Overwatch: A Thriller

by Matthew Betley

  The man looked at his watch. “They should hit the house in approximately thirty minutes. Carlos—per your orders—knows to take Mr. Quick alive.”

  The aide knew the tactical details of the operation but was also aware that Juan Black cared only for results at this point. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something, sir.” Just as quickly as he’d arrived, the man turned and vanished from the doorway, leaving Juan alone with his thoughts.

  The weather was changing in San Antonio. Juan hoped his luck would as well. If this operation succeeded, he’d be financially secure for the rest of his life and free to retire anywhere on the planet . . . in a country with a nonextradition status, at least.

  It all comes down to Carlos’s team. Maryland is a dry hole. He knew there was no way they’d succeeded. He would’ve heard something by now from the Company. Cain’s source in DC would’ve been briefed by the FBI, which was no doubt involved by now.

  Juan had been informed about Mr. West’s personal relationship with Special Agent Mike Benson. It had been a factor in deciding whether or not to move forward. Ultimately, Juan had determined the risk to be acceptable. I could’ve been wrong.

  If Carlos failed, Juan would contact Cain at midnight. That wasn’t a call he wanted to make.

  No matter what the outcome, Juan knew that by tomorrow morning, all US law enforcement and intelligence agencies would be using every available resource to search for him. Even though he’d thoroughly compartmented this operation by ensuring the teams were not aware of each other’s existence, he knew he’d still have to evacuate his office within a few hours.

  He planned to relocate his operations center south of the border, where a secure facility with adequate protection was already established for him. The alternate location had been predesignated and was known only to himself and Cain.

  The Los Toros cartel valued his services. As a result, the cartel kingpin hadn’t asked any questions. In fact, the cartel wasn’t even aware that Juan’s true employer was Cain’s Company—it wasn’t an official name but what they called this effort—and that his work for the cartel was only a means to an end, a legitimate and lethal cover story.

  If the cartel knew the truth, his life expectancy would be shortened dramatically. Juan didn’t think the head of the cartel would find out; however, just to be safe, he planned to be on the other side of the world before the success of the operation exploded its way into the global headlines.

  He looked at his watch for a third time since his aide had left. I despise waiting.

  As the minutes ticked by, Juan contemplated the current state of world affairs. The only variable was the degree of the response and where it would be directed. No matter what, the country would fall.

  Failure wasn’t an option. They’d never have a better opportunity than now to exact their revenge. Even though their mission was personal for Cain, Juan lived with righteous anger and outrage too, personal mementos from his time in Iraq. He knew the deaths of the innocent served a higher purpose. It was unpleasant and morally repugnant, but unfortunately, it was necessary. This was their one and only chance. It was now or never. The United States had failed to act for too long.

  But we won’t. Not anymore.

  CHAPTER 13

  HELENA, MONTANA

  Forty-two-year-old retired gunnery sergeant John Quick had built the large A-frame house on a small, isolated lake in the middle of a secluded forest. The house was connected to the lake by a fifty-foot pier that he’d personally constructed and joined to the back deck, which stretched the length of the house.

  The lake itself was no more than two miles in diameter and surrounded by thick trees that grew within a few feet of the entire bank. In mild weather, he could easily swim from one side to the other without worrying about riptides or changing currents, two things from his Force Recon days that still sent shivers up his spine.

  Even though the location was considered to be the outskirts of Helena, there wasn’t another living soul for miles in any direction. He’d scouted the region thoroughly when he’d decided to move to Montana. He wanted as few distractions as possible. He’d seen the chaos and evil that pervaded the so-called civilized world, and he wanted none of it.

  The combat he’d experienced and the horrors he’d witnessed had taken a steep psychological toll, ultimately leading to a divorce from his first wife only halfway into his career. For now, he just wanted to be alone. Someday he might try to reconnect with society, but first he had to reconnect with himself.

  The house faced due west across the lake. It provided a prime vantage point for the sunset every evening. The lake didn’t have a name, probably because no one ever visited.

  Even though the dense woods that encircled the lake provided a formidable ring of protection, there was enough space between trees that he could walk and hunt in any direction he chose. It was perfect.

  His path to this specific place still perplexed him. He believed all major events in a person’s life occurred for specific reasons, that there was some sort of organized sense behind all the chaos. Unfortunately, his own personal reasons for being continued to elude him.

  All he knew for certain was that after twenty-three years in the Marine Corps, multiple combat tours to Afghanistan, Iraq, and a few other countries with no official US presence, he preferred the solitude and complete independence his new home afforded him. It calmed his essence, which had been a violent and churning source of unhealthy anger for longer than he cared to remember. He was certain he’d made the right decision by moving to Montana.

  He’d spent the day—one of countless many—on the lake in his small boat, catching two nice largemouth bass. One of the fish had just found itself served up as dinner, grilled and blackened with a nice lemon-butter concoction.

  As the sun began to set a little after six o’clock, he built a fire in the circular open-hearth fireplace that occupied the center of his living room. It was where he spent most of his time relaxing and contemplating his life’s journey, often staring out the gigantic plate-glass window into the beautiful scenery beyond.

  The fire was his after-dinner relaxation. He placed the six logs he’d cut into a leaning pyramid construction. He hit the automatic lighting switch—there was no sense in doing everything the hard way—and a stream of gas hit the pilot light, igniting the logs. He smiled at the ease with which the wood burned.

  He turned the gas switch off when the fire was self-sustaining and moved to his reading chair adjacent to the twelve-by-fifteen-foot window that occupied one side of his living room.

  The chair was one of the few furnishings present in the gigantic two-story space. The other pieces of furniture included a dark mahogany dining room table and an oversized brown leather couch. He sat his athletic 180-pound frame down and took a sip from the single-malt Scotch that had been waiting on a small end table next to his chair.

  It was his evening ritual as day faded into night, all thoughts and concerns washed away with the promise of a new tomorrow. The tranquillity of the moment was as close to a sense of peace that he could attain. No grenades, mortar rounds, or IEDs exploding near him. No crack! as rounds ricocheted overhead.

  Most importantly, no screams from wounded or dying Marines . . .

  He closed his eyes and was still, soaking in the silence as the sun concluded its ritual disappearing act. He suddenly opened his eyes, the dark-brown orbs focusing on the dusk outside. The silence . . . it’s too quiet. No crickets, frogs, or other nightlife. The normal sounds that accompanied night conquering the fading daylight were absent.

  In his experience, preternatural quiet was usually followed by extreme violence. Before the thought had fully registered in his mind, he was already moving toward his study.

  Could be a bear. Last thing I need is a hungry grizzly looking for food. He’d heard enough stories of giant bears breaking into homes. The news media seemed to think bear stories were funny. Out here, he sure as hell didn’t.

  In his study,
he opened a dark-brown cabinet and retrieved a .45-caliber M1911, fitted with special night sights and a polymer nonskid grip. He grabbed the holster belt and slid it around his waist, securing the thigh rig around his leg by snapping two clips together. He reached for his shotgun but then paused as he thought, If it is a predator, maybe I can take it down and mount it on my wall. He’d only hunted elk thus far but hadn’t kept any of the heads for trophies.

  Thinking he’d like to make a quiet kill, he grabbed two more tools of his current trade: a full-sized KA-BAR hunting knife and his Excalibur Vortex crossbow, equipped with a green illuminated reticle scope.

  The crossbow packed an extremely powerful punch at 330 feet per second. With Horton Carbon Strike arrows, one shot usually resulted in a clean kill.

  To the casual observer, he appeared to be prepared for combat, but John just considered equipping himself to be smart planning. “Sweat saves blood” was one of his favorite slogans, but so was the undeniable “Semper paratus,” or “Always prepared.” When venturing out into the wild Montana darkness, he definitely intended to be.

  He attached the KA-BAR sheath to the left side of his holster belt, slung the quiver of arrows over his back, and moved to the living room.

  As he entered the room, he turned off the light switch, bathing the room in a glowing orange that emanated from the fireplace. He stood on the right side of the window, out of sight from any creature lingering outside between his house and the lake. He waited as his night vision adjusted. To ensure that no ambient light affected his vision, he walked over to the fireplace and separated the logs, spreading them apart to diminish the fire to an incandescent glow.

  The shadows from the fading coals danced across the room as he remained motionless, counting the minutes until his eyes were fully acclimated for the night outside. Might as well have as much of an advantage as I can before I go out there.

  * * *

  Carlos Quintana was a patient man. He hadn’t survived this long in the world of the cartels without knowing precisely when to act. His timing was impeccable and had served to save his life more times than he remembered. The current job was no different.

  The junior man—Erik—had suggested they break into the target’s house and wait for him to return from his day on the lake. Carlos had momentarily considered that option but then dismissed it.

  “If this man is as good as his military record indicates, he’ll notice anything out of the ordinary, and we lose the element of surprise. There’s no point in escalating the confrontation and creating an unnecessary risk. Instead, we wait until he’s had his evening drink, and when he goes to bed, we move in . . . quietly.” The others had agreed, and that had been the end of the discussion.

  So when all light inside the massive living room suddenly vanished, Carlos was surprised. He looked at his watch. It was too early.

  His man on the west side of the small lake—a skilled sniper named Edward—had an excellent viewpoint and radioed that he’d just lost visual on the target inside the house. He’d seen the outline of the target walk over to the fireplace and then . . . darkness.

  Edward said through his radio, “I can see a glow from the fireplace, but nothing else inside the room.”

  “Roger. Notify me if you see anything else.” Had he seen or heard us? Carlos didn’t think so. He and his men had been in their positions for almost thirty-six hours.

  The four-man team had parked its unregistered SUV five miles away on a deserted access road in dense underbrush on the other side of the lake. The road had a gate that had been padlocked. After they cut the lock off, they’d replaced it with an old lock of their own, one that had intentionally been beaten to reflect wear and tear and hopefully not raise any suspicion to the casual observer. Their SUV was concealed with trees and branches and was invisible unless someone literally walked into it.

  In addition to Edward on the west side of the lake, Carlos’s other team members, Erik and Hector, were positioned on the east side of the lake. Hector was Carlos’s specialist for entering any type of building virtually undetected. The small and lean man with short black hair was a former Mexican army commando who’d fled Mexico for Texas after his unit was betrayed by a local politician and ambushed by a corrupted army unit working for a drug cartel. Only Hector and one other member of his squad had survived. As a result, Hector despised both the Mexican government and the cartels.

  Hector had been referred to Juan Black and had landed on Carlos’s team three years earlier, where he’d proved himself an invaluable asset. Hector asked no questions about the source of their funding. He didn’t care. All that mattered was the vengeance he delivered to the cartels as personal payback for all they’d wrought.

  Hector was the main player for this operation, and Erik was his personal security and additional firepower in case things didn’t go according to plan—as was often the case.

  When the lights suddenly went out in the living room, Carlos had ordered Hector and Erik to remain in place for another thirty minutes before approaching the house. He looked at his watch. The thirty minutes was up.

  Carlos peered through his night-vision binoculars, hoping to spot Hector and Erik moving from their hide site five hundred meters away. Since he’d been in his own vantage point three hundred meters to the northeast of the house, he knew precisely where to look. He wasn’t disappointed when the blurry figures of two camouflaged men began to creep toward the objective.

  Once they reached their assault point, he’d have them remain there for another thirty minutes before entering the house through the study window he’d reconnoitered earlier in the day. It was the easiest—and safest—point of entry, since it was on the first floor and the farthest room from the target’s bedroom.

  Carlos had wanted originally to conduct the raid in the middle of the night, but Juan had insisted it happen as soon as it was dark. There were other constraints that Juan had to account for, and the longer Carlos and his team took to accomplish their mission, the greater the chances the entire operation could be jeopardized.

  Juan had emphasized to him that failure wasn’t an option. That reminder was a hovering presence in the back of Carlos’s mind. He’d seen what happened to those who failed Juan Black. He didn’t intend to become one of them—an example in death.

  * * *

  After thirty minutes, John Quick’s eyes were fully adjusted to the darkness. He reached for the brushed-nickel handle of the large sliding back door when movement to the north side of the lake, no more than a hundred meters away, stopped him dead in his tracks.

  What the . . . ? He could’ve sworn he saw something move and then suddenly stop. His years of night patrols in the woods, mountains, and jungles of foreign countries had honed his peripheral vision into a deadly warning instrument that had saved himself and his Marines on more than one occasion. Instinctively, he lowered his hand from the handle, positioned himself to the left of the picture window and sliding doors, and waited.

  Two minutes later, two shadowy figures in camouflage carrying what appeared to be assault rifles moved a few feet through the trees and froze once again. The figures assumed prone positions near a fallen tree he’d planned to use for firewood.

  He didn’t panic. He’d been in peril numerous times and was no longer prone to irrational fear; rather, he immediately recognized the threat.

  John was a trained sniper and had once stalked a South American president through a field with minimal cover and concealment. He’d remained in his hide site with his spotter for two days, at one point less than two hundred yards from the president’s guards. The CIA ended up negotiating a deal with the dictator, and John had never received the order to eliminate the target. So he and his spotter had backtracked for another painful twenty-four hours before reaching their extraction point. The dictator never knew how close he’d come to taking a 7.62mm round through the temple.

  I’m trapped. Whoever the hell it was outside his home had to be professional. He hadn’t suspected an
ything out of the norm over the last few days. Maybe he was a little complacent from his self-imposed solitude, but he was still dangerously perceptive. If these guys are that good, they’ll have men on the other side of the house and on the front. Shit. I have to figure out something fast. Then he smiled as he recalled words once famously uttered by Chesty Puller, one of the Marine Corps’s most iconic and legendary officers: “We’re surrounded. That simplifies the problem.”

  An idea occurred to him as he recognized his best option. He even allowed himself a small smirk at the thought. There was one exit they hadn’t covered.

  * * *

  Hector was restless. His ghillie suit was irritating him again. He hadn’t worn it for this long since Colombia, but even that mission was shorter than this one. He forced himself to ignore the discomfort, even though he was fairly certain that a tick or two had lodged itself in his upper thigh.

  He just wanted to get this operation over with and get the hell out of Montana. He preferred the hot Texas climate to this cool fall weather.

  The sun had set over half an hour ago. He and Erik had moved as close to the house as the situation permitted. They had an excellent line of sight into the living room and the side door. The target must’ve gone to bed early. Neither Carlos nor Edward had seen any movement from their vantage points once the dim glow from the fire had vanished.

  Hector scanned the house methodically, working his way from the top down and left to right with his night-vision binoculars. Nothing. “Carlos, are we cleared?”

  At the other end of the radio, Carlos contemplated his options and the risk involved if the target was aware of their presence. What did the change in his evening routine mean? He could only guess. Was there any way the target knew they were there? He didn’t think so, but it was better to be safe when dealing with situations like this one.