Quinn smirked. Why was everyone telling him to be careful?
CHAPTER 63
Raef Gamussen tore into a steaming slice of pepperoni pizza, wolfing down the cardboard-tasting chunks like he’d never tasted anything better. He hadn’t eaten since early morning, having grabbed a bagel with his partner on the way to Camp Pendleton. He barely chewed, nearly choking on the pieces, until a long sip of Diet Coke eased their journey. Raef and his partner, Max, clutched pizza boxes in the front seat of the cramped mini-SUV, constantly scanning their surroundings.
They’d moved from parking lot to parking lot in San Onofre, trying not to linger in one place too long. Word of the security problem at San Mateo would have undoubtedly spread to the other camps. The less attention they attracted, the better. Now that it was dark, they were pushing their luck on base. They couldn’t sit in the SUV much longer without drawing second looks. They probably shouldn’t be eating in the vehicle. The Marines probably had some regulation against it, and it gave the impression they didn’t live in the barracks. Raef didn’t care at the moment.
“Echo, this is Control,” he heard through his headset. “Radio check.”
About time! They’d been sitting on their asses without word from Leeds for close to four hours.
“This is Echo. Clear signal.”
“Quinn might be headed in your direction,” said Leeds. “I need you to gear up and stand by for possible interdiction. He’s headed east on San Mateo Boulevard. His jeep has been sitting in the motor-pool area for the past two hours.”
“Do you have eyes on the jeep?” asked Raef.
“Negative. I’m cross-referencing satellite imagery with his tracker location. The motor pool is fenced off from the rest of the battalion areas, so it’s arguably a more secure area. We think he was waiting there for the sun to go down before making a move. He might be headed for a rendezvous with the primary target.”
Raef dropped the greasy pizza slice in the box on his lap and wiped his hands on the sides of his uniform trousers. “Two birds with one stone,” he said.
“That would be a nice break for us,” said Leeds. “Be very cautious around the weapons cache. We still don’t know the extent to which our operation has been compromised. I’m pretty sure it was confined to the barracks-surveillance operation, but we can’t be sure. Getting caught red-handed with weapons will negatively impact our ability to secure your release.”
“Copy that. We’ll scan the area with thermal gear before accessing the cache. Is the rest of the team out of custody?”
“Legal got them released about forty minutes ago. They’ll be out of California by midnight,” said Leeds. “Looks like Quinn’s definitely headed in your direction. ETA eight minutes.”
“Shit. We’re on the move,” said Raef, tossing his pizza box in the backseat.
Max threw his pizza box out of the driver’s window and started the vehicle.
“No need to rush,” said Leeds. “I don’t want you following him closely. Let the tracking device do its job. I’ll guide you to your target, if the situation looks favorable.”
“Copy that. Will advise when we’re ready,” said Raef, turning to his partner. “Weapons cache. ASAP.”
Less than a minute later, his partner eased the SUV into a parking space on the other side of the camp and turned off the headlights. Raef reached into the backseat and removed a pair of night-vision goggles from a small duffel bag behind the driver’s seat and strapped them to his head, activating the device. The dark parking lot turned to day, but that wasn’t enough. He switched to thermal imaging and let the goggles adjust to the ambient temperature. A few moments later, he stepped out of the vehicle and panned 360 degrees through the parking lot, looking for hot spots. Several recently driven cars beamed white on the grayscale image, but he didn’t see any human forms. He studied the face of the closest barracks building, looking for anything out of place.
“I think we’re good,” he said, leaning into the car window.
The two operatives walked one row over and approached the back of a small sedan. Each surveillance team had brought two cars onto base this morning, one to use for surveillance and pursuit, the other to carry tactical gear. Each cache vehicle contained enough gear to fully equip three teams for a diverse array of missions. Spread evenly around the base, the caches provided a relatively quick way to exploit a targeting opportunity, without driving around with weapons for hours on end—running the risk of a random vehicle stop.
Raef placed his right hand under the trunk latch, pressing four fingers against a biometric scanner programmed to read every team leader’s right handprints. Three simultaneously matched fingerprints opened the cache. Silently, the trunk lifted a few inches. Raef lifted the trunk, exposing the contents.
A dark-red light bathed the customized equipment rack. Three tricked-out compact assault rifles sat next to a trio of similarly equipped submachine guns. Either choice would be suitable for close-quarters battle in and around buildings, but the rifle would give them a fuller range of shooting-situation options. Raef pulled one of the loaded rifles from the rack and handed it to Max, who placed it against the bumper—just in case they were under surveillance. The two of them had agreed earlier that they had no intention of going to jail, or being “reassigned” within Cerberus. Too many operatives disappeared after failed ops.
Once the second rifle had been removed, they wasted no time donning specialized ballistic vests designed to mimic standard-issue Marine equipment. The Cerberus version looked the same and provided the same protection against bullets and projectiles, but was lighter and more flexible. They loaded the pouches on their vests with spare rifle magazines and attached suppressors to the rifles.
“That should do it,” he said. “Unless you think we need the sniper rifle.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” said Max.
Raef yanked the SRS-A3 sniper rifle out of the trunk, grabbing the black equipment box labeled SRS. The plastic case contained four twenty-round magazines and a suppressor. The sniper rifle extended their range and accuracy far beyond the FN 2200s or the MP-20 Quinn was suspected to carry.
They returned to the mini-SUV and arranged the weapons in the backseat, covering them with blankets from the vehicle’s rear compartment. Raef walked to the back of the vehicle and searched the parking lot again, detecting no observers. He smashed the brake lights with the butt of his rifle, making sure that the bulbs inside the broken plastic light housings had shattered. Max tossed the second set of night-vision goggles on the dashboard before settling in behind the wheel.
“Control, this is Echo,” said Raef. “We’re geared up and ready.”
“Copy,” said Leeds. “Quinn passed your area a few minutes ago, headed east on Basilone Road. Give it another minute and head out. I don’t want to spook him with headlights.”
“Starting the clock. We opted to bring the sniper rifle, so keep that in mind as an option.”
“Good thinking. If feasible, I recommend taking down Quinn with the sniper rifle before moving against the rest of the group. He’s the primary threat.”
“Copy that,” said Raef.
Leeds contacted him a few minutes later as they drove through the next camp.
“Echo, this is Control. Quinn has gone off-road about two miles ahead of you. Looks like he’s heading into one of the training areas. I’ll guide you to the turnoff. Satellite imagery shows nothing but jeep trails.”
“Copy that.”
“If he stops before you reach the turnoff, I might have you set up an ambush and wait for him to return to Basilone Road. He’ll hear you on the trail if he’s with Fisher,” said Leeds. “I can send you in with thermals to find the rest of them.”
“Sounds easy enough.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. Quinn has proven to be crafty.”
Leeds directed them to the turnoff on a well-traveled dirt road, informing him that Quinn was still on the move. Raef switched the vehicle into four-wheel drive and l
owered his night-vision goggles, driving as fast as he dared without headlights. His goal was to close as much of the distance between the jeep and his own vehicle before Quinn reached Fisher. Fifteen grueling minutes later, Leeds radioed.
“Quinn just turned off the main trail, headed northwest. Satellite imagery and base maps show him headed up a winding jeep trail. I have you point seven miles behind him. I’ll have you continue to the point where he turned, then travel the rest on foot. Looks like he stashed Fisher on the ridgeline to your left.”
“Copy. How far to the top of the ridgeline from the stopping point?”
“The road snakes back and forth for a quarter of a mile, but it looks relatively steep. He’s moving very slowly up that road,” said Leeds. “You should be able to reach the turnoff before he gets to the top. Nothing I can do about the climb, though. Sorry.”
“That’s why we get paid the big bucks,” said Raef.
Mid-six-figure income—after bonuses. The trick was staying alive long enough to enjoy it. Quinn was the kind of target that could put a permanent dent in your retirement plan, so he planned to approach this carefully. He continued toward the turnoff, ready to stop when Leeds told him. With Quinn’s jeep straining to climb the ridgeline access trail, they should arrive undetected. They’d leapfrog up the access trail, covering each other until they reached the top.
When the odometer indicated they’d traveled a half mile, Leeds’s voice filled his headset.
“He’s almost to the top,” said Leeds. “Start slowing down. You should be able to coast to the turn. Look for an intersection. You might be able to see Quinn’s brake lights from your position.”
Raef didn’t want to take his eyes off the road. “Max, you got anything up there?”
Max leaned forward, his head craned upward facing the ridgeline. “Not yet. Switching to thermal. Should see his exhaust.”
He eased off the gas, letting the vehicle slow. A few seconds later, Max pointed toward the ridge.
“I got him,” said Max. “Almost cresting the ridge.”
“You should be able to see the intersection,” said Leeds.
Raef stared down the road, spotting the opening between the thick scrub and stubby trees. “I’m stopping,” he said, pressing the brakes and coming to a stop a few feet from the turnoff.
A window shattered behind him, followed by three loud snaps. He instinctively leaned to the right and reached behind the front passenger seat for one of the rifles. Before he could reach the rifle, a bullet sliced through the headrest and grazed the left side of his head, puncturing the windshield. A second armor-piercing bullet passed effortlessly through the top of the seat, penetrating his neck and continuing into the dashboard. He never felt the third bullet, though he witnessed the carnage it wreaked on his body. The windshield turned dark red. Then, it all went black.
CHAPTER 64
David Quinn walked toward the vehicle, keeping the MP-20 aimed toward the backseat area. The backseat appeared empty as he closed the distance to the mini-SUV. He opened the rear driver’s-side door and pulled the gray blankets back, exposing their small arsenal. This will come in handy, he thought.
A quick examination of the front seat confirmed what he strongly suspected: the two passengers were dead. Quinn’s first three shots had struck the passenger in the head, leaving no doubts after the bullets left the barrel. The driver had ducked at the wrong moment, earning a momentary reprieve, but Quinn’s immediate follow-up shots had been decisive, judging by the amount of blood covering the dashboard and windshield. He activated his communications link.
“Targets eliminated,” he said. “Work your way back down. Be careful.”
“I’m turning around at the top,” replied his wife. “How many followed us?”
He peered down the hard-packed trail toward Basilone Road. “One vehicle. Two occupants.”
“I’ll be down in a few minutes,” she said. “Driving with these goggles is harder than it looks.”
“You’re seeing the same daylight image, with a moderate image flattening. You can’t completely trust your depth perception wearing them. Take it slow. I’ll tidy up down here. Made a bit of a mess.”
“I don’t want to hear about it or see it when I get down there.”
“You really don’t,” he said, opening the front door and pulling the driver’s limp body out of the car. The man’s corpse hit the dirt with a thud, rolling into a contorted supine position.
Not a corpse yet, he noted. Blood pumped weakly from one of the holes in his neck. A carotid hit. The other hole neatly exited his Adam’s apple.
Quinn stripped the rifle magazines from the driver’s vest, contemplating the earpiece hanging out of the man’s mangled ear. After stuffing the magazines in his cargo pockets, he tore the bloody earpiece away and placed it up to his ear.
“This is Control,” said a gravelly voice. “Send a status report immediately. If you can’t talk, click the ‘Distress’ button twice.”
He desperately wanted to respond. To scream at the voice, or utter something dark and ominous—like a movie line. Instead, he dropped the earpiece and reached into the car to pop the trunk. The less these assholes know, the better. Let them come and investigate.
I got a little surprise for you …
Quinn dragged the body to the back of the mini-SUV and heaved it into the back, repeating the process with the dead operative seated on the passenger side. The armor-piercing bullets didn’t behave like standard rounds. The tungsten carbide penetrator and its full-metal-jacket exterior didn’t warp in the face of soft-target penetration, including bone. The three tightly spaced bullets had created six small holes, essentially evacuating the man’s skull. Fortunately, the contents of his head formed a wide cone of small-particle gore on the road next to the SUV, leaving little mess in the car. He still had to stash the vehicle where no Marines would stumble across it.
With the bodies stowed in the trunk, Quinn removed the weapons and stacked them on the side of the road. He covered the driver’s seat with the blankets to avoid saturating his uniform with blood, and carefully slid a small duffel bag in the backseat. He found a suitable hiding spot a few hundred yards down the road, gently driving the vehicle through thick bushes. Good enough. Now to arrange a little surprise.
CHAPTER 65
Nathan Fisher stood at the top of the winding dirt road leading to the ridgeline, cupping both of his ears. He was convinced he’d heard a vehicle on North Range Road below them.
“I don’t think you should be standing in the open,” said Keira.
“I can’t hear it from there.”
They’d moved their sleeping gear to the ridgeline trail after dark so they didn’t have to slog their way out of the draw when Quinn arrived. If Quinn arrived. His wife had been against the idea until she spotted two tarantulas within five minutes. If her flashlight didn’t give away their location, her screaming would. Fortunately, they were alone. The last Marine vehicle zipped through over five hours ago.
“What if it’s not Quinn?”
“If it’s not Quinn, we’ll hide,” he replied, peering into the murk below.
“That won’t do us any good if they know we’re here. They could be watching you with night vision.”
Or scoping him with a 50-caliber sniper rifle. She was right. He couldn’t even identify the road from here in the darkness. He was at a distinct disadvantage in the open. Nathan trotted toward her dark shape, holding the MP-20 against his chest to keep it from bouncing in the sling.
“Shit,” she whispered urgently. “Now I hear it.”
He stopped and crouched, listening intently. The sound of an engine barely carried across the trail. Someone was gently revving an engine, urging a vehicle up the steep ascent.
“Take Owen and our gear into the draw behind you,” he said, gripping the rifle and turning it toward the access road.
“What do we do then?”
“Stay out of sight, and whatever you do, keep your head
down,” said Nathan. “I’ll be across the road.”
“Are you crazy?”
“If this goes bad on us, I’ll draw them away.”
She kissed him quickly and disappeared with Owen, dragging the sleeping bags behind her. When Nathan was sure she was out of sight, he crossed the road and lay down in a shallow rut, squinting over the MP-20. The engine sounds intensified, confusing him. For a moment he thought the noises were coming from the opposite direction. He’d started to shift in the ditch when a dark shape appeared at the top of the access road. Nathan pressed the rifle into his shoulder and centered the subdued green-sight reticle on the moving silhouette.
The vehicle stopped suddenly, its headlight beams flashing twice. He heard a voice.
“Nathan! Hold your fire! It’s me! Quinn!”
It sounded like Quinn, but he wasn’t sure enough to risk his family’s safety. He stayed low and kept the rifle aimed at the vehicle.
“Seriously, Nathan. It’s David Quinn,” the voice stated, flashing the lights again. “I see you on the ground over there. My wife’s in the car.”
“Nathan,” she called, “it’s Alison. We have a way to get everyone off base.”
He didn’t know her voice well enough to trust what she said. He’d have to figure out a way to verify their identity.
“When did you and I first meet?” yelled Nathan.
“San Clemente High School, 2019,” said the male voice. “My dad told me that you shot a two forty-eight on the rifle range that year. I’m jealous. Best I’ve done is a two thirty-six, after a lot of practice.”
It had to be Quinn. He rose to one knee and waved them forward, keeping the rifle aimed in their direction, just in case. When the vehicle got closer, he could tell it was a jeep. Thank God. Nathan stood and lowered his weapon as the jeep pulled even with him. The interior lights illuminated the vehicle’s interior, revealing Quinn and his wife.
“Dude, I could see you from the bottom of the hill,” said Quinn through the passenger window. “Your best weapon is cover and concealment, with an emphasis on concealment. We need to work on that.”
Fractured State (Fractured State Series Book 1) Page 27
