by Alex Ander
She shrugged. “I guess I don’t.”
“Anything come to mind you’d like to use?”
“Not that I can think of. How do you usually choose one?”
He squinted at her for a few moments before zeroing in on a jet-black lock of hair still poking out from under her cap. “How about Raven?”
She frowned.
He aimed a finger at her. “Your hair...it’s raven black.”
She smiled. “I like it. Raven it is.”
“But this means you can’t ever color your hair again.”
“It’s never been colored in the first place.” She activated the communication device on her vest. “This is all-natural.”
He lifted a corner of his mouth and turned away. “Raven, this is King. Do you copy?”
She glanced down. “Raven copies—over.”
He lowered his goggles into place. “Do you want point?”
She flipped down her NVGs and motioned toward him. “I’m giving control of this phase to you. You lead. I’ll follow.”
“You sure? We haven’t really ironed out the specific details of our roles yet.”
Peering through eyewear she had never worn before, Devlin glanced down at the MP5 in her grasp, the pistol attached to her right thigh, and her tactical clothing. “I’m not really in my element here, so I think it’s wise I let someone who is take point.”
He slowly nodded. “The hallmark of a good leader...letting those around him—or her—do the jobs their good at.” A beat. “Okay. Let’s move out.” Randall took off down the hill toward the private cabin, Devlin on his heels. Five paces later, he stopped.
She came to a halt on his four o’clock. “What is it? Do you see something?”
He turned her way. “It just struck me.”
“What’s that?”
“How do you know about sex swings, anyway?”
Devlin shut her eyes and sighed.
“Do you actually own one of th—”
“Just,” she gave him a light shove, “get going, will you?”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 27
Back Door
1:07 A.M.
After creeping ten yards into the stand of trees north of the cabin, Randall took a knee, gave the area a slow, three-sixty scan, and raised his NVGs to see a kneeling Devlin on his right.
She moved her glasses out of the way to make eye contact with him. “Problems?”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure.” Spying the structure ahead, he kept his voice low. “I expected at least one sentry in the woods. Personally, I would have had two posted.” He paused. “Maybe Crane’s security detail is a little lax. In any case, keep a sharp eye out.”
She nodded.
“Stay three paces off my six and cover our three and six o’clock. I’ve got everything in front of us and to our left.”
“Copy that.”
He flipped his goggles back into place, “On me,” and took off in a low crouch.
Giving him a three-step lead, Devlin followed.
*******
FOUR MINUTES LATER...
Just inside the tree line, each with a knee on the ground and both hands on their MP5s—muzzles down—Devlin and Randall surveyed the two-story lush retreat located the span of home plate to second base away from them. In the middle of the snow-covered lawn, where the pitcher’s mound would have been, was a perfect circle of hibernating grass.
She dipped her forehead an inch. “How many armed men do you think are in the house?”
“I guess that would depend on how confident Crane feels...that he’s beyond the reach of American justice. Then again, this,” he wavered, “this whole thing just feels off to me.”
“Off how?”
“I wish I knew.” A moment. “I think we should expect at least four men inside...plus Crane.”
Devlin gave him a quick peek. “So how do we breach? There must be another entry point on the front side of the house. Simultaneous entries?”
He grinned at her. “Look at you, throwing around those tactical terms.”
She huffed. “Please. I said I was out of my element, not ignorant.”
Randall faced the dwelling. “If we knew more about the layout and the ‘opfor,’ I’d go with—that means opposing force.”
“Thanks for the clarification. That one I didn’t know.”
“I’d go with simultaneous tactical entries. But, in this case, I’d feel better if we pick a door and go in together. Keep our firepower combined.”
“So which door?”
Three seconds passed.
Randall’s head bobbed down and up once. “The back door.”
Devlin flicked her eyes his way. “Why that one?”
“Because I just did ‘Eeny-Meeny-Miny-Moe’ in my head, and the front door lost.”
“What? Are you kidding me? That’s how you paramilitary guys make decisions?”
Randall smiled. “Only the major ones. No. Seriously, I prefer not to go,” he made a half circle with a down-turned finger, “all the way around the house—and risk being spotted—when there’s a perfectly good way in staring right at us.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to flip a coin to back up your logic?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Devlin.” A beat. “We reserve coin tosses for when the shooting starts. Okay, after I pick the lock...”
She let a thin grin come and go.
“...you open the door on my command, and I’ll make entry first.”
“Then what?”
“Then we’ll clear the first floor before moving to the second. Since we don’t know the floor plan, we’ll have to make adjustments as we go. Stay on my right and cover our three o’clock. I’ll be depending on you doing your job just as you’ll be relying on me doing mine.”
She nodded. “Copy that.”
“We’re new at this, Jessica—working together. Just like the timing between a quarterback and wide receiver, we need to get used to each other’s moves. So we stay in constant communication and stick to the basics. I lead. You follow. I’ll cover my half. You cover your half. We clear the house. Get our man. Go home.”
“While I’m more of a hockey fan, I get the gist of the analogy.”
“And most importantly...”
Devlin heard his voice go deeper and become more serious.
“...if you encounter someone with a gun, you drop him. Am I clear? No shouting commands. No waiting for him to point a weapon at you. You drop him where he stands and move on. We have to trust the Intel. And the Intel says a wanted fugitive is,” Randall poked a finger straight ahead, “in that house. So anyone with a weapon is aiding that fugitive.”
Her chest heaved, and she expended the captive air while the President’s words from a few days ago rushed into her brain...
“Your team will be operating out of a black budget, Jessica.”
The marshal glanced down at her submachine gun. This isn’t the States. “We’re operating in the black.”
“That’s correct.” He readied a lock pick gun and staged it on his vest. “And, just like the mountain back there, you got this. You ready?”
She faced him. “Ready. Let’s finish this.”
“Stay on my six, Raven. We’ll make less of an imprint on the landscape should anyone be peeking out a window. And, if lighting is good inside, we’ll switch to red dot scopes.” He gave her a second look. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” She paused. “I’ve just never had a call sign before. It’s a little weird.”
He smiled. “You’ll get used to it.” A tick later, Randall lifted his balled hand toward her. “Take one for you.”
She eyed the gesture that she and Blake Hawkins had shared each time the two had gone into dangerous situations. The torch now having been passed to Randall, she bumped his knuckles with hers and said the second half of the refrain. “Not if I take one for you first.”
Hunched over, Randall motioned, “
On me,” and dashed into the open.
In a similar, crouched fashion, Devlin ran after him.
*******
THIRTY SECONDS LATER...
Finding the back door already unlocked, Randall opened it a hair, shut one eye, and peered through the crack. His ears picking up noise from a television, he eased the door shut, raised his NVGs, killed the IR laser on the MP5, and made sure the long gun’s red dot scope was on.
Devlin performed the same adjustments to her optics and weapon.
He pointed two fingers at his eyes, held up an index finger, and chopped a flat hand toward the door twice.
She pieced together the signals and nodded.
He backed up and shouldered his MP5.
She clutched the doorknob and faced him.
He dipped his chin once.
She opened the door.
Randall raised the H&K and slipped inside.
Devlin sneaked in behind him and closed the door without making a sound.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 28
Shift Change
1:16 A.M.
The long kitchen had dark brown oak cabinets and stainless-steel appliances on either side. Copper-bottom pots and pans, and cooking utensils hung from under-cabinet hooks near the stove.
Dark-colored flooring under his boots, Randall peeped over four small duffle bags lined up on an island in the center of the kitchen before ducking back behind the barrier.
Bent over at the waist, Devlin crept up to him.
Not knowing the extent to which she understood hand signals, he risked whispering to her. “Target’s on the couch...twelve o’clock. I’ll cover you while you inject him.”
She nodded and readied an injection gun containing two doses of a fast-acting tranquilizer designed to knock out a man of Crane’s size for several hours.
Randall moved out from his hiding place and inched toward the sunken living room easily the width and length of a three-car garage. The space had been outfitted with expensive furniture, including a 65-inch wide-screen television on the far wall.
In the middle of the area, his back to the kitchen, his arms spread wide across the back of a couch, a man sat watching an old Western movie.
Recognizing the flick, Randall held up a fist near his left ear.
Devlin stopped.
His eyes darting right, left, and toward a staircase on his eight o’clock, he waited for the movie’s upcoming gunfight scene.
From the television, the sound of six-shooters erupted.
Randall glimpsed his teammate and motioned.
Injection gun in hand, Devlin hurried forward.
He gripped his MP5 with both hands and repeatedly scanned the three positions from which threats could materialize.
The gunfight came to a sudden halt.
Randall frowned. That scene should’ve been longer. He faced the TV and saw Crane’s face reflected off the technology’s black screen. Oh sh— bolting by Devlin...
Crane leaped to his feet.
...Randall long-jumped off the main floor, sailed over the lower-in-elevation space, and came down on the center couch cushion.
Crane lifted hands to his face while opening his mouth and expanding his chest.
Randall drove the butt of the MP5 into the wanted man’s belly, cutting off a cry for help.
The disgraced, former deputy director hugged his gut while doubling over and stumbling backward, his foot smacking a coffee table.
A delicate crystal vase teetered twice before tipping over and smashing into tiny fragments. The noise of breaking glass bounced off the hardwood-paneled walls.
Devlin stowed the injection gun and turned her back on her partner. Taking up the mantle of providing cover, she swung her rifle back and forth and toward the stairs.
Bouncing off the wall next to the TV, Crane threw a weak right cross.
Randall ducked under the punch, clamped his left hand around the back of Crane’s neck, spun right, and threw him face first onto the floor.
“Is everything okay down there...”
Devlin aimed her long gun upward, in the direction of the unseen male’s voice.
“...Mister Crane?” A man in a black suit bounded down the stairs.
The red dot from her MP5’s scope jittering on the newcomer’s white dress shirt, Devlin heard Randall’s earlier admonition. No shouting commands. Trust the Intel. Drop him where he stands. She pressed the trigger one time.
Loaded with subsonic ammunition, the sound-suppressed weapon made little noise when it burped three times and sent three jacketed rounds into the man’s chest.
His hands covering his fatal wound, he gasped and tumbled the rest of the way to the first floor.
Not worrying about stealth any longer, Randall faced Devlin. “Toss me the injection!”
In one motion, she grabbed the gun, threw it, and resumed her two-hand hold on the MP5, whipping the weapon upward and toward her nine and three o’clock positions. There must be more of them.
Randall caught the gun, drove a knee into Crane’s back, jammed the device’s tip into his patient’s neck, and squeezed the trigger.
Crane’s arms flopped for two seconds before dropping to the floor, his right cheek thudding off the carpeted surface a tick later.
Gunfire filled the home.
Bullets hit the area around Devlin’s boots.
Backpedaling to get out of the line of fire from a second gunman on her right, she trained her weapon on an upper-level silhouette and got off several three-round bursts.
The handrail in front of the figure splintered.
Holes appeared on the upstairs wall.
The dark outline crashed through the damaged wooden stiles, did a forward roll in the air, and flattened an antique side table, his head ending up pointing in an unnatural position.
“Get to cover!” Randall fired his weapon toward the stairs.
The backs of her thighs touching the couch, she performed a reverse somersault over the piece. Twisting her body at the end of the maneuver, she landed flat on the carpet, her left shoulder and hip hitting first.
He scurried behind a floor-to-ceiling bookcase to his partner’s right and pushed his back against the sturdy furniture.
Incoming rounds from above shredded the sofa’s leather pillows.
Devlin turned away from the foam particles floating near her eyes. Not exactly cover, Jess. Rolling onto her belly, she army crawled toward a roll-top walnut desk on the opposite side of the room from her teammate’s position.
Spotting her slithering away from the bullet-ridden couch, Randall leaned out and exhausted the rest of a 30-round magazine on covering fire, alternating his point of aim to keep the enemy’s heads down.
Making it to the desk, Devlin crouched behind the furniture’s thick wooden side panel and swapped out her MP5’s magazine for a full one.
Randall reloaded his weapon and slapped the charging handle with his palm, sending a round into the chamber.
The cabin was quiet. Clouds of gun smoke hung in the air.
He checked his watch. Coming up on our extraction. He popped his head around the bookcase’s edge and quickly pulled back. Can’t drag this out.
Seeing him glimpse his watch, Devlin read his mind. We need to get out of here. Her eyes zipped around the room. A frontal assault’s a good way to get killed. She squinted at a lamp across the room while envisioning the NVGs on her head. Might work. She got Randall’s attention, tapped her goggles and whispered, “Get ready,” before setting her sights on the lamp and pulling the MP5’s trigger.
The room became a bit darker.
She transitioned to a second lamp and fired.
The darkness grew more intense.
Good thinking, Jessica. Randall shot the lights that were outside her field of view.
The main floor was black, except for the faint light coming from the upstairs and an adjacent room.
The agents flipped down their eye
wear and activated their rifle’s IR laser.
Realizing they were lit up from behind, the armed assailants killed the light sources near them.
Seeing the pitch-black home in a green hue, Devlin and Randall sneaked out from cover and advanced. She moved around the left side of the couch; he took a knee on the right side, near the adjacent room, and aimed his rifle toward the top of the stairs.
Devlin ascended the two steps out of the sunken living room and made a hard right. Her weapon up and aimed at the room on Randall’s starboard side, her partner outside her sight line on her one o’clock, she moved forward in a low crouch.
Half of a torso appeared in Randall’s Armasights.
Movement came from the room straight ahead of Devlin.
The covert operatives let out two controlled bursts each from their MP5s.
The form in the room collapsed.
“Mine’s down.”
The target upstairs groaned while sliding down a wall and listing onto his left shoulder.
“Tango down.”
Taking turns covering each other, the federal agents cleared the rest of the first floor before creeping up the stairs and repeating the tactic.
Randall lifted his NVGs. “All clear.”
Devlin moved her eyewear away from her face.
They turned on weapon-mounted flashlights and navigated their way to Crane’s still form.
She shined her light on him. “Is he still alive...or did he take a round?”
Randall knelt and inspected the man. “No bullet wounds. He’ll live to stand trial.”
She spied her watch. “Faith’ll be here in six minutes.”
He slung his rifle, bound Crane’s wrists behind the man’s back, with plastic ties, and hoisted the human sack of potatoes over one shoulder. “Let’s get ready for when she lands.”
They hurried into the kitchen and dashed by the island with the duffle bags on it.
Randall grabbed the door’s handle and stopped.
Three seconds passed.
Devlin regarded him. “What’s going on?”