Overwatch: A Thriller

by Matthew Betley

  Mike smiled. Jokes were good. It meant Logan was in that focused state of mind all trained killers possessed for this kind of work.

  “Weapons first,” he said, as he opened the first of two black bags. “I brought you a suppressed HK MP7—we upgraded from the MP5—with a reflex sight I mounted myself. It’s zeroed out to three hundred meters, but for close quarters, someone as trained as you could probably put a grouping on a quarter at anything out to fifty yards. You also have your Kimber Tactical II forty-five, also with a suppressor.” He handed the weapons to Logan.

  “No suppressor. Won’t need it. Neighbors might hear shots, but they’ll assume it’s someone hunting.” Logan detached the narrow tube from the end of the weapon. “If I have to shoot, I want it loud. The noise might give me a slight tactical advantage in such a confined space, although I doubt it. If these guys are trained like the asshole at my house, it won’t make a difference, but you never know.”

  Mike continued with the inventory. “You also have two flash-bangs. I didn’t know what your plan was, so I brought them just in case you didn’t want to kill everyone.” Logan smiled at the remark.

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  Mike ignored him. “And for the final touch, your Force Recon Mark II fighting knife. I remembered the one you had in Ramadi.” He paused at the graphic memory of an insurgent with his throat cut and bleeding to death inside a stairwell. He blinked his eyes as if to remove it from his mind.

  “But first, put this on so you can carry all this shit.” Mike handed Logan a black tactical vest with several pockets and loops for the various weapons. Logan slid his arms into the vest and zipped it up. Underneath, he wore the neoprene short-sleeved fitted black undershirt he’d put on at home.

  “It’s perfect. Matches my tee shirt. And Sarah tells me I have no fashion sense. Can you believe that?” he said, deadpan, while he secured the grenades and knife to his vest.

  There was a nylon holster for the pistol on the left side of the vest, positioned low and at an angle for fast access. Logan holstered the Kimber.

  “You’re killing me, Logan.”

  “Not you, Mike. Whoever’s inside my house,” he said seriously. Then, to emphasize the point, he looked at Mike and added like a chided child, “Only if I have no choice. I know.”

  Mike glanced at Logan as he handed him the last item in his bag—a tactical communications secure personal radio. “Here’s the throat mic and earpiece. The radio is one-hundred-twenty-eight-bit encrypted. No one will hear us, even if they’re trying to.”

  Logan secured the throat microphone around his neck. “Feels similar to the ones we used in Force.”

  “I know. That’s why we’re using it now.”

  “You know the way to a man’s heart, Mike. What did you bring for yourself?”

  Mike smiled and grabbed a large, black canvas rifle bag. “My personal weapon for accuracy—the Israeli Tavor STAR-21, complete with a bipod and Trijicon four-times magnification ACOG scope. Bottom line—if you need me to make a precision shot, this is the baby to do it with. I may be a fed, but I’m still one of the best shots in the FBI. Satisfied?”

  Logan looked from the weapon back to Mike and saw the quiet confidence exuding from him. “Absolutely. Let’s go. Like I said, we’ll approach from the back where the woods can provide some cover. Once we’re in position, we’ll wait. Unless they’re using night-vision goggles, they’ll never see us coming. We should be there in approximately fifteen minutes, and we’ll have about another two hours before sunset.”

  Mike closed the hatch on the Land Cruiser and locked the vehicle. Logan turned back to him. “One more thing. I don’t have the time to express my full gratitude to you right now. I know what you’re risking. I appreciate it more than I can say.” He smiled wickedly. “Let’s just make sure it’s worth it.”

  Both men checked their weapons and gear and then quickly jogged across the road into the woods beyond.

  CHAPTER 8

  Antonio and Tomas were nervous. It was nearing five o’clock, and Roberto should’ve called by now to confirm he’d captured Logan West. Antonio was accustomed to operational uncertainty after his time in Iraq and Somalia, but if he didn’t hear from Roberto in another fifteen minutes, he’d have no choice but to try and reach him.

  If that fails, I may have to call Mr. Black. He shuddered at the thought.

  Tomas had searched the entire house for the flag. After the first search turned up nothing, Antonio ordered him to do it a second time, with the same result. It wasn’t in the house.

  Antonio knew that was why they needed the woman alive—to apply leverage on her husband. He’d either give them what they wanted or watch his beautiful brown-haired wife die. It was his choice.

  Tomas hadn’t disturbed Cesar’s and Angel’s corpses. He left them where they fell, after confirming that neither one had any type of identification. Antonio planned to take the bodies when they left, but if something else went wrong, he was prepared to leave them behind. It was the team’s standard operating procedure, but these kinds of missions often went sideways.

  No shit. Cesar and Angel are dead. This job’s definitely gone sideways.

  Sarah West had posed no problem since she’d regained consciousness and found herself duct-taped to a kitchen chair, her hands zip-tied behind her.

  Her initial reaction had been as he expected. She’d cried briefly when she saw the pool of blood on the kitchen floor where her dog had died. She knew he was dead, but they’d removed his body to try and lessen the trauma.

  Tomas had carried the dog’s corpse out the sliding glass door into the backyard, where he’d placed the dog in a shadow near the side of the house.

  Antonio hadn’t expected her second reaction. Instead of screaming or begging for them to release her, she’d only said in a low, defiant voice, “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but if this has anything to do with my husband and he finds you, God help you both. He’s going to kill you.”

  Antonio was amused by her display of bravery but only shook his head as he said, “Mrs. West, your husband is likely already in our custody. And as for God, I’ve been doing this long enough to know that there is no God.”

  Sarah didn’t respond. She didn’t want to give him the least amount of satisfaction.

  “You’re right on one count though. You do have no idea what this is all about, and unfortunately, I’m not about to tell you. Hopefully, this will end well for all of us. It all depends on your husband.”

  The calmness in his voice was unsettling. Sarah replied, “Go fuck yourself.” She then closed her eyes and lowered her chin to her chest as all three of them continued to wait, the West woman for her husband, and Antonio and Tomas for Roberto.

  The next hour proved uneventful, the only excitement occurring when the backyard flood lights turned on unexpectedly as darkness engulfed the gigantic expanse behind the West house.

  Sarah told them they came on every night and remained on a timer until eleven o’clock. She said the lights helped keep the abundant wildlife at bay, especially the curious raccoons known to chew through trash can lids or screen doors in hopes of finding a treasure trove of garbage.

  Tomas approached the large bay window every few minutes and gazed into the backyard, as if he expected a wild animal to emerge from the darkness and charge the glass.

  Antonio glanced at his watch again. A few more minutes and he’d try Mr. Black. Neither he nor Roberto was answering the phone, which distressed him.

  He looked up and saw the West woman staring intently at him, as if she knew something he didn’t. Her stare made him uncomfortable. He looked away and continued to wait.

  CHAPTER 9

  “I’m in position, approximately forty feet from the bay window, out of their line of sight in the shadows. I can see Sarah. She’s tied to a chair in the middle of the kitchen.” His wife looked haggard but not defeated. That’s a good sign. “Motherfuckers . . .” His voice trailed off in quiet
fury.

  He needed her to be alert. When he assaulted his house, a place he’d called home for several years, she couldn’t panic and do something rash. That was the greatest danger in the coming moments, but Logan knew he couldn’t plan for every contingency.

  The reality was that fear and panic usually led to the tragic deaths of many innocent hostages. Sarah was tired, but at least she still had her faculties.

  He saw no sign of Daly. Logan prayed that they’d locked Daly up in the garage or in the basement, but all he heard was silence. Daly wasn’t barking, which likely meant . . . He refused to let his mind go there.

  He took a deep breath, suppressing the hot rage he felt in his chest. He had to compartmentalize his emotions or he’d make a mistake. Like panic and fear, mistakes were often killers.

  “No sign of Daly. You know what that means.” Mike didn’t respond. “I’ll take one alive, but if Daly’s dead, only one lives, and that one is going to wish he didn’t by the time I’m through with him.”

  Mike knew his friend was dead serious. “Roger, Logan. We get Sarah, and then we’ll figure out where Daly is. I know what he means to you. As for the bad guys, I see two gunmen in the kitchen. So far, that’s all. You have eyes on both?”

  Mike was in a prone position approximately one hundred yards away, next to a fallen tree out of the reach of the flood lights. The tree had been a casualty of the freak fall storms the area had endured. Fortunately for Mike, Logan had been too busy to deal with the deadwood. Now it served as the ideal concealment.

  “I see one standing near the window, but I don’t have eyes on the other. Where is he?”

  “He’s next to your island countertop.” Mike stared through his scope. The image of the man filled his view. “Looks like he’s trying to decide whether or not to make a phone call. Fifty bucks says he’s calling his buddy, Roberto. Too bad Roberto can’t answer.” He heard Logan issue a subdued grunt of satisfaction.

  “Well . . . I don’t know what happens in the afterlife, but in a few minutes, he may very well be able to check with him in person. So here’s the deal.” Logan West briefly outlined his plan to rescue his wife from two killers occupying his kitchen in rural Maryland.

  When he was finished, he moved around to the side of his house into the three-car garage. The middle bay was still open, the only occupant his wife’s Audi sedan.

  * * *

  By 6:15 p.m., Antonio’s unease had grown into a full-blown state of concern. “Tomas, I’m calling Mr. Black again. Roberto should’ve had West in custody hours ago. Something’s wrong. If Roberto and Mr. Black don’t answer, we’re leaving immediately and taking her with us. We go back to the safe house and wait. Mr. Black or someone else from the company will contact us, but we can’t stay here any longer.”

  Antonio hit the green talk button on his phone. He looked up at Tomas to confirm he’d heard him. Tomas opened his mouth to speak, but before he could respond, the kitchen’s silence was violently interrupted. Multiple events happened simultaneously, and none of them were good for the two mercenaries.

  The bullet from Mike Benson’s STAR-21 rifle shattered the bay window. Fragmented glass cascaded to the kitchen floor as the bullet struck Tomas in the left temple. The rear left quarter of Tomas’s head exploded outward as small chunks of skull and brain hit the floor, spraying Sarah’s legs and the chair with a red mist. Tomas’s body crumpled to the ground, and his pistol fell from his hand and bounced across the room, coming to rest along a baseboard under the smashed window.

  As Antonio processed Tomas’s death, his first thought was to use the West woman. I have to grab her and use her as a shield, or I’m dead too. With his only thought now focused on survival, he reached for his Glock 9mm pistol on the countertop.

  * * *

  Logan had been silently waiting in the garage outside the kitchen door. The gap between the frame and the door was backlit from the kitchen lights and revealed no dead bolt. He’d minutely turned the doorknob to confirm it was unlocked.

  Mike had then given him the countdown. “Okay, Logan. On my count . . . three . . . two . . . one.”

  As Mike Benson exhaled and pulled the trigger on the Israeli rifle, Logan West had simultaneously thrown open the door and leapt into his former home.

  * * *

  What Logan saw as he entered the kitchen would’ve momentarily frozen a normal man, but Logan West was anything but normal, even under the influence of alcohol.

  His preternatural ability to function both mentally and physically under the most stressful situations had served the Marine Corps exceedingly well. He’d once been dubbed “Wild West” because of his bold decisions and the extreme lengths he’d go to in order to accomplish a mission. Now he used those same traits to try and save his wife from an unknown enemy that had suddenly invaded their lives.

  Thoughts flashed through Logan’s head at breakneck speed. Sarah’s alive . . . lots of blood on the floor . . . not hers . . . must be Daly’s . . . one dead gunman . . . second one reaching for a pistol . . . neutralize and keep alive . . . can’t take a shot . . . Sarah’s in the line of fire.

  As Logan processed the information, he chose the only option at his disposal. The gunman’s eyes widened in surprise and anger at Logan’s unexpected arrival, and his hand closed on the black pistol.

  In a blindingly fast movement, Logan dropped his own pistol from his right hand and stepped forward with his right foot. He unsheathed the specially crafted fighting knife from his vest and hurled the balanced blade at the intruder, twisting his torso and extending his right arm.

  His aim was precise. The knife buried itself in the back of the man’s arm. He screamed in pain and fury.

  Logan closed the gap between them and delivered a blow to the man’s exposed right side. He was rewarded with an audible crack! as one of the ribs broke, and the gunman doubled over.

  Logan thought he was collapsing from his injuries, the fight over. He was wrong.

  Instead of falling to the floor incapacitated, the mercenary executed a sweep with his right leg, catching Logan off guard.

  It was a move Logan would’ve expertly avoided under normal circumstances, but his hangover had dulled his reactions and he’d underestimated the stamina and determination of his attacker.

  The man’s heel collided with the outside of Logan’s foot. Logan was knocked off balance, and he fell to the hardwood floor, rolling backward. He pulled out of the evasive maneuver and fluidly moved into a crouching position on the balls of his feet.

  He looked at the man before him, reassessing his enemy. What he saw momentarily shocked him. Who was this guy?

  The man stood tall in defiance and leered at him. His weapon was firmly gripped in his left hand in a knife-fighting position, the blade pointed down toward the floor. It dripped with his blood since he’d pulled it out of his right arm after knocking Logan backward.

  “You must be Logan West,” he managed to hiss through gritted teeth. “I was wondering if you might show up. We should’ve had you hours ago. I knew something had to be wrong. In fact, we were just about to leave.”

  The man was breathing heavily, but Logan had already underestimated him once. He wasn’t about to do it again. Logan knew he was a professional, just as Roberto had been, trained in hand-to-hand combat and still a significant threat.

  Logan glanced at Sarah, who stared at him in disbelief. She hadn’t uttered a word since his dramatic entrance.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. West. Your wife is unhurt. My men gravely underestimated her. She killed two of them,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Logan was both impressed and proud at the courage Sarah must’ve shown by defending herself.

  “Where’s my dog?” Logan asked.

  “Unfortunately, the dog wasn’t so lucky. One of my men—one of the dead ones—panicked and shot him when we came in. It’s dead. For that, I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere, which only angered Logan more.

  “You don’t get to be sorry,”
Logan growled, outrage seeping through every word. “You shouldn’t have been here at all. I know what you want, and it’s not here. This has all been for nothing.”

  Antonio moved slowly toward Logan. “That may be so, but I do know one thing. If you’d wanted me dead, you would’ve shot me as you entered. But since I’m still alive, it means you want to know what I know.” The man smiled. “It’s a good plan, but it’s never going to happen. If the flag isn’t here, I’m sticking with plan B.”

  “What’s plan B?” Logan asked.

  “Kill you,” he said matter-of-factly. “And when that’s done, I’m taking your wife with me back to my organization. She may still be useful.”

  Logan stared impassively as he listened to the man’s words, which hung in the air. Logan finally revealed the devil within and allowed a small smile to form on his lips.

  “What is it with you and your team? Do you really believe I’m just going to roll over and let you go? I don’t know who or what you think I am, but you guys picked the wrong fight. It’s the same with your asshole boss.”

  At the mention of Mr. Black, Antonio raised his eyebrows.

  “That’s right, jackoff. I talked to Juan after I killed your friend. So guess what? As of a few hours ago, he knew your team didn’t have me. You know what that means, don’t you?”

  Logan watched the realization dawn on the man’s face, but he stated it just to rub salt in the proverbial wound. “He hung you and your team out to dry. He knew I was going to come here. He could’ve warned you, but for whatever sick reason, he didn’t. And you know what else? I’m glad, because now I get to take care of you myself.” The smile fell from Logan’s face, revealing the lethal predator he was.

  “So here’s the deal. You have one chance to drop my knife. If you don’t, the pain from that wound is going to feel like a massage when I’m done with you. I guarantee it.”