Mason took the binoculars with him as he made his way through the trees and underbrush to a vantage point overlooking the camp, which sat half hidden on level ground just beneath him, the mountain rising steeply on the other side. The transport truck was inside the camp now, the two sentries back inside the guard shack. He traced the fence around the perimeter, saw four long barracks laid out parallel inside it, another dozen buildings, a small clearing with a helicopter standing idle, and a lone water tower high above the camp. A long line of Rangers dressed in forest camos waited at the door to what must have been the mess hall.
It all just confirmed what he already knew. If Wallace makes it to this camp, I don’t have a chance.
Mason went back to the SUV and took out the map and the itinerary. He didn’t have a lot of time and needed to find a place to ambush the convoy. He tried to put himself inside the minds of the marshals. Then it hit him.
Any ambush would have to come between them and the base.
They’ll be looking for a frontal assault.
They wouldn’t be thinking about an attack from the rear.
He looked at his map and found an S-shaped stretch of road that might work. He checked his watch and drove to the area he’d selected on the map. It wasn’t perfect—the road was a little too wide, the turns not sharp enough, the drop-offs not steep enough—but it could work. What it had going for it was that it was tree-lined and uphill in the direction of the camp. They’d have to slow down, and their focus would be on the road ahead and the base just beyond—not on what was coming from behind them. Or so he hoped.
It was time to go find the convoy.
• • •
IT WAS LONG AFTER SUNSET when the convoy reached Dahlonega, the last outpost before the long climb up the winding road to Camp Merrill. After driving eight hundred miles from Houston, they were barely twenty miles away. Harper should have felt relieved to be so close.
He was anything but.
Ever since they’d left that morning, Harper had been running it through his mind: That detective had been pretty goddamned sure it was Nick Mason who killed McLaren in Chicago … But how did Mason know where to find him?
Harper was still assuming it was a local security breach. A Chicago deputy marshal who said the wrong thing to the wrong person. Or maybe just plain dumb luck. Someone from his old life, in his old town, who just happened to see him walk into that building. Those were Harper’s explanations to himself for the first, and only, such disaster in the Service’s history.
But what if he was wrong? What if there was an internal breach, maybe even in his own office? It would have been an outlandish thought just a few days ago. That’s why he’d gone through the elaborate charade with the decoy. But now …
He might be here in Georgia, Harper said to himself. He might be waiting for us. And if he is …
He looked at his map again.
This is where he’d hit us. Right here, on the road up the mountain.
“You’re going to see a farm on your left,” he said to the driver, looking at the map. “I want you to turn in there.”
“Are you serious? We’re almost at the camp.”
He’s here, Harper said to himself. Mason is here.
I can feel it.
“That’s an order,” he said, his voice all business now, as he picked up his radio to alert the lead vehicle. “I’m going to call the commander and ask him for a favor.”
• • •
MASON PASSED THE CONVOY as he drove south down Highway 400. The three vehicles were lit up for one brief moment in his headlights: two SUVs and a large passenger van in the middle. Just as the documents had specified. He kept going for another half mile until they were out of sight. Then he slowed down and made a U-turn.
Mason accelerated to close the gap, staying a quarter mile behind. He went through the moves in his head: Run the trail vehicle off the road before the van has time to react. Even if the driver hit the gas, the lead vehicle wouldn’t be able to react as quickly. On the tight road, the van would have nowhere to go, and Mason could take it out. The lead vehicle would probably stop, but Mason would already be out of his own vehicle. At that point, all he would need was panic and luck.
It was his only shot.
The convoy was on the last road approaching the camp now, moving quickly without being reckless. Mason pulled closer, waiting for the convoy to pass the open farm and plunge back into the thick forest just before slowing down for the curve. Mason’s exact moment to make his move.
He pressed down on the gas pedal, closing the distance.
A quarter mile from the target zone.
A hundred yards.
Then Mason saw the brake lights glowing in the dark.
What are they doing?
He watched all three vehicles turn off the road and head down the farm’s long driveway. There was a cluster of buildings at the end—a large barn, two metal sheds, a house with a warm light glowing somewhere inside. Mason had no choice but to keep going. He passed the farm and followed the road into the trees.
This wasn’t supposed to be their route, Mason said to himself. Did they make me?
He gunned it for another half mile, came skidding to a stop, and managed a tight U-turn in the narrow opening between the trees. He doubled back, headlights off, rolling as silently as he could. When he was almost to the farm, he pulled over, putting two wheels on the soft shoulder. He grabbed the sniper rifle, got out and closed the door quietly behind him, worked his way through the thick trees and underbrush, now completely dark, scratching his face on tree branches and briars, until he had found the edge and could see the farm.
All three vehicles were stopped dead. Lights off, doors closed.
Three hundred yards away, he thought. Maybe more. It was hard to judge the distance in the dark.
Mason stayed kneeling at the edge of the woods, the air cooling down in the darkness, insects buzzing around his ears, moisture from the ground seeping into his pant leg, and he waited.
Then he heard the sound.
Faint at first, a distant rumble, then louder. A low thrumming that turned into the violent, deafening whir of rotors beating the air, churning up dirt, pebbles, fallen branches.
A helicopter.
Son of a bitch.
Two minutes later, it landed. And not just any helicopter. A large Black Hawk chopper, lighting up the sky and directing a spotlight to the ground as it descended. Mason rested the barrel of the sniper rifle on a nearby branch, keeping the weapon steady and level as he took a deep breath and sighted down the scope. He passed the crosshairs across the long body of the helicopter, four windows, God knows how many seats inside but plenty of room for every passenger from all three vehicles.
He saw the doors open on one of the SUVs, two men wearing black windbreakers running toward the chopper, their heads bent down against the whirlwind of dust kicked up by the rotors. Another long moment, Mason waiting, watching, until the passenger doors opened and this time five men emerged. He saw them moving toward the chopper, illuminated in its spotlight, and he scanned them one by one in his crosshairs. Windbreaker, another windbreaker.
Then him. It was Wallace. The biggest man, the man moving not with the trained confidence of a U.S. marshal but like a hunted animal scurrying to safety.
Mason put the crosshairs on the target, moving left to right. He started to squeeze the trigger.
Then the target was gone. What the … He looked up over the sight as Wallace moved behind the helicopter. He was boarding through the open door on the side facing away from Mason.
Two more marshals came running from the third vehicle. As soon as they boarded, the helicopter would lift off, and Wallace’s next step on solid ground would be within the confines of the camp. Although Mason wouldn’t see it because by the time he got back to his own vehicle and up the road, the marshals would have Wallace inside one of the camp buildings.
He watched helplessly as the helicopter slowly rocked back and
forth on the ground. It was going up.
As Mason aimed at the rear of the helicopter—he couldn’t see the tail rotor, could only make an educated guess at its location—he heard Eddie’s voice in his head.
Center mass. Center mass.
Whenever you try to pull off one of those Hollywood shots, you put your own life at risk.
And this was more than a Hollywood shot. This was a Hail Mary. Mason’s comfort zone was two hundred yards and that was in daylight shooting at stationary paper targets with Eddie’s rifle. The tail rotor was swerving side to side more than three hundred yards away in the dark.
Following the line of the fuselage, aiming above that, even a little higher to account for the drop, he fired one round, the sound only partially dampened by the barrel. Were the roaring rotor blades enough to drown out the rest?
As Mason slid the bolt and fired another round, he thought he saw one brief spark. Contact with the rotor? He slid the bolt and fired another round. And another. The shell casings ejected from the rifle, landing somewhere in the underbrush. No need to pick up his brass—they were untraceable. The helicopter, its skids only a few feet off the ground, stopped ascending. It seemed suddenly unstable, its tail swinging sharply left, then right. Mason held his breath and watched until finally the helicopter thumped back onto the ground. The twin engines cut off, the rotors still spinning.
He kept waiting. He didn’t see any movement. The smart play, Mason thought. Wait inside the helicopter, call for backup. Every Ranger in that camp will be swarming down that road. They’ll find my wheels. Then they’ll find me.
Mason aimed at the chopper again, high along the side, just above the windows. He fired one round after the other, sliding the bolt as quickly as he could. He wanted a riot of sound inside the chopper, one ringing impact after another. No doubt in the occupants’ minds that they were under attack, maybe even from multiple shooters.
Anything to get them moving.
He fired three more rounds. Then the exterior lights on the helicopter went off. He had to struggle to see in the darkness now, a slim ray of moonlight coming down through a gap in the clouds. Two shadows moved from the helicopter to one of the SUVs. Mason saw the interior light flash on for one instant. He couldn’t tell who was inside, but it didn’t really matter. He didn’t want that vehicle moving, at least not with any speed, so Mason took sight on the right front tire. One shot and he saw the explosion of air and rubber.
The vehicle pulled forward, rolling across the grass on three good wheels. Now Mason had a sight line on the back right tire of the second SUV. He put the tire in his crosshairs and fired, saw another explosion of air and rubber. That left only the van, but he didn’t have a good shot at any of the tires. He waited to see what their next move would be. More shadows moving from the helicopter. Impossible to see who was a marshal, who a Ranger, who Isaiah Wallace was. The van started to move, and Mason aimed at the road side of the SUVs, figuring that’s where it would go. But, instead, it rolled toward the helicopter. It took Mason a moment to realize that they were pulling the van close to load Wallace, they didn’t want him exposed for even a second. That was a mistake, Mason thought, because now he had a shot at the tires. He aimed and squeezed off a round but didn’t see it hit. He slid the bolt one more time, fired at the back tire as the van was just about to disappear behind the helicopter.
Missed again.
Mason was tired, hungry, and cold. Everything was working against his aiming at a moving target, especially the bad light. He shook himself, closed his eyes for a few moments. Then he slid the bolt one more time, felt and heard the clunk of an empty chamber.
He didn’t have time to swear at himself because the van was already in motion. He could hear the tires spinning angrily in the dirt and grass, could see the van gaining purchase when it hit the paved driveway. Mason was on his feet when the van got to the road. It turned right. Away from the camp. The driver was heading back the way it came.
Mason fought his way through the dark forest, branches whipping at his face no matter how hard he tried to shield himself. Every second felt like an eternity as he tripped and pulled himself back up and clawed his way back to his SUV parked on the shoulder. He pictured the van already miles down the road as he opened the driver’s-side door and climbed behind the wheel.
He hit the gas and started the chase.
• • •
HARPER WAS DRIVING. He didn’t trust anyone else to do this. Not now, not when the safety of yet another witness hung in the balance.
It had been his call to make a run for it as the bullets rang out against the outer shell of the helicopter and he had no idea where they were coming from. As much as it sounded like a full-scale war going on outside, his gut told him it was just the one man again. Nick Mason. But he couldn’t rule out an accomplice this time, one or two, or God knows how many, and for all Harper knew, the bullets were just cover to keep them pinned down while the rest of the crew moved closer.
He wasn’t going to wait for more Rangers to make it all the way from the camp down here. He was going to put Wallace in that van and get the hell out.
Now he was gunning it down the long winding road, retracing his route and trying to remember how many miles it would take them to get back to the town. He pushed hard around a tight curve, felt the momentum pull against the van, and hit the brakes too hard in reaction. Looking into the rearview mirror, he saw the eyes-wide-open animal fear all over Isaiah Wallace’s face.
“Nobody’s going to touch you,” Harper said to him without turning his head. Wallace stayed silent.
As he hit another straightaway, Harper pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The van had a powerful motor, but it was top-heavy, and Harper was starting to regret bringing so many men—four of his marshals and one of the Ranger captains.
He checked the side mirror as he took another curve. There was no sign of anyone behind him.
Another straightaway.
That’s when he saw the headlights.
• • •
MASON GUNNED THE SUV, cutting off every turn and brushing against the trees. He’d run from the police on the streets of Chicago, usually while driving a stolen car, but that was years ago when he was young and foolish enough to think he could live through anything. Today he knew better. One turn too sharp, or one patch of oil on the road, and he’d hit one of these trees head-on going seventy or eighty miles an hour.
But he also knew that once they reached the town, his chances would go from one in a million to zero. He had to catch them now.
He pushed it harder, feeling the car sliding sideways for one sick moment as he rounded another curve. He regained his traction, overcorrected, and swerved back and forth until he finally had it going straight again.
He took another turn, thought he saw a brief flash of red, gunned it down another straightaway, and then white-knuckled another tight curve.
Until he saw the taillights a quarter mile ahead.
Mason went even faster, throwing every last bit of caution to the wind. He figured he was maybe two miles away from that last break in the trees before the road came to a four-way stop at the edge of town.
The brake lights flashed as the van took another curve. Mason tapped his own brakes for barely a millisecond and came out of the curve having gained noticeable ground. He was two hundred yards behind the van now and used the opportunity of one more straightaway to take the semiautomatic from the seat next to him.
Another curve, more ground gained. One more curve and he’d be close enough. As he hit the buttons to lower both front windows, the night air rushed into the cab and swirled around Mason’s head like a hurricane.
They were coming to a big right turn, meaning the van would swing left, meaning Mason could cut the turn tighter and get his nose to the right side of the vehicle. He leaned into the turn, and branches hit the window frame, spraying Mason with twigs and leaves. Then, as he came out of the turn, he grabbed the wheel hard to keep the S
UV on the inside track and suddenly he was next to the van.
The van swung back to the center of the road and swiped Mason’s left front fender. He had to fight hard to keep control of the wheel and stay straight until he was able to hold the gun with his left hand.
Fucking left-hand shot, he thought as he fired at the van’s back tire and missed. But then the van swung right and made contact again, and he felt everything slipping away. He cut back and hit the van hard with a sickening crunch of metal, but the impact knocked his own vehicle back on track and gave him one more chance to fire at the van’s tire. Time slowed down as the bullet ripped the tire apart and the van’s driver lost half of his speed and control in one instant, cutting right across the front of Mason’s vehicle. He felt another impact, but this time it was enough to take the wheel from his hands as he saw the underside of the van exposed to him and then it somehow was upside down and then right side up again and then upside down, turning and turning, as he jabbed at the brakes and followed the van into the trees.
The van hit first, then Mason, the air bag exploding and slamming against his face like a heavyweight’s right cross.
Then everything stopped.
• • •
FOR A WHILE, there was nothing. Black silence. Then a ringing sound and two thin beams of light. The beams merged into one, and Mason focused on the single map light next to his sun visor. He shook his head clear, waited for the pain to arrive and overtake him in a sick wave. But as he looked down at himself, he saw all four limbs still attached. His heart was beating. He was breathing. When he tried to push open the door, it wouldn’t move, so he twisted his body around, his head spinning with the effort, until he had the leverage to kick it open.
Mason got out of the vehicle and looked at the van lying upside down in front of him, one of the wheels still turning. He reached back into the SUV and picked up the semiautomatic. As he approached the van, he took the balaclava from his back pocket and pulled it on over his face.
Exit Strategy Page 12
