Almost completely concealed behind the balcony wall, he studied the surrounding grounds. He didn’t center his gaze but scanned vaguely, knowing that in the darkness he would recognize shape by peripheral vision before he could discern it from middle focus.
He wondered if the slain guard, or the dog, had been quietly discovered and a trap set. He suppressed the violent urge to rush; it was always a mistake.
Soon.
He took a slow, deep breath and repeated the procedure to slow his pulse, waiting until the trembling stopped.
He shook his head.
Three years … a long time.
Too long …
Cautiously he took out the night-visor, a compact device resembling welding glasses that intensified ambient light sources for night-vision, and slid it over his head. Starlight luminosity registered sixty-four percent, easily allowing him to penetrate shadows of the distant tree line. He could also discern the faint outlines of three sentries, still holding the standard separation of one hundred feet.
No movement.
Suspicious, always suspicious, he attempted to scan along the tree line for other guards hidden behind the foliage.
He hesitated. Cautious. Uncertain. He initiated a switch on the upper right side of the visor, and the green-tinted screen was doubled over a thermal imaging detector that registered differences in air temperature.
Able to read through fog, windows, curtains, and rain, the heat sensor could detect heat variations as minute as one degree Fahrenheit. Instantly the three sentries were outlined in a reddish-yellow glow of body heat, while the remainder of the field was projected on the green rectangular screen in starlight, everything clear.
With the thermal imaging-starlight synthesis, he again scanned his field of observation. But he saw only the three sentries. He knew the rest would be stationed to the west and north of the estate, or roving.
That would make it more difficult.
Through an internal gauge in the night-visor, he saw that the batteries were nearly depleted and calculated that the double read-out mode was quickly exhausting remaining power. He switched off the heat index, leaving only starlight for visibility. Once more he scanned the layout of the surrounding terrain and streets, drainage pipes, hedges, and other areas that allowed limited visibility. And as he had done for the past night, he mentally familiarized himself with the architecture and landscape of the sprawling manor, preparing his mind for the instant rejection of any escape plan and the immediate selection of another.
Before entering the estate he had predesigned three various lines of retreat, with the last and most desperate being the initial line of entry. But he had never been forced to leave an objective along the path of entry. Never. It was an unbreakable rule, though desperation in past missions had taught him no rule was truly unbreakable.
On penetrating the security he had noted the roving patterns, the equipment, of the teams. He knew that whoever controlled the grounds had also hired military expertise for the job. Even after only a single night of surveillance he had determined that everything was done by the manual: listening posts directed outward, night-vision equipment and microwave transmitters for communications, patrol teams two by two roving interior grounds with dogs on the inside and perimeter.
Standard Operational Procedure …
Night concealed his dark frown.
None of you can stop me …
Automatically his mind locked into a familiar mode—fiercely focused, emotionless, concentrating his fear and rage and pain into physical strength and skill. A thousand calculations were formed, all turning intuitively in simplifying combinations: the mechanics of movement, light variations, background and cover, sound factors and noise discipline, tactics of evading detection while maintaining observation.
Then, remembering and ruled by the knowledge, he closed his higher mind. His training, sharpened and alive with instinct, would direct him. The science, the art would automatically select the tactic that his physical conditioning would reflexively execute.
Black gloves absorbed the moisture on his palms, but he wasn’t accustomed to wearing gloves and unconsciously shook his hands, as if the cool night air would dry the sweat. Scowling, he noted the wasted movement, and his abrupt anger broke him from his heightened state.
Three years …
I’ve lost my edge …
Shut it down, he thought, shutting his eyes tight.
Concentrate on what you have to do …
He expelled a slow, quiet breath, and focused.
Opened his eyes again.
No movement in the tree line, all visible listening posts facing outward.
Clear.
Silently, careful to keep his profile low, he moved slowly over the balcony, descending a thin rope he had lashed to the stone railing. When he reached the ground, he eased against the most advantageous background, a trellis of broken ivy and high shrubs that profoundly compromised security, partially concealing him from even ambient light devices. Then, patiently, he moved forward, coldly channeling feverish adrenaline and raging emotion into silent stalking.
An instinct, hot and fresh, that was the center of him, flowed through him. And he was hot with it; - thirsty, predatory, finding a familiar way with it.
But he knew he would not surrender to it.
Not like before.
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DARK VISIONS Page 35