The other four vehicle team leaders acknowledged the order as his driver started across the half-empty lot toward the stop sign at the business park’s exit.
“SIERRA. This is ZULU,” said Guthrie, reaching out to the sniper team individually. “Has anything changed at the estate?”
“Negative. Farrington is inside patrolling the western half of the house. Klinkman is on the deck,” said the spotter. “I caught another glimpse of Steele and her guardian angel, but not enough to risk a shot.”
Steele’s security detail was playing it safe until the guests showed up—mistakenly thinking APEX wouldn’t kill her right in front of everyone.
“If you get a shot at the primary target anytime prior to or after our arrival, you are cleared to take it. The senator takes priority,” said Guthrie.
“Understood.”
“Set up on Farrington. I’ll let you know when we turn onto Claude Street. That’s about thirty seconds out. We’ll time your shot with our turn into the estate. Farrington first. Klinkman second.”
“Copy that. Shifting to Farrington as the first target,” said the spotter.
The whole operation would be over in under fifteen minutes. Guthrie was about to simultaneously throw twenty battle-hardened mercenaries and a sniper team at a fairly straightforward assault. Overkill for sure under the circumstances but absolutely necessary against the legendary covert operatives who had nearly wiped out his rapid security force team in Georgetown. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
The sniper team would at least kill one of the biggest threats before they arrived at the house. Hopefully both. Even if Klinkman somehow managed to get back into the house, the two remaining operatives didn’t stand a chance against the overwhelming odds and firepower Guthrie would direct against them.
Within moments of the teams breaching the house, Klinkman and his colleague would be forced by the relentless gunfire and aggressive tactics to retreat to the safe room, where a flash bang grenade or two in that confined metal box would rattle their brains to the point of delirium. A few point-blank gunshots to each of their heads shortly after that would put a quick end to APEX’s Senator Steele problem—and earn him a tidy bonus to go with his promotion.
“Hold tight and keep me apprised of any changes,” said Guthrie. “Ground assault ETA is seven minutes.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Jared Hoffman listened carefully to the exchange, noting the obvious and reading between the lines. He could hear only the spotter’s side of the conversation, but it should be enough. And if he detected any disparity between what he saw through his rifle scope and what he interpreted from the spotter’s words, Jared would immediately take the shot.
Rich’s and Klink’s lives hung in a delicate balance specifically designed to lure APEX deep into a trap, and Jared’s spot judgment was the only fail-safe built into the system. If he misread the situation, at least one of his two friends would die. No pressure at all. The radio exchange between the spotter and whoever ran their show drifted to a natural conclusion.
Jared was hooked into two different communication feeds, one in each ear. The sniper team conversation had been piped through a listen-only frequency, compliments of a tactically placed, satellite-enabled listening device. The team net was a standard P25 encrypted radio setup.
“They took the bait,” said Jared. “We have about seven minutes until the ground assault reaches the estate. The sniper team has been ordered to take out Rich first. Sounds like they were originally targeting Klink.”
“That’s a relief,” said Klink.
“For who?” asked Rich.
“You guys don’t trust me?” asked Jared. “That kind of hurts after all these years.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” said Klink. “I just don’t like knowing I’m in the crosshairs. Next time you can stand out here.”
“With you shooting? I’ll pass,” said Jared.
“Me too,” said Rich. “How’s the senator holding up, Caz?”
“She’s fine,” said Caz. “We’re both ready to go.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” said Rich. “Jared. I’m not going to say another word until the convoy turns onto Simms Drive. It’s apparently in my best interest to keep you laser focused.”
“What was that? I was just checking Facebook,” said Jared.
“That’s not even funny,” said Klink.
“I kind of thought it was funny,” said Caz.
“You would. You’re sitting in a bomb-proof vault.”
“Scott. How are you doing?” asked Rich.
“Ready to pounce,” said the former Navy SEAL, who was hidden directly adjacent to the sniper house. “And sweating my ass off. I forgot how humid Annapolis is in the summer.”
“Are you a Boat School graduate?” said Rich.
Scott Daly, a twelve-year veteran of the team, waited on the other side of the creek to finish his critical role in the trap they had set. An hour earlier, he had placed the window listening device Jared would soon rely on to seal the plan.
“Funny how you can’t seem to retain that information,” said Scott. “Must have something to do with your own faulty education.”
“How long ago did you graduate, Scott?” asked Jared, who was a West Pointer like Rich.
“Can we postpone the interservice rivalry shit-talking for later?” said Klink. “I’d really like to keep Jared focused for the next seven minutes or so.”
“Fine. Everyone leave me alone,” said Jared. “T-minus six minutes.”
Throughout all the playful chatter, Jared never took his eye off the target. In fact, his scope’s crosshairs had remained centered and steady on the opposing sniper’s face for the past forty minutes. He’d studied the shooter’s facial expressions and ticks. The way he adjusted his grip on the rifle when the spotter passed along information. How his face reacted to the information. What did he do to ease the discomfort of sitting in one position for hours on end? Did he ever look bored or distracted?
Based on the time he’d spent observing the sniper, Jared assessed him to be a pro. As in the guy could kill both Rich and Klinkman at the drop of a hat, if given the opportunity, which is why Jared had no intention of taking any chances. Given the confirmed timeline, he took the opportunity to make a few final adjustments to his own position prior to the insanity that would shortly ensue. All microchanges to his body’s main points of contact with the ground. Elbows. Knees. Hips. Why not? He was perfectly concealed.
Jared had slowly worked his way under the deck and into the middle of a fully bloomed rhododendron bush, the tip of his rifle’s suppressor just barely breaking through the thick lavender-purple flowers. He’d carefully snipped a few branches to clear a line of sight between his scope and the target house. Lying on his stomach, with the rifle nestled securely in the crook of one of the bush’s thick core branches, he’d easily reached the state of semicomfortable equilibrium sought by trained snipers.
With the final adjustments made, Jared maintained his silent, motionless vigil as the clock ran down. In the far-right edge of the rifle scope’s field of view, the spotter alternated his attention between his range-finding scope and watch. Ticktock.
When Jared’s watch indicated one minute to go, the spotter turned to the deadpan sniper and said, “It’s about to go down. No change to ballistic variables.” A few seconds later, Rich broke the team’s silence.
“A five-vehicle convoy just turned left onto Simms from Claude. You’re up, Jared.”
He took a slow, deep breath before starting a measured exhale through pressed lips. His final-moment breathing trick steadied the scope’s crosshair drift across the sniper’s face.
“Green light,” said the spotter.
The rifle bit into Jared’s shoulder, the customized MK12 Special Purpose Rifle’s recoil manageable enough for him to instantly shift to the adjacent target. The shooter pitched backward from the impact of the first shot, just as he settled the crosshairs an
d pressed the trigger. Jared’s second shot punched through the spotter’s jaw, knocking him out of sight.
“Sniper team down,” he said.
A moment later, Scott appeared behind the sniper team, tossing a handheld battering ram to the kitchen floor. He rushed toward the downed sniper team with a suppressed pistol, disappearing behind the couch. When he reappeared, Scott held a headset microphone up to his mouth.
“Rich and Klinkman are down hard. Head shots,” he said, before winking at Jared. “No sign of the primary. Standing by to engage targets of opportunity.”
Scott listened to the headset’s earpiece for a few seconds, taking in APEX’s reaction to his erroneous report, before tossing the set on the couch. He picked up the sniper’s rifle and aimed toward the house before snapping off a quick shot. A window shattered, the broken glass cascading across the deck above Jared’s head.
“You got me,” said Rich. “How are we looking?”
“Sounds like they bought it hook, line, and sinker,” said Scott. “Nice shooting, Jared.”
“Nothing but a thing,” said Jared, grabbing his rifle and crawling out of the bush.
He had coolers to move and a boat to start.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Guthrie tightened his grip on the overhead handle as the SUV rammed the gate leading into Senator Steele’s estate, the vehicle’s reinforced bumper knocking the wrought-iron obstacle aside like it was made of plyboard. Losing no speed, his vehicle hurtled down the brick driveway toward the senator’s house.
“SIERRA confirms that our two major threats have been neutralized. We’re up against one operative,” said Guthrie over the radio. “Same plan.”
His SUV skidded to a halt a few feet in front of an expansive brick porch. The three-man breach team seated behind him already on their way to the mansion’s stained-glass double-door entrance before he even unbuckled his seat belt. Guthrie started to press the transmit button on the shoulder microphone attached to his tactical vest before he remembered his role in the grand scheme of things. Like a good coach, an operations project leader put together the right team and let them play the game.
Guthrie hopped down from the SUV and strode confidently toward the ordered mass of operatives stacked up beside the door, waiting for the primary breach team to clear the way. A second, smaller team went to work on the garage-bay door closest to the house with a pair of crowbars—to no avail. The door didn’t budge an inch.
“Forget the garage!” he said, scattering the second team.
“Breaching!” yelled ALPHA team leader, quickly backing up from the front entrance.
Guthrie ducked to the left as several small explosive charges simultaneously detonated with a harsh crack, momentarily obscuring the front entrance. A second member of the breach team slid into place in front of the door with a handheld battering ram, quickly landing a blow against the demolished door and knocking it out of the way. Ram still in hand, he turned to the breach team leader and nodded—a red mist exploding from his head an instant later.
“Contact. Foyer—” started the breach team leader before a bullet punctured his throat.
The third member of ALPHA team pulled the team leader back as a sustained burst of unsuppressed gunfire punched through the still-standing half of the entrance—one of the bullets catching him in the face. The two men toppled off the patio, landing in the bushes next to the blasted doorway. Something was off. Either the third operative was far more skilled than they had anticipated, or a fourth had stayed out of sight on the ride up to the house. Jared, most likely. Guthrie quickly backtracked to his SUV to personally direct the two teams lined up along the unexposed side of the convoy.
“BRAVO up!” yelled the next team leader in line, the four members of his team stacking up at the entrance. “Flash bangs!”
Guthrie wanted to press the pause button on the attack but was afraid the entire assault force would fall apart if he broke their tempo. He decided to let this play out a little longer before making a decision. He crouched behind the hood of the vehicle, CHARLIE team lining up behind him as BRAVO team prepared to toss flash bang grenades into the house. He turned to CHARLIE team leader that had just settled in next to him.
“Take your team up to the door,” said Guthrie. “Follow BRAVO in.”
“Got it,” said the team leader, urging his operatives forward.
Three of the four BRAVO operatives clustered near the entrance tossed grenades through the open doorway as CHARLIE team rushed forward to join them. Both teams, eight operatives, vanished inside the house after the flash bangs detonated. Several furious exchanges of gunfire erupted after a long pause.
“This is BRAVO. We have one man down. Headshot. A second with a leg wound. I’m sending him back out. There’s only one hostile as far as we can tell. Giving us a hell of a time.”
“Copy that,” said Guthrie. “CHARLIE team. What’s your status?”
“Inside. Covering the west side of the house,” said the team leader. “All team members up.”
“Can you confirm the status of Klinkman and Rich?” asked Guthrie.
“Affirmative. Klinkman is down hard on the deck. Bleeding out. I don’t have a solid view of Rich. He’s sprawled on the floor, partially concealed by two chairs. The window above his body is sprayed with blood and brain matter,” said CHARLIE team leader.
“It’s possible we’re looking at two remaining shooters. They may have snuck a fourth in with the SUV,” said Guthrie. “I’m moving in with DELTA and ECHO to reinforce.”
The remaining two teams took their cue from his last radio transmission and formed up next to the SUV as the wounded man from BRAVO limped out of the house.
“You good?” asked Guthrie.
The man gave him a thumbs-up and hobbled down the porch steps to get out of the way.
“Hang in there. We’ll be right back,” said Guthrie, before heading inside.
He moved carefully through the spacious foyer and adjacent formal dining room before quickly locating BRAVO team leader, who was bunched up with a second mercenary, both of them aiming down a short hallway. The third lay collapsed in an expanding pool of blood in the middle of the hallway, a single hole drilled through his forehead.
“Hold up, sir,” said BRAVO team leader over the radio. “We took fire from the hallway directly in front of us. I don’t think there’s a second shooter. Bruce was hit with a burst of fire from the end of the hallway. We exchanged gunfire a few times until the shooter went quiet. We haven’t taken fire from two locations at once.”
“That tracks with what we saw on the video feeds,” said Guthrie. “But we’ll assume there’s a fourth shooter until we know for sure.”
“How do you want to proceed?”
He peeked around the corner with his rifle, spotting what looked like blood splatter on the wall at the end of the bullet-riddled hallway. He triggered his rifle light and gave it a closer look through the magnified ACOG scope. The concentrated bloodstain on the wall connected with a smear on the floor by the corner.
“Tony. Did one of you land a shot on target? I’m seeing blood on the wall and floor just beyond the corner leading into the bedroom hallway.”
“It’s possible,” he said. “The last exchange was pretty fierce.”
“Stand by to move down the hallway with DELTA team,” said Guthrie, leaning around the corner to cover the end of the hallway with his rifle. “I think you tagged the senator’s last hope. They’re probably locked up in the safe room calling for help, which means we need to pick up the pace.”
“Moving out,” said BRAVO team leader, stepping into the hallway with the other mercenary, their rifles locked on the corner.
“CHARLIE. Clear the rest of the great room. ECHO. You have the kitchen area. Make sure nobody comes up behind us,” said Guthrie, before turning to the DELTA team leader. “Let’s go.”
He led the four men into the hallway, quickly catching up with BRAVO team. Guthrie moved in front of BRAVO as they
approached the corner leading to the senator’s bedroom, where the safe room was hidden.
He signaled for everyone to hold up, crouching a few feet back from the corner and removing a tactical mirror from one of his cargo pockets. Adding the mirror to his loadout had been an afterthought that morning. From this point forward, he’d make it a mandatory item for all his team leaders.
Guthrie extended the mirror toward the blood-smeared floor and angled it to give him a view around the corner. Clear. He moved up and aimed his rifle down the hallway. Thick splotches of blood on the floor led to the master bedroom door, which had been left open, giving him a partial view into the room. Thin, semitransparent white curtains muddled the view through the expansive sliding glass doors, which opened onto the wraparound deck. All he could see with any certainty beyond them were the leaves of a nearby tree swaying with the bay breeze.
“Blood trail leads into the master bedroom. DELTA clears the room. BRAVO peels right and clears the master bathroom and walk-in closet. I’ll cover the doors we pass,” said Guthrie, moving back against a black lacquered decorative cabinet to let the teams by.
He followed the six operatives down the bedroom hallway, walking backward at the same pace so he could watch the four additional bedroom doors. They stopped briefly outside the master bedroom, the two teams sliding inside a few moments later. Guthrie remained in the doorway; his rifle pointed back the way they had just come.
“Bedroom is clear,” said DELTA team leader. “Blood leads right to the safe room door.”
When BRAVO reported the same, he grabbed the nearest operative from DELTA team and set him up to watch the hallway and doors, then walked over to the safe room door just beyond the master bathroom. BRAVO team emerged from their sweep at the same time.
“Whoever’s still around is behind that door, and I have the code that opens it,” said Guthrie, before putting a hand on BRAVO team leader’s shoulder. “When it’s open, you’ll toss in a flash bang. As soon as the grenade goes off, I want your team inside.”
Skystorm (Ryan Decker) Page 24
