Outside the police station, Harrow handed the rental keys off to Laurene, telling her, “Everybody into Kevlar. I’ll be on the front line. You and Billy arm yourselves, but stay back unless you’re needed.”

“J.C., we—”

“You will obey orders. And one of them is to keep Hathaway and Hughes back. Tell them if they get killed we don’t have a show. Understood?”

“Understood.”

In the rider’s seat of the Tahoe, Harrow made a quick call to Pall and told him to get directions from Laurene. They were on the move.

“How far?” Harrow asked.

Gibbons said, “Five minutes—Shelton’s got a place over on the south side. It’s not much.”

The sheriff radioed for backup. Wilson and the deputy in the auxiliary office both said they were on their way, and two more deputies would be sent from Smith Center, ten miles to the west.

Night crept in, turning the houses of the quiet neighborhood into dark hulks with occasional glowing windows, set in yards that were shadowy voids that could hold just about anything.

Harrow recalled something an older officer had told him when he was a rookie: Kid, this job is ninety-five percent boredom and five percent piss-your-pants fear.

Harrow had laughed, but a look from the older officer had silenced him before adding, It’s okay to be so scared you piss yourself, long as you get the job done.

As they slowed to park, Harrow tugged from his waistband a nine-millimeter Browning he’d gotten from Choi. He checked the clip and made sure one was in the pipe.

“Got a permit for that puppy?” Gibbons asked, looking over in the dark SUV.

“Backup’s not here yet, and I’m going in,” Harrow said. “You really want to see my California carry permit?”

“No,” Gibbons said. “I just want my ass covered if something goes wrong.”

“Covered by me having a gun, or covered by me having a permit?”

“Yes.”

Even though he was tensing for action, Harrow couldn’t help but grin. “You’re some politician, Herm. I bet you’re one hell of a sheriff.”

“Second term, gettin’ ready to run for a third next year. I don’t mind havin’ the brownie points this could earn me, if it goes right…but I’m gonna make damn sure those points aren’t on sharp suckers getting jammed up my nethers, if it goes south.”

Harrow nodded. “This goes right and we get Carmen back, Herm, you’re the hero. Goes south, I’m the goat.”

“We are on the same damn wavelength,” Gibbons said with a cheerfully nasty smile.

The sheriff pulled to the curb and killed the lights, shut off the Tahoe, and they climbed down.

“Across the street,” Gibbons whispered. “Second house from the corner.”

Following the sheriff’s gaze, Harrow made out a white crackerbox, the F-150 sitting in a gravel driveway on this side. House dark, truck empty.

They stayed on this side of the street and walked quietly, two guys out for an evening stroll. Each held their pistols down against a leg, out of view from the house. As they drew closer, Harrow could see a one-car garage at the end of the drive, nearly behind the house. They crossed the street, keeping the F-150 between them and the crackerbox.

At the other end of the block, a deputy from the office was approaching at a walk, his arm stiff at his side as well. Just behind him were Laurene and Choi, the camera crew on their heels. Obviously, they had followed the deputy to the scene.

Gibbons gave them a small wave to hang back.

Deputy Wilson’s voice growled over Gibbons’s radio. “I’m in the back with my AR-fifteen. He’s not coming out this way unless he’s in a bag.”

His voice a hoarse whisper, Gibbons said, “Sit tight, Colby, and for Christ’s sake remember he’s probably got a hostage.”

“Ten-four,” Wilson said.

As they got to the pickup, both men ducked, Gibbons staying at the rear, using it for cover as he trained his pistol on the house. Moving up the driver’s side, Harrow stayed in a low crouch, and hesitated when he was even with the front tire.

He glanced toward the garage and saw nothing to indicate any life back there. Slowly scanning the yard between garage and house, Harrow tried to spot Wilson; but in the darkness, that was impossible.

Harrow reached up and touched the hood of the truck—cold. This vehicle hadn’t moved for some time. He crept forward, and peeked around the front—nothing.

He looked back at Gibbons, who gave him a nod.

They’d never worked together, but both had sheriffed for years, and each had a good idea what the other was thinking.

With Harrow’s nod, they rushed together, Gibbons from the rear of the truck, Harrow from the front. They met on the postage stamp front stoop of the dark, silent house.

Gibbons quietly opened the screen door, and the two stood for a long second listening, poised to make rude entry.

No sound from inside, no TV, no radio, and most important—and disturbing to Harrow…

…no sounds of life.