Quinn slipped between the back of the mini-sedan and a standard-size SUV, whispering to Nathan. “Use that tree trunk for cover,” he said, pointing down the sidewalk. “You have twenty-seven rounds in the magazine. Fire methodically at the windshield. I’ll do the rest.”
Nathan crawled to the tree, careful not to discharge the rifle, and crouched at its base, waiting for some kind of signal. The deep rumble of the approaching vehicle’s engine froze him in place. He tried to peer around the side of the tree trunk but couldn’t bring himself to move. This was a bad idea.
“Quinn,” he said, the word coming out as a whisper.
“What?” came Quinn’s reply.
“When are we shooting?”
“Now,” he heard, followed by three muted snaps.
Nathan leaned to the right and pressed the rifle’s hand guard against the palm trunk, thinking about Keira and Owen as he centered the green dot on the driver’s-side windshield and pressed the trigger evenly—like his father had taught him.
CHAPTER 33
Ray Olmos searched the street for three running targets, finding nothing in the daylight image displayed by his goggles. “You see anything?” he asked.
“No,” grunted his driver.
They couldn’t have gone far, and there was no way they’d escaped in a car. The road was empty when they turned onto Giraldo.
“Leeds, this is Olmos,” he said, transmitting on the tactical network. “I don’t see shit on Giraldo. You sure they bolted in this direction?”
“I’ll ask Carrington when they piece his head back together,” said Leeds. “Any vehicles on the road?”
“You mean driving?” asked Olmos, getting irritated with Leeds.
“Yes. Driving,” said Leeds. “As in escaping.”
“Negative. The roads are clear,” said Olmos, wanting to add, like I said.
“Then they’re on foot,” said Leeds. “Get your team on the ground at the intersection of Summerdale, and be careful. We’re still not sure what we’re up against. Trenker’s team is turning onto Summerdale from Virgo, so don’t light them up.”
“Copy that,” he said, turning to his team in the back of the van. “Prepare to deploy when we reach Summerdale.”
A loud smack resonated through the van. Olmos turned his head to see a softball-size, milky-green splotch on the windshield in front of the driver. A second splotch appeared next to the first, cracking a two-foot-diameter section of the windshield, followed by repeated bullet strikes against the rest of the bullet-resistant glass—obscuring his view of the street.
“Out the back!” he screamed, pulling himself through the opening between the front seats and pushing against the tight cluster of five operatives.
The smacking sound continued unabated, until he felt a warm spray hit the back of his neck.
“Get down!” he yelled, flattening himself against the hard rubber floor matting.
Bullets hissed through the compartment, one of them striking the operative next to him in the head, spraying the rear van door crimson-red. Glancing over his shoulder toward the front of the van, Olmos watched bullet holes stitch through the weakened glass windshield. The armor-piercing bullets passed through the front seats, striking flesh and metal behind him.
He was too preoccupied with the bullets passing inches above his head to realize the van had accelerated, until it struck the back of a parked vehicle, catapulting him against the dashboard’s center console. He sank to the gore-encrusted foot well, battered and unable to move, fading unconscious before he could report what had happened.
CHAPTER 34
Leeds opened the bottom drawer of the dresser in the Fishers’ master bedroom and tucked a worn box of 9mm ammunition against the back of the drawer with gloved hands. The box contained sixteen jacketed, hollow-point rounds, thirty-four rounds short of the fifty it had been designed to hold. Thirty-three of the missing rounds would be found split between two pistol magazines discovered in Fisher’s car.
The final bullet would turn up in Detective Peck’s head, pointing the finger at Fisher, a tragic figure who’d struggled with Internet-gambling-induced financial problems he thought could be solved by working for the California Liberation Movement. He closed the drawer and turned toward the bedroom door.
“Leeds, this is Trenker,” his earpiece announced. “Backdoor has been neutralized. One KIA and one critically injured. Jesus—is Olmos engaging targets? I’m hearing a lot of suppressed gunfire from Giraldo.”
“What?” asked Leeds. “Olmos just reported all clear.”
A metal-on-metal crash reverberated through the house.
“What the fuck was that?” Leeds yelled, sprinting into the kitchen.
One of his operatives barreled through the open slider leading to the backyard, pausing long enough to answer. “Olmos isn’t responding. I’m covering the front door.”
The body armor–clad operative leveled his rifle toward the front hallway and disappeared into the house’s shadows.
Leeds triggered the tactical communications net. “Olmos, this is Leeds. Report your status,” he said, receiving no response.
“This is Kline,” said an exasperated voice through his headset. “We took heavy fire from the north on Giraldo. Multiple shooters.”
“Are you still engaged?”
“Negative. Shooters drove north on Giraldo,” said Kline. “Pretty sure they turned right on Morelos.”
“Roger. What’s the status of the team?” asked Leeds, jogging toward the front door.
“Olmos is out cold, but he looks intact. Roscoe made it out of the van. The rest are injured or dead. The driver and Marco are definitely KIA. Headshots.”
“What about the van?” asked Leeds, stopping next to Kline, hidden in the dark foyer. Bodies could be hauled away, but he couldn’t exactly tow a disabled vehicle.
“It hit a parked car hard,” said Kline. “But the engine’s still revving.”
Leeds peered through the open front door, scanning the neighborhood. Exterior house lights had begun to brighten the street as neighbors investigated the unusual level of noise. This would get way worse if he didn’t get his teams off the streets immediately. He ran a quick mental count of his remaining assets and balanced them against the mission at hand. He barely had what he needed to evacuate his own team, let alone pursue Fisher. Fisher could wait. Getting his operation off the streets could not.
First things first. He needed to clean up the immediate vicinity. He turned to the operative standing behind him in the foyer.
“Maclean. I need you to remove Carrington’s body from the backyard,” said Leeds. “Bring him through the side gate, not the house, and drop him in the van.”
“Got it,” said the man, starting to move.
Leeds grabbed him by the sleeve before he left and fished two sets of keys out of his right cargo pocket.
“When you’re done with that, I need you to return to the Fisher house,” said Leeds. “Close all of the doors and turn out the lights, then pick one of the vehicles and drive it out south on Interstate 15. Someone will call you with more information in a few minutes. Close the garage door when you leave—and whatever you do, don’t speed. We need that car.”
“Why can’t one of the surveillance guys drive the car?” replied Maclean. “This takes me out of the action.”
“This isn’t a job for a surveillance tech. Never was,” said Leeds, letting go of his sleeve. “You’ll get your payback for Carrington.”
“I better,” grumbled Maclean, disappearing into the house.
Leeds stepped through the front door, heading for the surveillance van parked two houses away. A porch light directly across the street illuminated more of Fisher’s driveway than he preferred. He raised his sling-attached MP-20 and fired a single shot, dousing the light.
“All units,” Leeds said into the net, “we have a situation requiring an immediate change of plans. Kline. Take Roscoe and get that van out of here. I don’t care how you do i
t, but I want the van gone. I’ll dispatch a cleanup team to meet you on the road.”
“Copy. I think we can limp the van out of here,” said Kline.
“Trenker, clean up the mess on Summerdale and split your team between the two SUVs. I need two chase vehicles to pursue our target. I’ll send as many as Hudson can spare to fill seats.”
“Roger. We’ll pick up Hudson’s crew at the corner of Virgo and Summerdale in fifteen seconds,” said Trenker. “Where do you want us to go after that?”
“I want one vehicle headed east, toward Interstate 15, and the other west, for the 805. Fastest available routes. I’ll pass instructions once we get out of here. Hudson, are you packed up?”
“I’m getting there. Moreno and Volk are headed in Trenker’s direction.”
“I want to be out of here in less than thirty seconds, Hudson,” said Leeds, glancing across the street at the stakeout house. “Can you do that?”
“Thirty seconds works,” said Hudson.
Leeds opened the front passenger door of the van and stepped onto the running board, leaning into the van to address his lead surveillance tech. “Here’s what I need—”
“GPS track data is not available on the jeep,” said Vega. “DOD registered. Category One. Exempt from state travel restrictions and tracking. I’ve started prepping both Ravens.”
Leeds had forgotten about the active-duty military personnel exemption.
“I was going to ask for smoke grenades,” said Leeds. “How long until the drones are ready?”
“I can have them assembled, spooled up, and ready to fly in—how long?” asked Vega, yelling into the back of the van.
“One minute,” said a tech hidden behind the rear curtain. “Unless you want to zombie launch. I can set a cardinal direction and altitude. We can take over anytime after it reaches altitude.”
“Do it,” said Leeds. “Set northeast and northwest. Altitude one thousand feet.”
“Both of them?” asked the tech, pulling the curtain open.
“Is that a problem?”
“Negative,” he said. “But I’ll need help.”
“Vega, make it happen. Launch directly from the street,” said Leeds, directing his next question at the driver. “Do we have any smoke grenades in the van?”
“Yep,” the driver said, reaching behind the passenger seat and lifting a black duffel bag between the front seats.
When the duffel hit his seat, Leeds unzipped the top and pulled it open, finding several gray cylindrical canisters. “Start spreading these around,” he said, grabbing one and pulling the metal pin. “We’ve drawn quite an audience.”
He hopped onto the pavement and heaved the metal cylinder as far as he could throw it down the street. The grenade bounced in front of Fisher’s house and skittered past a few parked cars before exploding in a thick, billowy cloud of grayish-white smoke. The clang of a second grenade rattled on the street somewhere behind the van. He met the driver at the vehicle, reaching for more grenades.
“Closer this time,” said Leeds. “Put a few in the yards, too.”
An underhand lob placed a smoke grenade in the middle of the street, directly in front of Fisher’s driveway entrance, detonating moments before Maclean appeared next to the garage, shouldering Carrington’s lifeless body. The smoke expanded rapidly, shielding Maclean’s trip across the front yard from anyone across the street. Leeds deployed another grenade in the front yard directly across Pallux Way from the van, instructing his driver to do the same on the other side. By the time Maclean met Leeds at the back of the van, the street was enshrouded in thick, slowly drifting chemical fog.
Maclean lowered Carrington’s body to the pavement behind the bumper and pounded on the rear hatch doors.
“I’ll take care of Carrington,” said Leeds. “You take care of the car.”
The operative disappeared in the haze without saying a word, moments before one of the techs kicked open the van’s rear barn doors and hopped out holding one of the dark-gray RQ-18 Night Raven drones. The tech landed on Carrington’s legs, tripping face-first onto the pavement. Throughout the graceless fall, the tech kept his arm extended upward, preventing the delicate fiberglass machine from hitting the street. Leeds swiped the Night Raven out of the groaning tech’s upright hand.
“Nice save,” he said, taking several steps away from the van.
“I think I lost a tooth,” said the tech.
“You just stepped on a guy who lost his head,” said Leeds. “Is this thing ready to go?”
Vega jumped clear of the body with the second drone, landing to the side of the van.
“There’s a selector switch on the bottom,” said Vega. “Switch it to ‘RUN,’ three clicks to the right, and hold on tight. That little bitch will want to fly right out of your hands. Once the propeller is buzzing, turn the switch two more clicks to ‘MODE A.’ Get a little running start and throw it at a forty-five-degree angle. Don’t throw it toward any trees.”
Leeds couldn’t see more than twenty feet in any direction through the smoke at this point—and he didn’t remember the locations of the street’s intermittently spaced palm trees. “You go first,” he said. “Everyone else, in the van. We’re out of here once these are airborne.”
A few seconds later, Vega’s drone buzzed like a weed trimmer in his hand, the rear-mounted propeller quickly building up speed. He fiddled with the selector switch again before cocking his arm back and taking a few steps forward. He aimed the drone down the middle of the street, behind the van, and threw it into the air. The thinning chemical cloud swallowed the Night Raven, leaving them with nothing but a persistent, high-pitched buzzing to prove it was still in flight. As the sound faded, Vega gave Leeds a thumbs-up.
“It’s clear,” said Vega. “Send it straight down the middle.”
Leeds lifted the five-pound drone high enough to find the selector switch. He couldn’t read the small print, so he turned it slowly, feeling three clicks. The propeller burst to life, tugging the drone in his hand. Vega had been right about the thing wanting to fly. He pinched his fingers tight and turned the switch two more clicks, though over the noise and vibration created by the propeller, it was hard to tell if it had clicked. He lined up between the cars materializing in the smoke behind the van, ran forward a few steps, and threw the drone. The Night Raven pulled away effortlessly, disappearing into the night.
“Leeds, this is Hudson,” he heard in his earpiece. “I’m opening the garage door. We’re ready to scoot.”
“Perfect timing,” said Leeds, passing the back of the van as the barn doors closed. “Give us about ten seconds before pulling onto the street. I don’t need any more problems.”
“Copy that,” said Hudson.
Leeds hopped into the van’s passenger seat and closed the door, spotting a set of taillights ahead of him through the smoke.
“Maclean?” Leeds asked his driver.
“Yeah. Just left the house.”
“Get us out of here. Head to Morelos and take a right,” said Leeds. “Vega. How are my drones looking?”
“Good to go. Strong signals,” said Vega. “Give me a minute to take positive control. I’ll patch the feeds to your HUD.”
Less than a minute later, they reached Calle Morelos, rolling through the stop sign headed east. He’d fucked up by not stationing another vehicle on Giraldo. Quinn had pretended to drive away, instead parking on Giraldo and doubling back on foot to neutralize the team in the SUV. The Fishers had been ready to run when Olmos’s team hit the house—that was the only way to explain the ladder found propped against the back wall of the property.
Leeds strained to think of anything they had forgotten that could unravel the plan to frame Fisher—other than the fact that they had failed to kidnap Fisher. That was the most obvious problem, but one he intended to fix. He didn’t have the option of returning to Pallux Way. San Diego PD would be all over the neighborhood in a few minutes, trying to make sense of what the neighbors were saying.
The police wouldn’t find much. All the rifles used fired caseless ammunition, leaving no brass cartridges behind. Carrington left half of his head in Fisher’s backyard, but they wouldn’t find that right away. The most puzzling evidence left behind would be the smashed-up car on Giraldo and some broken glass from the van. Not the cleanest operation by any stretch of the imagination, but not an unmitigated disaster. Of course, Flagg would see it differently. He dreaded making that call.
“Vega, set us up with the quickest route to Black Mountain Road, and give me a map with all of our units’ locations.”
A digital map of Mira Mesa and its immediately surrounding communities filled the windshield HUD, instantly showing the location of every vehicle assigned to the Fisher operation. The two SUVs were headed in opposite directions, several blocks away. Kline had traveled half that distance in Olmos’s van, traveling east on Mira Mesa Boulevard at just under twenty-five miles per hour. Kline needed to find a place to hide the van fast—and Mira Mesa Boulevard was not a good start. Why the fuck did he pick the busiest road in Mira Mesa?
“Vega, can you reroute Kline? He’s driving a shot-up, mangled van down Mira Mesa Boulevard. Get him off the road and get a cleanup team to his location immediately.”
“Got it,” said Vega. “I’m putting together some surveillance parameters for the drones. I assume this is a handoff?”
“Actually, I just need to know which interstate he’s using,” said Leeds. “I can almost guarantee he’s headed north to Pendleton.”
“All right. I’ll send the Ravens higher for a wider view,” said Vega.
Leeds fiddled with the track pad on the keyboard in front of him, selecting Flagg’s number and choosing to route the call through his headset. A moment later, Flagg answered, his irate voice coming through Leeds’s left earpiece.
CHAPTER 35
Flagg took a moment to absorb the information presented on all his screens before answering the call. Judging by what he saw on the displays, something had gone definitively wrong during what should have been a relatively simple abduction. Leeds had vehicles driving in every direction conceivable—except for the one direction they should be headed! He clicked the icon connecting the phone call to his headset. Leeds spoke before he could say a word.
Fractured State (Fractured State Series Book 1) Page 16
