say, and you get your Dr. Law back alive! No cops!”

Then there was the sound of more clicks.

And then the kitchen was terribly quiet.

Except for the soft sobbing of Amanda Law.

FOUR

York and Hancock Streets, Philadelphia Thursday, September 10, 11:01 P.M.

Matt Payne, Tony Harris, and Jim Byrth were seated in the passenger seats of Paco Esteban’s white Plymouth Voyager minivan. It was parked on the corner, a block shy of the dilapidated row house at 2505 Hancock Street.

Esteban was in the driver’s seat. And that almost had not happened.

At Esteban’s house, a fairly charged discussion ensued as to what to do with the information-not to mention the head-that Esteban had provided.

Chad Nesbitt, seeing where the debate may have been leading, excused himself. He’d said he’d done more than enough putting Paco Esteban together with Matt Payne. And he left, presumably to go home for a bath, clean clothes, and a good mouthwash.

In the basement, Harris had automatically said that he’d call in the information to the Roundhouse. That would get the official wheels turning. And someone farther up the food chain, certainly one in a white shirt, if not a white shirt with one or more stars pinned to its collar points, would decide how many assets to throw at 2505 Hancock Avenue.

“Slow down, Tony,” Payne had said. “Until ten minutes ago, we pretty much did not have a damned thing on where this guy was.”

“Yeah. And?”

“And I think it could blow up on us if suddenly there were a dozen Aviation Unit helos buzzing the rooftop of the place just so they can send video back to the Executive Command Center.”

“You don’t know they’ll do that, Matt.”

Payne nodded.

“True, Tony. But I also don’t know that they won’t do it. Which is what I’d prefer-that they don’t fucking do it.” He paused for a moment. “This guy is bad, and it’s an important bust. I don’t want someone doing it for the glory. I just want the sonofabitch off the streets. Period.” He gestured at the Deepfreeze. “No more little girls losing their heads, for starters.”

Paco Esteban grunted and nodded.

Tony Harris nodded. “Matt, you know I agree. But there are other ways to do this.”

“Yeah, but they involve a whole helluva lot more people, which we don’t need. And more time, which we don’t have.” He paused. “Look, you’re welcome to call it in, if that’s what you feel you have to do. But God knows what this animal is capable of doing next.”

“Tony,” Byrth said, “I’m afraid that I have to agree with Matt.”

Payne looked at Byrth. He wasn’t at all surprised that a Texas Ranger would have no trouble going it alone.

He’d read all about “One Ranger, One Riot.”

Tony Harris looked between them, then held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Let the record show that I have dutifully played devil’s advocate and hereby subscribe to whatever operation Marshal Wyatt Earp has in mind.”

Payne smiled. He knew Harris wasn’t mocking him.

“Tell you what, Tony. Call the Roundhouse, give whomever you feel can be trusted the address of this row house and the strict order (a) to say and do nothing with it and”-he glanced at Byrth-“(b) to have the cavalry ready to ride in should you call for it. Give it a code name if you want. Prairie Fire was one that the guys in Special Forces in ’Nam used for when the shit hit the fan. I’m partial to Get Me the Fuck Outta Here! Leaves no room for confusion or misinterpretation.”

Harris grinned. Then he nodded agreeably.