Unseen by Karin Slaughter Page B

heads. She kept her shotgun tight to her chest as she ran toward the carport. Her Glock tapped against her thigh. She scanned the woods around the house, took in the trash littering the ground, the broken bottles and cigarette butts.
    The perimeter team swarmed into position. Lena led the rest of her men into the carport. They lined up two on each side. Paul Vickery jammed his shoulder against Lena’s. He winked at her, like this was nothing, though she could see his chest heaving up and down underneath his vest. Inside the house, they heard the laugh track from a TV show, then music.
The Jeffersons
. “Movin’ On Up.”
    Lena started the timer on her watch. She gave the nod to DeShawn and Mitch, who were holding the Monoshock, waiting for her signal.
    They swung back the ram twice to build up momentum, then slammed the sixty-pound metal cylinder straight into the door. The wood splintered like glass.
    Lena yelled, “Police!” as they rushed in—guns drawn, ready to light up the place.
    But they were late to the party.
    Two men sat on a yellow corduroy couch opposite the television. Their shirts were off. Jeans slung low. One had his hand tucked into his front pocket. The other guy held a can of beer. Both had their eyes open. Parted lips showed missing teeth. An array of handguns covered the battered coffee table in front of them.
    Neither moved, or ever would again until the coroner came to pronounce them.
    Their throats had been cut. The skin gaped open, showing white tips of vertebrae among the dark red sinew inside their necks.
    Paul checked for pulses, though even from ten feet away, Lena could tell both men had been dead for hours. Waxy skin. The odor of decay. The junkie was one of the deceased—Elian Ramirez. His bare chest was concave, the ribs standing out like toothpicks. His murderer had saved him the cost of killing himself with Oxy.
    Paul checked the second man, turning the head to get a better look at him. “Shit,” he cursed. His disappointment spread around the room.
    Diego Nuñez, Sid Waller’s right-hand man. Lena watched a fly crawl across his eyeball. Nuñez’s purple-black tongue lolled out of his mouth like a chow’s. According to statements, Diego had taken his turn with Sid Waller’s niece once his boss had finishedwith her. He’d been behind the wheel during the drive-by that killed a nineteen-year-old kid who’d been stupid enough to mouth off to Waller. Lena’s guess was that, as a reward for good service, Diego had joined in on the fun with Waller’s sister. The woman had been brutally raped and beaten before her throat was sliced open.
    Murderer. Rapist. Thug. He’d died with a beer in his hand and his eyes glued to the TV.
    “Shit,” Paul repeated. He had found another body behind the couch. This one had been spared the slit throat, but part of his head was missing. It was a clean cut straight across. Lena guessed the ax leaning against the wall was the reason why. Long strands of hair and chunks of scalp and white bone were caked onto the edge of the blade.
    Eric Haigh’s hand clamped to his mouth. Vomit spewed between his fingers as he ran out the door. As far as Lena was concerned, he could keep running. She had little tolerance for weakness. And she sure as shit wasn’t going to let her team get ambushed while they stood around with their thumbs up their asses.
    She snapped her fingers for attention, the crisp sound cutting through the chorus booming from the TV. Lena pointed to the three corpses, then held up her hand, showing four fingers. Surveillance had four guys in the house. Sid Waller was yet to be found.
    They didn’t need further prompting. DeShawn guarded the door so there wouldn’t be any surprises from the rear. Mitch took Eric’s place and followed Keith into the back hallway. Lena headed for the dining room, Paul behind her.
    They kept at a low crouch as they walked. Trash was scattered across the floor—mostly beer cans and empty fast food bags. The