So many fond memories in this grand home. He would miss the place.
2
At eight forty-five, Hunter drove the Ford van up the road past the estate from the south. He already had studied the layout and details for many hours, using satellite imagery from a government archive to which Wonk had provided access two years earlier. But he wanted to get a last brief overview himself, to commit to his visual memory an awareness of things that could be seen only at ground level.
Hunter passed the entrance to his right. The gatehouse interior was faintly lit, and a solitary man was in there. The man’s car was parked off to one side. The long driveway behind the gates provided the only vehicular access into the estate’s walls. He knew that the passage of his van was being observed by the security cameras posted at the entrance, and periodically along the brick walls of the estate. He also knew that infrared thermal cameras and detectors dotted the interior grounds; he had spotted those, too, during his earlier visit here.
He continued just past the northern border of the estate, around a bend in the road. Then killed his lights and engaged the night-vision camera and screen on his dashboard. He turned right, down a dark, narrow, rutted dirt lane. It ran through thick woods for about a hundred yards, then crossed a small, one-lane bridge over a creek. The trees thinned and the road dead-ended in a broad clearing next to a farmer’s field. Years earlier, it had been a campsite for the Boy Scouts, until they found a better location. Now it was just a spot where hunters parked in deer season.
It also was within two hundred yards of the northern wall of Trammel’s estate.
He got out, went around to the back of the van, and began hauling out and assembling his items. They were things he had been buying and storing since the previous year, during his vigilante operations. He had always thought they might come in handy one day. This was that day.
Hunter kept an eye on his watch. Nine fifteen, now. Timing was everything. This op had to be conducted strictly by the numbers, and this time some of those numbers were out of his control. Because he had to throw this plan together on such short notice, he couldn’t follow his usual and preferred policy of operating alone. He had to count on some inside help.
Things would end very badly for him tonight if Julia didn’t do her part.
3
In her early years onscreen, she’d had some parts in romantic suspense and action films. She had to keep telling herself that this was just another screen role she was playing. She had memorized her lines, and her director had told her where she had to be, what she had to do, and when. She had rehearsed it all in her mind. Now she just had to follow his script and hit her marks.
Julia Haight also tried to tell herself it was only the usual acting jitters when the clock on her bedroom wall showed it was nine twenty.
Show time, she told herself with forced bravado, trying to forget why these jitters were almost unbearable.
She left her open suitcases and scattered clothes on the bed, retrieved the phone he had given her, and moved to the door. Peeking out into the hallway, she saw no one. The house staff had been sent home at six; they were to return at seven a.m. So now it was only herself, Avery in his office, the guards outside, and that big scary blond guy, Lasher, who was wandering around, all in black—jacket, jeans, and boots.
Her destination now would be the garage under Avery’s office. Right beneath his feet.
Even though she felt like creeping down the hallway on tiptoes, she knew furtiveness would look suspicious to anyone who might spot her. You’re his wife, Julia. This is your home. Act like it.
She walked casually, unhurriedly down the hallway, then took the elevator, rather than the more conspicuous stairs. She stepped out into the foyer, glad she had worn soft-soled shoes that didn’t resound off the marble. She crossed over to the corridor door leading out into the garage, flipped on the light, then entered, closing it behind her.
The place was chilly and smelled faintly of oil. Avery’s Cadillac limousine, gleaming like a black mirror under the fluorescent lights, filled the nearest bay. Three other vehicles occupied the bays beside it, with the two farthest bays empty.
Her heart was throbbing in her throat and her chest felt tight. Trying to master her breathing, she moved away from the door, toward the center of the garage, where she could not be heard as easily. Huddled between two of the cars, she powered on the phone and tapped in the number he had given her.
“I’m here.” His voice soft, barely above a whisper.
“Me too. In the garage.”
“Great. How are you holding up?”
“I’m managing. Okay, now what do I do?”
“Just to make this easier, are there any tools in the garage?”
“I think so. Yes. There’s a bench over here along the back wall.”
She listened as he described what to look for. The closest thing she found was a pair of short pruning shears.
“That’ll do. You told me earlier you located the electrical boxes out there. That’s our next stop.”
She went over to the wall adjacent to the limo.
“Okay. I’m next to them.”
“Now, describe them for me.”
“One is just a metal box with cables going into the bottom. The other has a row of lights on the front.”
“That’s the one we want. That houses the automatic transfer switch for the house’s backup power generator. Now we’re going to disable that generator.”
She followed his instructions, tugging a bunch of little plastic plugs out of their tiny sockets. Then he had her use the shears to cut those plugs off the ends of the wires they were attached to. He told her to take those plugs with her, so she stuffed them into the pocket of her sweater. Next, he had her snap off a couple of other little parts, then close the box again.
“Very good, Julia. You’re doing great. Now the only thing left for us to do is make sure the cars won’t work. Let’s start with the limo.”
That took longer. She was able to get inside the limo and open its hood, then followed his instructions about cutting some wires and hoses and belts inside. He told her to lower the hood very slowly, leaving it ajar rather than slamming it shut.
“The other cars are locked,” she reported to him, alarmed.
“That’s okay. Let’s just let the air out of some of the tires, okay? That will slow them down enough.”
He told her what to do about that. The loud hissing made her nervous. He had her find a rag and lay it over the tire valve while she used a nail to deflate them.
“All right, Julia, it’s nine thirty-seven, and we’ve got to let it go at that.”
“But I flattened only two tires on the Mercedes.”
“That’s okay. We’re out of time. The last thing I want you to do before you leave the garage is open up the back of the phone, remove the battery, then remove the SIM card. Do you know what that is, and how to do it?”
“Yes. I think so. I did that once.”
“Good. Next, wipe your fingerprints off that card with the rag, then smash it into little pieces before you leave the garage. Kick the pieces somewhere out of sight. After that, wipe all your fingerprints off the phone, too, and hide it somewhere hard to find—maybe under the tool bench or in a cabinet. But don’t waste much time doing it. Can you remember all that?”
“I’m good at remembering lines,” she said, forcing a chuckle she didn’t feel.
“I know you are. Okay, do what I said, very quickly, then go straight to your basement and lock yourself in the room down there you told me about. All your phones and electricity will stop working very shortly. So when you get there, switch on the battery backup power so you’ll have light and fresh air. Under no circumstances are you to come out—no matter what you hear or see—until I come and get you. Or the other person I told you about comes and shows you an ID. Only for us. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Okay. I’ve got to go.”
“I’
m scared.”
“It will be all right.” His hard voice was suddenly gentle. “After tonight, they won’t hurt anyone else. And they won’t hurt you. I’ll make sure you’re safe. You have my word on that, Julia.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Thank you. You are doing a great thing tonight. You’ll realize that very soon.”
Then he was gone.
She followed his instructions about the phone, jamming the pieces into a large bag of salt for their water system. Then she went to the door, put her hand on the knob, and shut off the light.
Standing there for a moment in the dark, she suddenly felt on the edge of tears. She didn’t know exactly what he was going to do. She didn’t want to think about that. She only wanted this nightmare to be over.
She carefully turned the knob. Poked her head into the hallway. It was empty.
You are his wife. You own this place.
Julia Haight took a deep breath, drew herself up like a queen, and strode out toward the foyer.
One of the guards, the dark Slavic-looking one, was standing there with a holster on his hip, facing away, toward the front door. He heard her approach and turned, a bit startled.
“Oh. Hello, Ms. Haight.”
“Good evening, Dimitri.”
He glanced down her body quizzically.
Her eyes followed his. She saw the dark oily stains on her fingers. Her heart skipped.
You belong here. He’s the hired help . . .
She held up her dirty hands and laughed.
“You can see why I hate packing,” she said.
He grinned and nodded.
“Da. Me too.”
She continued past him, to the elevator.
Rode it down, this time, to the basement.
She got out, turned on the basement lights, and hurried straight to the back, to the blocky room protruding from the rear wall. Years ago, Avery explained he wanted to make sure he’d never be vulnerable to kidnappers. So he had this “panic room” constructed with reinforced concrete. He had its heavy steel door lined with the stuff they use in bulletproof vests, and the square window next to it made of thick bulletproof glass.
Julia pulled open the heavy door, went inside, shoved it shut, then threw the twin deadbolts behind her. She flipped the switch that started up its self-contained power supply—a series of twelve-volt batteries stored in the base of its large interior closet. These powered the lights and, as needed, external security cameras, a land line, an amateur radio set, an alarm, and an air-filtration system. Also in the closet were emergency tools and supplies, a portable toilet, and—attached inside its door—a gun rack.
Trembling and tense, she sat in a chair.
The only sound she could hear was the faint hum of the air blower.
The battery-powered digital clock on the wall said it was nine forty-six.
4
Nine forty-six.
From the clearing, Hunter launched the first drone, a foldable octocopter carrying a thermal-imaging camera, toward the rear of Trammel’s estate. Its powerful battery gave it an impressive flight time of twenty-five minutes, and an operating range of two thousand meters—well beyond what he’d need tonight. Guided by GPS, the speedy drone was in position in just fifty seconds, hovering above five hundred meters, just off the back of the property. He rotated it and let it hover there, the camera aimed at the estate. On his cell phone, he saw three glowing silhouettes of guards in various places on the back lawn.
Nine forty-seven.
Time to create a diversion—for those on the estate, but also for anyone in the area.
He pressed a button on a handheld remote device. It activated one of several firing modules, connected by wires to bays of tubes he’d spread out on the bare ground. With a rushing sound and a trail of sparks, the first aerial rocket speared skyward, and three hundred feet overhead it exploded with a colossal flash and thunderous boom.
That should get their attention.
Hunter knew little about fireworks, but some time ago he realized they might one day come in handy for a purpose like this. Last summer he located a licensed pyrotechnics expert willing to bend the rules and put together a professional, ready-to-launch show for him—including the fireworks, the necessary equipment, timed-event scripting software, and a crash course of instruction—all in exchange for an amount of cash hard to turn down. The program the guy prepared would run automatically for the next half-hour. With its flashes and bangs, the display would provide Hunter the ideal camouflage, offering the surrounding community a perfectly mundane and entertaining explanation for what was about to go down on the adjacent estate.
Nine forty-eight.
Using another phone, Hunter launched his second drone. This system had set him back another twelve thousand bucks. It combined a heavy-lift octocopter carrying a high-powered, sophisticated communications jammer Wonk had customized for him. As another rocket soared off over the field, he guided this drone low above the trees, to the boundary of Trammel’s property, then across the yard and over his house. He settled it down carefully on a flat portion of the roof, then killed the drone’s motor.
Those on the grounds didn’t know it now, but except for their walkie-talkies and earpieces, their wireless phones were now blocked for a circumference of one hundred fifty meters.
Nine fifty.
Leaving the fireworks equipment, he carried the phones back to the cab of the van and placed them on the passenger seat, next to his silenced Sig P-228.
He couldn’t go in heavy and start a firefight against a half-dozen men. Using an automatic rifle might reveal his positions, let them converge on him. And slow him down, make him less maneuverable. No, success tonight—even survival—would depend on speed and stealth. He’d have to get in close to them, take them out one at a time.
He started up the van and headed back along the dark dirt road, bright and easy to follow on the night-vision screen. Reaching the intersection of the main road, he turned back toward the estate’s entrance. As he neared it, he picked up the Sig and laid it in his lap, along with a leather, lead-weighted blackjack.
FORTY-EIGHT
“What was that?” Trammel called out to Lasher as a loud explosion shook the house.
Lasher, who had been informally standing sentry outside the doorway of Trammel’s inner office, had seen the flash in the window of the main office, which faced north. He drew his Glock instinctively and ran to the side of the window, peeping around quickly then ducking back. Maybe Hunter was somewhere out there with that Barrett sniper cannon of his, trained on this place.
Trammel came rushing out of his office. “What in the world?”
Lasher motioned him to stand back. “Don’t get near the window. If Hunter’s over there, he could have a rifle and be waiting for us to come to the window so he can pick us off.”
Trammel scrambled back into the office doorway. “He could do something like that?”
“Like I said, he’s a pro. And sneaky.”
Another flash filled the window and Lasher took another fast peek, pulling back again. “I’ll be damned. Fireworks.” He snorted. “Got to hand it to the bastard, he’s full of tricks.”
Over his walkie-talkie he heard the Russians babbling excitedly. He grabbed it from his belt and raised it to his lips.
“Hey out there!” he snapped. “Heads up! I think our guy is making his move.” He gave them quick positioning orders.
“Well, if you think he is out there with a rifle, then that changes things,” Trammel said, his voice nervous. “I am not about to be shot right here in my house.” He stormed back into his own office.
Lasher wondered what he meant. Keeping away from the window, he followed Trammel through the doorway. He found him behind his desk with his cell phone to his ear, frowning. He looked at it and tapped the screen. Put it to his ear again.
They heard another bang, followed by a rat-tat-tat-tat of smaller explosions.
“This thing d
oes not appear to be working,” Trammel said. “Let me have yours.”
The pompous prick’s tone irritated him.
“Who are you trying to call?”
“The police. We need to get them here to stop him.”
Lasher felt his ten million dollars about to slip away.
“No! I mean—we’ve got this. Seriously, sir. You have just one guy against me, and five other pros backing me. He’ll be dead inside a half hour.”
“So you say. But as long as I am paying the bills for security, I shall be the one to decide about such things. If you expect to be employed one more minute, give me your phone.”
He held his hand out, palm up.
Lasher wanted to pull his Glock and waste the son of a bitch right there. But the thought of the ten mill forced him to swallow his pride. For now.
He strode over and handed over his phone.
Trammel tapped in the number. Waited. Then frowned again. Looked at it again.
“What is going on here?”
“May I have a look, sir?”
The billionaire handed it back to him. Lasher tapped a few times. Then realized.
“He’s blocking our commo.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s jamming our cell signals. Probably wi-fi, too.”
Trammel blinked. “He can do that, too?”
“Apparently,” he answered, for the first time feeling a hint of uneasiness.
“Well, there is a land line on my secretary’s desk,” Trammel said, storming around his. “I shall—”
Then the lights went out.
2
Hunter cut his engine fifty yards from the driveway entrance and let the van roll forward silently, lights off. It was fortunate this isolated country road was so lightly traveled. During his recon, sometimes fifteen minutes would pass without any traffic.
He steered to the berm on the left side of the road and allowed the van to drift to a stop. He’d already unscrewed the dome bulb, so when he exited, no light showed.
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