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Ranger and Santos stood, guns in hand. Brown and Tank held flashlights.
    I braced myself, expecting Ranger to kick the door down, but instead, he took a key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. The door started to open but caught on a security chain. Ranger took two steps back and threw himself at the door, catching the door at chain height with his shoulder. The door popped open, and Ranger was in first. Then everyone was in except me. Lights flashed on. Ranger shouted, “Security!” and everything was chaos. Half-naked people were scrambling off floor mattresses. Women were shrieking. Men were swearing.
    Ranger’s team went room by room, cuffing people, lining them up against the living room wall. Six people in all.
    One of the men was berserk, waving his arms to avoid getting cuffed. “You can’t do this, you fuckers,” he was yelling. “This is my apartment. This is private property. Somebody call the fucking police.” He pulled a knife from his pants pocket and flicked it open.
    Tank grabbed the guy by the back of his shirt, lifted him off his feet, and threw him out the window.
    Everyone went still, staring dumbstruck at the shattered glass. My mouth was open and my heart had gone dead in my chest.
    Ranger didn’t look all that disturbed. “Have to replace that window,” he said.
    I heard a groan and some scraping sounds. I crossed the room to the window and looked out. The guy with the knife was spread-eagle on the fire escape, making feeble attempts to right himself.
    I clapped a hand to my heart, relieved to find it had started beating again. “He’s on the fire escape! God, for a minute there I thought you dumped him three stories.”
    Tank looked out the window with me. “You’re right. He’s on the fire escape. Sonovagun.”
    It was a small apartment. One small bedroom, one small bath, small kitchen, small living room. Kitchen counters were littered with fast-food wrappers and bags, empty soda cans, food-encrusted plates, and cheap, dented pots. The Formica was scarred with burn marks from cigarettes and crack cookers. Used syringes, half-eaten bagels, filthy dish towels, and unidentifiable garbage clogged the sink. Two stained and torn mattresses had been pushed against the wall in the living room. No lamps, no tables, no chairs, no sign that civilized man occupied the apartment. Just filth and clutter. The same refuse that banked against gutters outside filled the rooms of 3C. The air was stale with the odors of urine and pot and unwashed bodies and something nastier.
    Santos and Brown herded the bedraggled occupants into the hall and down the stairs.
    â€œWhat happens to them now?” I asked Ranger.
    â€œBobby’ll drive them over to the meth clinic and drop them off. They’re on their own from there.”
    â€œNo arrests?”
    â€œWe don’t do arrests. Not unless someone’s FTA.”
    Tank returned from the car with a cardboard box filled with interior decorating supplies, which in this case consisted of disposable gloves, trash bags, and a coffee can for syringes.
    â€œThis is the deal,” Ranger said to me. “We strip the apartment of everything not nailed down. Tomorrow the landlord will bring someone in to clean and do repairs.”
    â€œWhat’s to stop the tenant from returning?”
    Ranger just stared at me.
    â€œRight,” I said. “Stupid question.”
    I T WAS MIDMORNING when we went through with the broom. Santos and Brown had positioned themselves on folding chairs in the small vestibule downstairs. They were to take the first security shift. Tank was on his way to the landfill with the mattresses and bags of garbage. Ranger and I were left to lock up the apartment.
    Ranger angled the brim of a Navy SEALs ball cap to shade his eyes. “So,” he said, “what do you think of security work? You want to be on the team? I can let you take the graveyard shift