by R. A. McGee
“I’ve been thinking about your bull metaphor—”
“It’s an analogy,” Porter whispered.
“Whatever it is, I’m not sure how that helps us here. Any thoughts?”
Porter was quiet for a few minutes, looking at the area. “The problem is, we could be sitting here for nothing. What if Vance is somewhere else? Stacy and Trey could be halfway across the world.”
Badway didn’t answer.
“Let me ask you something,” Porter said.
“Shoot.”
“Standard procedure to defeat an ambush is to fight through it, right?”
“Sure. If you’re being shot at, you can't just sit there. Eventually someone will hit you. No matter how crazy it feels, you have to return fire and charge. It’s the only chance you have to survive.”
“What if we make Vance think he’s being ambushed? He and his guys will push through, right? Flush Vance out of the house. Make him come to us.”
“Maybe,” Badway said.
“You still have any of that det cord?”
“That’s not all I have.”
“Good. Here's what I was thinking.” Porter laid out a plan.
Badway listened intently, then spoke. “There’s no way that works. Why wouldn’t they stay in the house?”
“Would you stay somewhere you thought was under attack?”
“Maybe.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Attacking him in his house isn’t the same as an ambush in the open. He has more options. What if it’s fortified? Hardened windows and doors? Why would you leave if you’re safer inside than outside?” Badway said. “We could wait. See who comes and goes in the daylight. It would be safer that way.”
“Much,” Porter agreed, and fell silent.
The men watched the home for another hour, trading off the NVGs several times. Porter was familiar with them, although it always took him time to get readjusted to seeing the world in the green haze of night vision.
Near midnight, Porter’s pocket vibrated.
“Yeah?” Porter said, keeping his voice low. He handed Badway the NVGs and stepped away.
“Tell me you love me,” Amy said.
“If Sarge hears, he might be jealous,” Porter said.
“It’ll be good for him.”
“Okay. I love you,” Porter said.
“Thanks. After the night I’ve had, I needed to hear it from someone.”
“You could call Sarge, I’m sure he’d tell you,” Porter said.
“I don’t have his number. You’ll do in a pinch.”
“What happened?” Porter said.
“I called Cat’s parents. They’d just heard about Cat from the cops and nothing I said could calm them down. We were really close, all the years Cat and I lived together. I thought maybe I could say something to help…”
Porter didn’t say anything.
“It fired me up. I think I know how to find him, or at least, where he’s going to be.”
“Dígame,” Porter said.
“That Spanish?”
“You speak it?”
“Not a word,” Amy said.
“Sorry. Tell me.”
“Not yet. I have an idea, but it’s tentative. I don’t want to get your hopes up. There’s still a few pieces I need to put into place. But once I do, and can figure out where that bastard is, you guys will be the first to know. How are things out there?”
“Quiet,” Porter said. “We’re getting a little bored, so I think me and Sarge may knock on his door.”
“That’s tough-guy talk for kick it in, isn’t it?”
“Something like that,” Porter said.
“Whatever you do, you guys be safe. At least stay alive long enough to give me a chance to turn over enough stones to find this insect.”
“I’m always safe,” Porter said.
“Try to keep Baddie alive, too.”
“I always do. The question is, why are you so concerned about him?” Porter said, the teasing evident in his voice.
“No comment,” Amy said. “That’s industry talk for fuck off.”
Porter laughed. “If something pans out, let me know.”
“You couldn’t keep me away if you tried. Cat was my best friend, remember? I’ll figure this out.”
“I know you will,” Porter said, and clicked the phone off.
Badway had moved away from the tree line and was near Porter. “Who do you love?”
“Amy.”
“I don’t blame you, I think I love her too,” Badway said.
“Did you hear?”
“I got the Cliff’s Notes. She’s working on something.”
“Until then, we’re on our own. Want to go see what we can stir up?” Porter said. “It’s chilly and I’m getting bored.”
“It’s still not a good idea, Porter. I say we wait and see what we can see. Besides, if we go in, better to do it a little later. Let everyone in the house get a bit drowsier, more off-guard.”
“I’m impressed by your restraint,” Porter said. “This from the guy who wanted to chase one cow in a parking lot a few hours ago.”
“I was thinking of your terrible analogy and it gave me an idea. A way we can walk down there and screw them all.”
“You admit it’s an analogy now?”
“Blow me. You want to hear or not?”
“I’m all ears,” Porter said.
Twenty-Six
Badway laid out his plan. It had many of the elements of Porter’s idea, with some Special Forces tweaking. There was the risk that Vance could get away, but Porter conceded it was the best plan they could come up with that didn’t involve waiting until the morning.
The men set about preparing as best they could, both as a means of getting ahead of the curve and as a way to stay warm and awake. Before long, there was the sound of an engine; soon, lights shone in the distance.
The cousins watched from the tree line.
An SUV appeared down the road, drawing nearer to the front gate. The gate opened as if by magic, then closed behind the vehicle.
Porter slipped the NVGs on again and watched while the roving guard walked up to the driver as he exited the SUV.
“I’ll bet that’s Vance,” Porter said.
“Could be anybody.”
“You don’t think it’s him?” Porter said.
“No, I do. I just like disagreeing with you.”
“Glad we didn’t try and hit the house earlier,” Porter said. “We wouldn’t have gotten shit.”
“See? Patience pays off, my young apprentice,” Badway said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
Porter watched as the men walked into the front of the home. “You ready?”
“I’m always ready.” Badway walked over to his trunk, pulled one of the big rifle cases he’d brought from his apartment, and handed it to Porter.
The rifle was a SCAR 17. Manufactured by FN Herstal—a Belgian company who’d designed it for the Special Forces—it was a big rifle, but not overly heavy due to several key pieces of polymer in the frame. It fired a .308 round, larger than the 5.56 NATO round Porter favored. The SCAR was equipped with a bipod for stabilization and a large scope on top.
“Sure you don’t want me to come too?” Porter said. “It would go faster.”
“Yeah, but sneaky isn’t your thing. You just watch my back. Use the PEQ if you have to shoot.”
Porter was familiar with the laser designator, a PEQ-15. When people used guns in the dark, they ran into a problem. It was impossible to use night vision and look through a scope at the same time. Everything was a big blur. The solution was the PEQ, which shot an infrared laser out, like a night-vision laser pointer. The shooter could keep the NVGs on, and still aim where he was shooting.
The PEQ made life easy.
Badway dug into his medic bag, pulling out two radios, one with an ear canal receiver. They were scratched and dusty, and one was covered with tan spray paint.
“You got comms to
o?” Porter said.
“Of course I have comms. How else are we going to talk to each other?” Badway clicked the large radio on and handed it to Porter. He turned the mate on and slipped it into his front pocket. He threaded the wire of the ear canal mic through the front of his shirt and out the shirt collar, and slipped it into his left ear. Then he ripped a piece of duct tape from a roll and taped the wire to the side of his neck.
“I’ll be back in a few.” Badway pulled his messenger bag on and set out toward Vance’s house.
Porter pulled the bipod down and pushed the rifle into it. He followed Badway in night vision. His cousin knelt at the edge of the tree line and looked back and forth for a moment.
“Mic check. You got me, bro?” Badway’s muted voice crackled off the speaker on Porter’s radio.
“Loud and clear. Be safe. If you need me, let me know.” Porter’s hand tightened around the grip of Badway’s rifle.
“Sneaky, remember?” Then he exploded in movement.
Badway sprinted across the street, rushing straight at the front gate. Before he slammed into the iron, he put on his brakes. The man was now crouched down low by the thick metal of the door. He unslung his messenger bag, unspooling the det cord that was stuffed in there.
Porter watched as a fuzzy, night-vision version of Badway placed a large circle of the explosive on the front of the metal door. Badway stood, back to the gate for several moments.
“All clear,” Porter said. “I got no movement.”
Badway waited a bit longer, then took several steps backward and sprinted at the metal gate. As Porter watched, he went up and over the wall. Porter lost track of his cousin for a moment, then picked him up again, sprinting toward the bank of cars sitting on the parking pad.
Porter looked at the cars: a small sports car type on the left, the SUV that had just arrived on the right, and a pickup in the middle. Badway went left, toward the sports car.
“Maserati,” Badway said into his mic.
“I’m not a car guy. That’s good?”
“Yes,” Badway said in a whisper.
“Good. Blow that one up.”
Badway disappeared underneath the car.
Porter swept his augmented vision across the property, looking for Vance or the roving guard.
“How am I looking?” Badway interrupted.
“Clear.”
Badway was up, sprinting to the side of the house. As he approached the edge of the brick building, a floodlight flicked on.
“Damn,” Porter said.
Badway froze, sucked up against the wall as if he could disappear. It was a smart move—no sense in running if he didn’t know which way to go.
“Talk to me.”
“Maybe it’s motion activated. Hold tight,” Porter said. Badway stayed tight against the brick wall. Porter pulled the night vision goggles off; now that the light was on in the front of the house, it was much too bright to use them.
Using the scope on the SCAR, Porter swept the grounds, seeing no one. He clicked the transmit button on his radio, then released it. The front door of the house swung open, and the roving guard stepped out. Joining him was another man, too big to be Vance.
He keyed the radio again. “You got two inbound from the front door.”
Badway stood motionless, stomach to the brick wall, then slid to his left, toward the side of the house. It was the only place he could go. Moving toward the right would bring him closer to the front door and into view of the two rovers. He sprinted and disappeared behind the left corner of the building.
The two men split up, one going to the left, the other sweeping right.
“One tango moving toward you,” Porter said.
“How far away is he?”
“Fifteen yards,” Porter said.
“I’m gonna circle the house,” Badway said.
Porter hefted the rifle and picked his way through the woods, further to his right. He wanted to see where Badway was going to end up, so he could call things out to his cousin as he made his way around. The new side of the house was still dark, and his NVGs were a blessing once again.
Thirty feet later, Porter knelt. His new vantage point was better. He could no longer see the left corner of the house, where Badway had disappeared, but he could pick him up as he rounded the rear corner from the backyard.
Porter breathed deeply. He now had sight of only one of the roving guards. The other must have tailed Badway around back.
Porter clicked on the PEQ, and his NVGs picked up the beam of light that projected from the device. Porter walked the beam over and put it on the man’s torso, matching his movements as he walked around.
Without night vision, the man had no idea he was being targeted.
The guard moved to the parking pad where the plane sat, walking in a circle around it. As if on cue, another floodlight turned on.
“Shit,” Porter said, pulling the NVGs off his head. Blinking several times, he settled his eye into the long scope on top of the rifle, replacing the infrared beam that had been on the guard with a crosshair.
Badway peeked around the corner. Porter drifted the rifle his way, scope scanning the area.
“You got one near the plane. I got no eyes on the one trailing you,” Porter said.
Exposed against the wall of the home, Badway slid toward the front of the house. Behind him, the man trailing him poked his head around the corner.
“You gotta move,” Porter said.
Badway stepped around the corner to the front of the house and crouched. He was in full view of the front door, but the man trailing him couldn’t see him.
Porter tracked the scope over to the man by the airplane. He turned as if someone called him. He joined the trailing guard on the right side of the house. The two men were less than ten feet from where Badway crouched.
Porter twisted the scope knob, raising the magnification, zooming in closer. If the men moved toward Badway, he was taking them out. He thumbed the selector switch of the rifle from safe to semi. Every time he pulled the trigger, a round would be hurled toward the guards.
The men were gesturing and pointing, and the man who had trailed Badway smacked the plane guard on the arm. Both men turned and walked back toward the rear of the house. Porter kept his eye on them the entire time, ready to engage. He followed as they got to the corner of the house, then watched them disappear into the backyard.
“You’re clear. Move,” Porter said.
He twisted the magnification knob, zooming out and giving himself a wider field of view. He located his cousin just in time to see Badway throw a huge uppercut at a previously unseen guard, who must have slipped out of the front door as Porter was watching the other men disappear.
“Shit,” Porter said. “Get out of there.”
Badway didn’t answer. Porter watched as his cousin looked around, stepped over the fallen guard, and sprinted into the open front door of Vance’s home.
“Son of a bitch.”
Twenty-Seven
Porter thumbed the radio. “Get the hell out of there. Sarge? Sarge?”
The radio’s speaker remained silent. Badway was in the house, alone, and he wasn’t responding. Porter checked the front door through the lens of his scope, stuck in a quandary.
As the overwatch, he should stay put. Badway needed to have his exit covered. People who worked with a gun got familiar with the concept that they needed to do their own job, not the other guy’s. If you were in a stack of cops or soldiers breaking down someone's door, once you entered, your assigned area was yours to watch no matter what. You let the guys in front and behind you handle theirs. Threats were missed when people went off script.
By the same token, the script was out the window right now. This wasn’t the plan, and Badway might need help in the house. There was no telling how many people he was up against on the inside.
The hell with this, Porter thought.
He crashed through the woods, back to Badway’s truck. He tossed the rifl
e into the bed and twisted the keys in the ignition. The new truck roared to life. Porter dropped the shifter into reverse and spun the tires as they grabbed for traction on the fallen leaves and trees.
He straightened out and floored it, following the gravel road out of the woods and jumping a small curb to get onto the asphalt road that ran in front of Vance’s home.
Porter passed the metal gate, and backed up, reversing until the tailgate bumped it. Parking the car but leaving it running, Porter hopped out of the front seat and vaulted into the bed.
He grabbed the rifle and shouldered it. His height, with the boost from the pickup truck’s bed, let him see over the gate and the wall which surrounded the property. Porter rested the fore-end of the rifle on top of the cold metal.
Scanning the area again, he saw that the two roving guards had made it around the far corner and were turning toward the front of the house. No time to aim. Porter cracked off several rounds, which drove the men back around the corner.
Dammit.
“Sarge, you gotta move.”
Silence on the radio.
He shot three more rounds at the side of the house, crashing them into the brick wall and crumbling pieces off. Pinning those guys down was a temporary solution. All they had to do was circle behind the house again, and they would pop up on the other side. Hell, they could even enter through a back door, then they’d be Badway’s problem.
His radio crackled to life. “I’m coming out hot. Plus one.”
Plus one? He’s bringing someone?
Porter thought for a split second. It didn’t matter who it was; Badway wouldn’t be able to get both himself and the other person over the tall gate. Porter needed to improvise.
He dropped the SCAR into the bed, leaped from the truck, and hopped back into the driver's seat.
He slammed the shifter into drive and pulled forward a dozen yards. He slipped the shifter into neutral, flooring the gas pedal, then slid it to reverse. The big Ford jumped into action, tires biting the asphalt and propelling the truck backward, straight into the gate.