by John Sneeden
He was directly behind the structure, so he moved a couple of trees over in order to see down the right side of the building. He then lowered to one knee and trained his monocular on the woodpile. As he brought everything into focus, the body of a man materialized, lying prone on top of the two-by-fours, his rifle pointed toward the lodge.
Zane looked up. Darkness had now settled over the mountain, so it wouldn’t be long before the signal to attack was given.
Knowing time was short, Zane slipped from behind the fir and crept softly forward. He trained the suppressed Glock squarely on the man’s head, ready to shoot if it became necessary. If all went according to plan, he wouldn’t have to.
He was about halfway there when he heard a soft voice. No others were around, so the man was probably speaking into a headset. Zane took several steps forward and stopped. At first there was only silence, then the man began speaking again. Zane stiffened as he recognized the language.
What are they doing here?
He crept a bit closer. The man was talking faster now, clearly giving some sort of instructions. The attack was either imminent or had already commenced.
Finally, the man grew silent. He then raised his rifle into position, signaling that he was ready to provide cover. It was the moment Zane had been waiting for.
He launched forward, covering the remaining ground with cat-like speed. As he neared the man, his foot hit a rock, sending it skittering loudly against the pile of lumber.
The sniper turned at the sound, but since he was lying on his stomach, he was in no position to defend himself. Zane took one more step and leapt, bringing the butt of the Glock down across the man’s head. Both rolled off the stacked lumber, and by the time they came to a stop, the man was out cold.
Had they been heard? Zane waited but couldn’t hear anyone approaching. Nor did any sound come through the man’s headset.
Without wasting any more time, Zane grabbed the man’s ankles and dragged him behind the barn. Pulling out his flashlight, he turned it on and directed the beam at the man’s face. He was wearing night vision goggles, which Zane quickly ripped off and tossed aside. Illuminated by the light was the face of a young Asian male. Zane knew from the earlier conversation that he was a Chinese national.
As he pondered why they might be conducting an assault on Slater’s lodge, a small snippet of information tried to rise to the top of Zane’s thoughts, but he couldn’t bring it out. He’d have to worry about it later.
He entered the barn and found a length of rope and a rag then returned to the man and quickly bound his wrists and ankles tightly, stuffing the rag into his mouth.
Remembering the night vision goggles, he picked them up and slid them over his head. Immediately the night transitioned to a milky world of greens, blacks, and whites.
Now on more equal footing, Zane sprinted out to a sapling in the clearing and lowered to one knee. He saw movement just ahead. Two dark silhouettes had exited the woods and were now moving toward the lodge with speed. They were hunched over, waving automatic rifles back and forth.
Since the two men were facing in the other direction, Zane stepped out from behind the sapling and sprinted to a bush about halfway across the clearing, just behind the gunmen. They continued toward the lodge, obviously trusting that the sniper had them covered in the rear.
Zane ran after them, knowing their own steps would mask the sound of his approach. Seconds later, the two men parted. Zane followed the one on the right, who eventually pulled up behind a gazebo and stopped. Stealth was not an option now, so Zane bore down on his target. When he was a few yards away, the man turned. At first he seemed startled, but then he recovered and lifted his rifle.
But he was too late. Zane already had his pistol up, a red dot wiggling on the man’s forehead. He squeezed the trigger once. There was a soft spit, and the man writhed spasmodically before crumpling to the ground.
Zane ran past the body without a glance. He knew the man had died instantly. After skirting the gazebo, he saw the other gunman running just ahead and watched as he disappeared into a grove of young cedars planted around the back deck of the lodge. Zane continued to the spot where the man had entered, pausing a few feet inside. The saplings were arranged in neat rows like a Christmas tree farm. Unfortunately they were all about seven feet tall, preventing him from seeing anything beyond the row he was in.
Where is he?
There were no sounds. No signs of movement. It was as if he had disappeared into thin air.
Stepping forward, Zane looked down the next row. Empty. Had he already crossed the deck and entered the house? It didn’t seem possible, although he couldn’t rule it out.
As he waited, Zane heard shuffling just ahead, near the deck. He crouched and moved forward slowly. Just after he passed the final line of trees, a shadow closed in on him from the left.
He’d been waiting.
The attacker brought his rifle down toward Zane’s head, but he lifted an arm instinctively, just enough to avoid being knocked out cold. Instead, he received a glancing blow that sent him tumbling backward.
As Zane hit the ground, the night vision goggles dislodged and his gun tumbled out into the darkness. The attacker pounced ruthlessly, pounding Zane’s head with clenched fists. Zane withstood the wave of punches then reached up, yanked the man’s night vision goggles down, and simultaneously pulled the man toward him. Zane then used his own forehead to smash the man’s temple. The attacker grunted in pain, and Zane kicked him off.
Zane rose quickly to his feet and got into a defensive crouch. Surprisingly, the man was already up. Turning, he growled, lowered his head, and charged. Zane reached down and loosed his knife from its sheath. Seconds later, the man hit him. As Zane fell backwards, he held the knife in place, allowing momentum to do its work, impaling the man on the blade.
As the man expired, Zane pushed him away and got up on one knee. He listened, but he heard only the buzz of insects. Other than the man’s growl, the fight had taken place in relative silence.
After locating his gun, Zane crept to the edge of the deck. Both lights that had been on were now off. The other attackers were inside, using the darkness to their advantage.
Zane turned left and sprinted to the side of the house. As he rounded the deck, he saw a small door leading to the garage. He opened it slightly then peered inside. Slater’s Toyota 4-Runner was parked directly in front of him, and the door leading inside was off to the right. As far as he could tell, no one was waiting to ambush him.
Stepping inside, Zane located the electrical panel on the wall to his right. He lifted the cover gently and saw that the main breaker had indeed been turned off. That suited him just fine. He knew the house better than they did.
Skirting the SUV, Zane walked up the steps that led into the house. He opened the door about a foot and slipped into the corridor beyond. On his left was a utility room, its door slightly ajar. Zane used his gun to nudge it all the way open. All clear. After removing his boots, he continued down the hallway and entered the kitchen. He paused and listened. A few seconds later, he heard a slight creak overhead. At least one gunman was on the second floor. In all likelihood, they were all on the upper floors by now.
Zane walked past the kitchen island and squatted in front of the sink. Once there, he dropped down on all fours and felt under the cabinet door until he found the HVAC vent. Sliding his fingers under the edge, he gently pried it off, careful not to let it clang to the floor. He thrust his hand in the space beyond and closed his fingers around three flashbangs hidden there. He pulled them out and stuffed them into his shirt pocket.
Slater, keenly aware that he might someday be targeted, had constructed a number of false vents and compartments throughout the lodge, hiding everything from flashbangs to pistols to knives. There was even a stash of hand grenades in the crawl space, but Zane didn’t have time to retrieve them.
He exited the kitchen and turned left down a hall that ran to the front. When he reached the
foyer, he stood silently underneath the giant antler chandelier. He could still hear the creak of footsteps above.
A few feet away, the open stairway twisted in a spiral to the second and third floors. The house was designed with a central atrium running all the way to the top. Each floor had a square landing that wrapped around the stairwell, giving access to all rooms on that level. Zane looked up but saw nothing. Most of the lodge’s blinds were closed, shrouding the interior in darkness. At least he’d taken his boots off, giving him the advantage of stealth.
Zane took the stairs, his gun raised in front of him. Upon arriving at the second floor, he stepped out onto the landing and listened. Most of the sounds seemed to be coming from the third floor, but he needed to clear the second floor first. The last thing he wanted was to get squeezed between teams.
Knock.
He heard something fall over in a room at the front of the house on the same floor. He turned left and moved in that direction. It was so dark it was like walking in a cave. When he was about halfway down the landing, Zane heard another knock, followed by footsteps that seemed to be getting louder. Whoever was in there was coming out.
He looked around. There was a door immediately to his right.
The bathroom.
Thankfully the door was already open, which allowed him to enter without making any noise. By the time he stepped inside, a plan had already formed in his mind. Without night vision goggles, he needed a way to turn the odds back in his favor, and he thought he knew how to do exactly that. He felt around until his fingers touched the drinking glass next to the sink. Slater’s cleaning staff kept the place stocked like a five-star hotel.
The footsteps grew louder.
Zane snatched the glass off the counter then set it on the landing right outside the door. As soon as he did, someone exited the room at the front. Zane jerked back inside and closed the door.
Had he been seen?
The footsteps continued without pause, so Zane backed up a bit further and raised his Glock with both hands. As he waited, the footsteps stopped. Had the man seen the glass? The tactic’s effectiveness was predicated on the assumption that few people ever looked down at their feet.
Suddenly he heard a voice. The man was likely speaking into a headset, letting the team commander know another room had been cleared.
Without warning, the steps resumed again. The man was only a few feet from the bathroom door now.
A second later, Zane heard the clanking of glass. He immediately squeezed off three suppressed shots, the rounds ripping through the thinly constructed door. There was a groan and then a thump as the attacker fell.
Moving with speed, Zane crossed and opened the door. Looking down, he saw the dim outline of not one but two bodies. Two birds with one glass. If his sensor count had been right, that meant only one or two gunmen were left.
He heard movement above, then a light drew his eyes downward. A red dot wiggled at his feet, eventually working its way to his chest. Zane dove to his left instinctively. A hail of bullets rained down from the third-floor landing, shredding the banisters and the drywall.
Zane hit the floor and rolled onto his back. He was now able to discern the position of the gunmen by the flash of their weapons. Lifting his Glock, he fired twice. There was a scream then a loud clank as a rifle landed in the foyer below.
The surviving gunman fired several shots. Zane crawled over to a large supporting column and squeezed off two return volleys. He fished one of the flashbangs out of his pocket, pulled the pin, and launched it toward the third floor. As soon as it went off, he fired at the man illuminated by the light. The intruder let out a groan of pain then staggered down the landing and into a room.
When Zane stood, a sharp pain shot up his leg and into his groin. Feeling around, he found a wound just above one of his knees. Apparently he’d been grazed by one of the bullets. The pain was intense, but retreating wasn’t an option.
Limping over to the stairs, he ascended slowly. Upon arriving at the top, he tossed his old magazine aside and snapped in a new one.
Zane moved down the landing, keeping tight against the wall to reduce his profile. When he arrived at the doorway, he leaned forward and glanced inside. A bit of ambient light came through the blinds, allowing him to see the entire room.
Where did he go?
Zane stepped inside with pistol raised. It was then that he saw the man, propped up against a dresser. As far as Zane could tell, he wasn’t holding his weapon.
That’s strange.
Zane approached cautiously, his finger in position to pull the trigger if necessary. He could now see that blood oozed from a wound on the man’s chest. He’d need quick medical attention if he were going to survive.
As Zane drew near, the man lifted one of his hands and put something in his mouth.
“No!” Zane shouted.
He dove and tried to grab the man’s hand, but it was too late. The man’s throat was moving, sending the pill on its way.
He probably had less than a minute. Zane pulled the man’s night vision goggles off. Staring back at him was an Asian male in his late twenties or early thirties. Zane shook his shoulders. “Who are you?”
He said nothing, so Zane shook him again, this time more roughly. “Who do you work for?”
The man leaned forward as though he were going to speak, but then spit in Zane’s face.
Zane ignored the act. “Who did you come here for? Tell me.”
The man began to cough. Seconds later, a river of foam spilled from his mouth and his head tilted forward. Zane pushed his head back again, but this time there was only a blank stare.
Whatever secrets the man had held, they were gone.
CHAPTER FIVE
Arlington, Virginia
ADAM CLINE DEFTLY maneuvered the obsidian-colored Jeep Cherokee through the early-evening traffic of Arlington, Virginia. He was doing the best he could to strike a delicate balance between giving his passenger a comfortable ride and still making it to their destination on time. He had only been with Delphi for six months, but one thing he’d learned already was that Dr. Alexander Ross despised tardiness.
He cursed under his breath as another light turned red. After coming to a stop, he glanced into the rearview mirror at his passenger. The man stared out the window, seemingly lost in his thoughts. His long brown hair, which fell to the shoulders of a stylish gray button-down, framed a face that one might expect to find on any number of magazines in a grocery store rack. He was anything but a typical operative, Adam thought.
Strangely, the normally friendly man had scarcely moved or spoken since climbing in at Reagan National. Was it jet lag? That was certainly possible, although his pose seemed more pensive, as though something were troubling him.
The light turned green, and Adam mashed the accelerator to the floor.
“Don’t worry about Ross,” said the man in the backseat.
Adam blushed then looked into the rearview mirror again. “Excuse me?”
The man returned his gaze. “The Oracle… don’t worry about him. Just get us there in one piece and you’ll be fine.”
“Sorry.” Adam glanced at his watch. It was 6:55. “It’s just that Dr. Ross wanted me to have you there by—”
“Seven o’clock. I know. Once I get there, all will be forgotten. Trust me, sometimes I think I know the man better than he knows himself.” After a brief pause, he continued. “You’re right, he doesn’t like people being late. It’s in his DNA. But right now there is too much going on to worry about what time I step through those doors. Let’s just get there safely.”
Ten minutes later, Adam braked and turned right just before a tall mirrored office building. He followed the service road around to the rear and pulled up in front of a red awning that ran from the building to the parking lot.
The passenger pulled the strap of a duffel bag over his shoulder. “You coming in?”
Adam turned around. “No, sir. Dr. Ross wanted me to take your th
ings to the hotel and check you in.”
“Sounds good.” The man held up an ID card. “By the way, Ross didn’t revoke my privileges, did he?”
“No, sir. You should still be good.”
Adam watched as the tall operative limped down the sidewalk and into the building.
Zane Watson was home.
***
When the elevator door slid open, Zane realized nothing had changed in the months since he’d last stepped foot in Delphi headquarters. Directly in front of him was a sleekly modern reception desk, with a stone waterfall gurgling soothingly just behind. In the center of the stone was a bronze plate that read Delphi Group.
As he stepped out of the elevator, a smartly dressed woman in her early thirties looked up from a stack of papers on her desk. She had auburn hair that was pulled up and tied in the back and a face that was both pretty and disarming.
She grinned as Zane moved toward her. “Wow, love the new do!” she said with a wry smile. “You know, I can recommend a good stylist right here in Arlington. She’s great with long hair like ours.”
Zane placed both hands on her desk. “I haven’t stepped foot in here for months and the first thing out of your mouth is a sarcastic remark about my locks?”
“Sarcastic? Who’s being sarcastic? Would love to talk product sometime!”
Zane shook his head slowly. “How are you, Kristine?”
“I’m doing great, Zane.” She stood, came around the desk, and gave him a long hug. “We’ve missed you.” She pulled back a bit and looked down. “How’s the leg?”
“Hurts like the devil, but I think I’m going to make it. So you’re doing well?”
She nodded. “I’m great.”
Zane noticed a little tick in her expression, a hint that there might be a little more there. “You’re not still dating that clown from Maryland, are you?”
“Clarke? Ummm, no.”
Zane raised an eyebrow. “What did I tell you about that guy?”
“He wasn’t that bad.”
