Covenant Read Online Free PDF Page A

evidence,” Tyrell cautioned. “Most everybody does that and they usually get it wrong.”
    “This is it,” Lopez said, gesturing ahead. “Twelve fifty-five G Southeast.”
    Four MPD cruisers were parked across the road, incident tapes cordoning off the last in a row of abandoned town houses. The cruisers’ lights flashed like nightclub beacons in the pale dawn. A few dark-skinned faces appeared on balconies on the projects opposite, smoking and wiping sleep from their eyes but watching with interest.
    “Let’s go see what’s up,” Tyrell said, and turned to look at Bailey, who whined softly. “Now, you stay here and guard the wheels, ’kay, boy?”
    Tyrell levered himself from the car, pausing to catch his breath before leading Lopez through the police cordon. A cheerful-looking officer by the name of Kaczynski walked toward them.
    “Hope we didn’t get you guys up too early,” he said, glancing at the thin sheen of sweat glistening on Tyrell’s brow. “Warm enough for ya?”
    Tyrell shook Kaczynski’s hand and gestured to Nicola.
    “Detective Lopez, Lieutenant Terry Kaczynski. Any news from the inside?”
    “Nothing,” Kaczynski admitted, smiling at Lopez in a manner that suggested the only thing he’d ever successfully flirted with was rejection. “We’re just waiting for you to show us the way.”
    “What we’re here for,” Tyrell said without fanfare, wiping the sweat from his brow with a tissue.
    “Best get on with it then,” Kaczynski said with a shrug. “If there’s anyone inside lookin’ to give us trouble, they can’t have missed this goddamn circus.”
    Kaczynski turned and cleared the way for them to the windowless front door of the town house. Tyrell glanced at the trees growing outside the row of abandoned buildings, gnarled branches concealing the clapboard houses and their mangled chain-link fences. Dense weeds thrived in long-abandoned gardens. Living opposite the Potomac Gardens projects with its drug trade and gang warfare had driven the occupants out long ago.
    He could see that the front door of the house was blanketed with a kaleidoscope of sprayed tags and gang colors, the signature of misled youth on a citywide scale. Mara Salvatrucha 13 was the dominant gang in the District, an assortment of El Salvadoran gunrunners and drug dealers who had migrated across America over the past twenty years. Brutally violent, they complemented the local peppering of Crips, Bloods, Surenos, and La Razas fighting for turf as far out as Prince George’s and Maryland.
    The two detectives drew and checked their weapons one more time before Tyrell nodded to a tall, robustly built young officer. The officer hefted a black iron ram from where it had been leaning against the sidewalk.
    “You guys take the upstairs,” Tyrell murmured as Kaczynski took position outside of the door. “No heroics this mornin’, ’kay?”
    The young officer’s face was taut as he lifted the ram. Tyrell aimed at the door, Lopez covering his shoulder and flank. He checked everything one last time and raised the barrel of his pistol once, twice, and then with a final jerking third movement.
    The police officer lunged forward and slammed the ram into the door with all of his impressive physical strength. A dull crash echoed across the projects, the door splintering but holding firm. A chorus of whoops and obscenities drifted down from the balconies behind them. The officer swung again and the door smashed open, hanging from one twisted hinge.
    Tyrell rushed forward into the darkened maw of the house.
    “Police! Stay where you are!”
    Tyrell’s voice was muted by the narrow hallway ahead, lost in deep shadows. He crept forward into the darkness, Lopez close behind. An intense blanket of heat cloaked the inside of the house, sweat drenching his skin and trickling beneath his shirt.
    “Police! Stay still, face down on the floor!”
    The silence taunted him as he caught the sickly sweet aroma of putrefaction