“Sorry . . . will be able to follow the order back through UPS. Big outfits like those track every detail about an order in their database, so the answer’s in there somewhere. We just need to isolate the electronic trail and trace it to the original purchaser by crosschecking the data. Then we follow the money trail. Regardless of whether it was paid by cash, credit card, or wire transfer, someone had to pay for it.”
G’s face lit up. “I see where you’re going with this. The large amount would require the financial institution involved to report it to the IRS. Chances are, it’s been flagged as a reportable sale, limiting the search criteria.”
Simon continued, appreciating the kid’s quick thinking. “Once we know whose tax ID number it’s under, we have ‘em. We just need to find it.”
“Oh, I’ll find it. Count on it, Red.”
Wicks nodded and obtained the tracking numbers from Wyatt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Bruce Tanner hung up the receiver of his office phone in Nighthawk’s Willington field office and finished scribbling down the last of the intel he’d just obtained from his nephew in the University of Pittsburg computer lab. As usual, Andrew came through like he’d done the previous four times Tanner had called the brilliant graduate student.
Tanner stood from his chair, folded the paper containing the delivery address for the missing Nighthawk shipment, and stuffed it into his front pocket. He prayed the tracking info was correct, worrying that his nephew had liberated the Old Mill Road address too easily from the UPS hack. It was a long drive to the rural location in Western Pennsylvania and he didn’t think they had the time to attempt recovery at a secondary location if the first proved to be in error. HQ was due to check in later, meaning his unit had one chance to recover the weapons and gear on their own.
He charged out of his office and headed for the armament section of their warehouse. “Gear up, gentlemen!” he shouted, passing through the vehicles and other support equipment.
“Destination and flavor, sir?” his second in command asked.
“Western PA, Mr. Fritz,” he answered, peeling an ATF banner from the patch board and slapping it against Fritz’s chest. He could have chosen a patch from a number of other agencies, such as DHS, FBI, or even SWAT, but decided a weapons recovery mission was best suited for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.
Nighthawk Services Group had been authorized by special legislative charter to operate domestically, and to do so by impersonating various law enforcement agencies on an as-needed basis. All of it was legal and approved by Congress after the Ellsworth Air Force Base Incident a decade earlier.
The term incident was the politically correct term for what had happened at the military base, even though the number of civilians killed that day numbered in the thousands. Massacre would have been a better choice for its official name, but it wasn’t up to him. The commander of the airbase wasn’t prepared and overreacted to the sudden threat storming their gates, They opened fire on American citizens, both armed and unarmed, causing a collective gasp and uproar across the country—on both sides of the issue.
In response to the outcry, the administration in the White House decided the US needed a much larger domestic security force to deal with such uprisings, and lobbied Congress to approve sweeping changes to the DHS charter. The House and Senate followed through by passing a new bill to allow DHS to expand their roster of trained mercenaries. Basically, the new law authorized Homeland Security to hire any contractor with top secret clearance, and then use the mercenaries however they deemed fit—all without a shred of oversight. That single piece of legislation gave explosive rise to two private security companies, Ghost Works, LLC and Nighthawk Services Group.
Tanner wasn’t sure what the public would think if they knew about his group’s ability to don the insignia of any well-known law enforcement agency, but he was thankful for the advantage. It had a calming effect when Nighthawk rolled up on a scene, keeping everyone compliant and none the wiser. A cooperative citizenry meant fewer incidents, and that, of course, was good for everyone. The only wildcard was the freedom fighters—when they were involved on the other side, his team went through ammo and explosives at triple the normal rate.
His tactical vest was a little snug after he slipped it on, making him adjust the fit. Then he opened the various pockets and pouches, stuffing them with the essential gear needed, including additional pre-loaded magazines for his Glock Model 22, a fresh canister of pepper spray, rubber pellets, extendable baton, and a 53 million volt stun gun with two extra Taser cartridges.
Company regulations required each member to carry several types of weapons, providing both lethal and non-lethal solutions to any situation. When he first joined NSG eight years ago, they called the suite of weapons lethal and non-lethal responses. But the tail end of that phrase was later changed to use the word solutions after it became clear to the brass that most NSG teams chose the lethal route first, finding it the most effective solution in most situations.
In truth, lethal responses proved to be much more efficient, though not morally acceptable for those in opposition—at least not in the early years. However, when faced with imminent threats, Washington was quick to erode civil liberty for additional layers of American safety. Controlling its citizens, not protecting them, had become the new standard in US law enforcement. Tanner welcomed the ideological shift since it kept the press and the lawyers at bay, allowing his unit to complete their missions quickly and on task.
It took several minutes, but he finished his standard load-out with his sidearm and duty belt, then grabbed two energy bars, a set of cuffs, ballistic glasses, gloves, knife, helmet, flashlight, and a notepad and pen. Had the resupply occurred before this mission, he would have snatched extra AR magazines and a few other items of choice. However, since inventory was running low, he decided to skip them, leaving what little stock they had remaining for his men.
He pulled the Glock from its holster, racked the slide to inject a .40 caliber round into the chamber, then put the semi-auto back into its secure location on his hip. Most of his men preferred the Model 30, feeling the larger .45 caliber provided them with the firepower they needed. He preferred the .40 with less recoil, feeling his accuracy was better from a distance. Plus he could carry more rounds.
An AR15 with red dot optics was his rifle of choice, and he grabbed one before he climbed into the passenger seat of the command vehicle. It wouldn’t be long before Fritz joined him in the driver’s seat; however, he couldn’t say the same for his men. He felt some of them were loaded too heavily, covering a wide spectrum of gear.
After he was promoted to field commander, he changed the unit’s policy to allow each man to decide for himself what their standard load-out would be. He believed a happy team was an efficient team, especially when it came to their preferred carry items. They were all putting their lives on the line, same as him, and he wanted each of them to choose how they wanted to protect their own six.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Jeffrey Hansen ducked his head and rolled through the filth after the kidnappers tossed him back into his cell. The stitches across the bullet holes in his leg and shoulder were holding together, but he was worried his wounds would soon become infected. The sanitary conditions were deplorable in the jungle, and in his weakened condition, his body would have a hard time fighting off an invasive swarm of bacteria or disease. At least he wasn’t tied down to his bunk this time, leaving him free to move around the tiny hut.
His neighbor in the next cell over, Crosby, called to him. “Hey buddy, you alive?”
“Barely.”
“How’d it go?”
“Well, I pitched them, but they seemed less than receptive. Then again, the Spanish you taught me might of sounded like some hippie version of Bantu Swahili to them.”
Crosby laughed but didn’t respond.
Hansen continued. “Regardless, millions of dollars rings true in any language. One good
thing, they did bring in a doc who gave me fluids and stitched me up. He spoke some English, which helped, but the quack’s hands were shaking and his face was three shades beyond pale. I thought he was going to pass out. There’s nothing quite like seeing a nervous bush doctor coming at you with a sharp object in his hands.”
“He was probably under duress.”
“Possibly,” Hansen said, craning his neck and turning his shoulder toward the light leaking in from above. He could see some of the stitches. “But from what I can see of the patchwork, he’s not going to be applying for a staff position at Johns Hopkins anytime soon. I think a drunken sailor could’ve done a better job than that witch doctor.”
Crosby laughed, again. Harder this time. “At least they decided to treat you. That must mean they’re considering your deal. Otherwise, they wouldn’t care if you lived or died.”
“Let’s hope. Then we can both get out of here. It’s only a matter of time before sepsis finds me and I won’t last a week out here with an infection.”
“Thank you for including me. I know you didn’t have to.”
“A deal is a deal, and I’m a man of my word.”
“Did they buy your red rain explanation?”
“I don’t think so, not by the dumbfounded looks on their faces.”
“You may not know this, but Cubans are a very superstitious people, blaming everything bad that happens in their lives on evil spirits.”
Hansen’s mind played a vision of the devil with a pitchfork. “I can’t imagine what they think is behind the storms. But I did get the impression they were going to run my idea past their boss, at least that’s what the witch doctor alluded to when he translated their response for me.”
“Did they mention a name?”
“Not directly. But I’m starting to think this outfit works for Jigsaw.”
“Carlos Santiago?”
“Yep. They’re drug runners, all right. That much I’m sure of based on what I saw in their camp. Since all drug traffic in this area of the world is controlled by Jigsaw, I don’t see how they couldn’t be connected.”
“I agree. Working in opposition would be a sure way to find your head on the end of a stick.”
“You got that right, brother. There are certainly better places to run drugs and stay alive, that’s for sure.”
“Did I tell you I met Jigsaw once?”
“Not that I remember. Then again, I was a little out of it when I first woke up.”
“Well, met might not be the correct term. Almost bumped into him would be more accurate.”
“What happened?”
“My wife and I were on summer break from the U, vacationing in Bimini, when we turned a corner in our rented Jeep and almost smashed headlong into a caravan of trucks coming the other way. They were flying down the middle of the dirt road, slinging mud into the air—each one loaded with men and guns. My wife screamed and I reacted, swerving into a ditch. I managed to catch a glimpse of a man’s face in the back seat of one of the Jeeps as they raced past us. It was Carlos Santiago. I’ll never forget how his eyes burned into mine, like he was marking me somehow. It can’t be a good thing when a ruthless drug lord notices you. To this day, it still gives me chills when I think about it.”
“And now you may be a honored guest of his.”
“Fate is a cruel mistress.”
“Yes, she is,” he told his friend, thinking of the island he found after the swim from his one-man sub. “I hear he’s worth billions.”
“Several hundred billion if you believe the reports out of the DEA. And in Miami, they’re all over the news.”
“And yet, he still likes to get out with his men and get his hands dirty.”
“You know what they say, if you want something done right . . .”
“Do it yourself.”
“Then it’s possible he may want to make an appearance here, planning to look you in the eyes like he did me from that Jeep. One wrong word, though, and it’s lights out.”
Hansen gulped, deciding on what to say next. He didn’t want Crosby to detect his fear. “Let him come. I relish the opportunity.”
“Then we’d better get busy practicing more phrases in Spanish.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Wyatt Wickie and six of his men were busy in Jericho’s barn number three, unpacking and inspecting the sweeping new inventory delivered in the unexpected UPS shipment. The brownies were kind enough to back their vans up to the barn one by one, allowing his men to unload the stockpile of new weapons and gear.
He was starting to wonder if he’d need to raise another building to properly store the endless surprises they were finding in the containers. Each item they pulled out looked to be brand new and made by one of the top manufacturers in the weapons trade: Barrett, Colt, Ruger, Glock, Browning, and several names from across the Atlantic.
His Jericho compound was twice the size of his sister’s, but unlike Pandora, all of his buildings were above ground and easy to breech. It would’ve taken triple the cash and several more years to complete a network of underground structures like Tally had, but he wished he had. A few weapon caches would’ve been a nice asset to have right about now—secure, airtight and weatherproof.
Wyatt’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest when he opened a crate labeled Barrett. Inside he found a pristine .338 bolt-action Lapua Magnum MRAD, the king of the sniper rifles as far as he was concerned, plus it had been outfitted with top-of-the-line optics and a 26” barrel.
“Fuck me! A .338!” he said, yanking the beast out and holding it up for all to see. He felt as though he’d just found heaven, savoring every inch of the rugged, desert-camouflaged machine. He played with its adjustable folding stock and cheek piece, nestling the precision firearm against his right shoulder and under his chin.
“Oh please, tell me there’s some ammo for this?” he mumbled, turning his eyes to each of his men, all of whom had their heads down. “Guys? Anyone seen the ammo for this bad boy?”
“Not yet,” one of his men answered. It was Stan Golding, his longtime friend and world record holder for chugging beer in high school. The slender, curly-haired twenty-year-old was holding up a raised fist, his smile electric. “But wait till you see what I just found!”
Wyatt put the sniper rifle down and ran to see what Golding was pulling out of another box. Stan held it up just before Wyatt arrived.
“Is that a TrackingPoint?” Wyatt asked him, seeing a sleek AR and a distinctive, high-tech scope in his hands.
“You bet. A 7.62 by the looks of it,” Golding said, looking at the chamber.
“That’s a fifteen thousand dollar rifle!” Wyatt said, as the other five men came over, huddling like a pack of gawkers around a traffic accident.
Golding nodded, giving the weapon to Wyatt. “I’ve read about these precision-guided semis but never seen one up close.”
“The gun that aims itself,” Wyatt said in awe, fiddling with the laser-guided scope. “I’ve seen videos on YouTube. This thing is frickin’ amazing.”
His mind was a flutter, not believing what he was seeing. Someone had spent a fortune sending them the latest and greatest. “Are there instructions in the box? We need to take this killing machine out to the range right now and see what it can do. If I remember right, it can auto-lock on targets running at fifteen miles per hour.”
Stan dug around its carton, pulling out some accessories. He held up a pair of glasses. “You might want to wear these.”
“Are you serious?” Wyatt said, realizing Golding was holding digital eyewear. The glasses wirelessly interfaced with the rifle’s optics, allowing the shooter to remotely see what the scope was tracking in real-time, all without looking downrange. “You can shoot around corners with that!”
“Fucking awesome!” Golding said, tearing into another box. “Are there any more of ‘em?”
Before they could continue the search, an unexpected swoosh was heard outside. Its volume and pitch increased until it raced past t
he barn from left to right, then the sound dwindled quickly until an explosion was heard in the distance.
“Everyone down!” Wyatt screamed, putting the facts together. His men hit the deck, crawling behind the nearest container.
“What the hell was that?” Golding asked.
“Sounded like a rocket propelled grenade.”
“RPG?”
Before Wyatt could elaborate, he heard a shortened version of the same swooshing sound, then a powerful explosion rocked the side of the barn, sending him sideways from the shockwave. Splinters of wood blew apart as the side of the barn imploded in a cloud of dust and smoke.
“Everyone to the back!” Wyatt yelled, shaking the cobwebs from his head. He looked at the gaping hole in the wall as he moved. The roof above it was holding steady, but he couldn’t say the same for the camp’s ham radio antenna—its guywires and extension pole were falling, smashing into the ground.
“They just took out comms,” Wyatt told his men, finding a safer position in the rear of the barn.
More explosions rocked the compound but were farther away and to the north, in the direction of the main residence.
“Carnegie brothers?” Golding asked him from the right.
Before Wyatt could shoot an answer back, bursts of rapid gunshots erupted. He ducked, but soon realized that none of the rounds were hitting the barn. Burst after burst was being unleashed across Jericho, but he didn’t know if it was his men shooting—the group he’d left on watch—or the insurgents who’d just taken out the antenna.
He waved at his men to close on his position. They did in a flash.
“Gear up,” he told the anxious men. “Grab the ARs and plenty of mags. Forget the TrackingPoint for now.”
Wyatt grabbed a .308 AR-10 and two loaded mags sitting nearby. He jammed one of them into the rifle while searching through his memories, quickly recalling key tactical points from the endless training sessions with his grandfather—a two-tour Vietnam veteran and legendary Marine Corps sniper.
Redfall: Fight for Survival (American Prepper Series Book 1) Page 17
