The western part of the property looked clean from Daniel’s position. Their only blind spot was the farmhouse’s front porch, a reasonable place to expect a sentry. Back far enough away from the road to avoid detection, with a commanding view of the only passable vehicle approach. A second sentry had emerged from the sliding glass door at the rear of the house and stepped out onto the sprawling covered deck to smoke a cigarette. He’d gone back inside as soon as he was finished.
That brought the likely total to six; five confirmed. The virus had behaved precisely like Graves had predicted. One of the original three targets had left the barn and gone inside the house, “infecting” another member of the team. It hadn’t been the man they observed smoking. The signal remained stationary inside the house when he’d passed along the observation. They now had three in the barn, two in the house, and one possibly on the front porch. All in all, a manageable number.
Security was minimal at the site, but he guessed the property’s present occupants hadn’t anticipated any kind of external threat. Why would they? Oakton, Virginia, was Anytown, U.S.A., if you had a sizeable bankroll. This place looked as sleepy and boring as a well-manicured suburb could get. They’d probably changed vehicles to something more family friendly on the way here and pulled in without raising an eyebrow. The house was owned by a corporation that Graves and Gupta would thoroughly investigate later.
“Overwatch report,” he heard through his ear mic.
Melendez reported all clear. Daniel took a final look around without the aid of binoculars.
“Oscar Two clear.”
“Copy,” said Munoz. “No change to the plan. Initiating assault. Three. Two. One. Assault team moving.”
Daniel limited his field of vision to the house, watching the structure over his scope. Any movement in the windows or doors would draw his undivided, scope-magnified attention. His job was to keep Munoz and his assault team undistracted from the team’s primary mission—securing Karl Berg. He didn’t envy Munoz’s job. They were headed into the unknown, the numbers stacked even. Three on three. The presence of a hostage tipped the scales against them. They had to be careful where they sent their bullets. Their adversaries would have no such concerns.
He caught a brush of movement in the far second-story window of the farmhouse. The assault team had been made. Maybe security was a little tighter than they’d guessed.
“Southwest corner. Oscar One engaging,” said Melendez.
A man with a rifle hopped over the front porch banister and landed with a thud in the grass on Daniel’s side of the house. This group didn’t waste time.
“Oscar Two has a target heading front to back, north side of the house,” said Daniel, shifting his rifle in the man’s direction.
He wasn’t in a big hurry. The scenario had played out in his head dozens of times since he’d arrived in the sniper’s nest. Repeated snaps echoed across the open backyard, followed by the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood. Melendez wasn’t taking any chances with the potential shooter in the far window.
Daniel stopped his scope’s crosshairs on the southeast corner of the house, about five feet above ground level. The gunman from the front porch appeared in the scope, stopping at the corner to peek into the backyard. The suppressed Mk 12 Special Purpose Rifle (SPR) bit into Daniel’s shoulder; a mottled red splotch exploding onto the white clapboard siding next to the man’s head.
He shifted his crosshairs to the center of the back door and started to apply pressure to the two-stage trigger. When the door opened less than a second later, he eased the trigger the rest of the way, sending an Mk 262, match-grade bullet toward the empty space. A body rushed into the void and collided with the bullet, instantly toppling to the deck under a fine red mist.
“Oscar Two has one tango down southeast corner, ground level, and one tango down at the back door.”
“Oscar One has one tango down far southwest window, second level. Confirming three total,” reported Melendez. “Continuing over watch.”
“Oscar Two continuing over watch.”
“Alpha team breaching,” said Munoz.
Now for the hard part—waiting for the rest of the team to do their job. A sharp crack sounded from the vicinity of the barn, followed a few seconds later by a long burst of gunfire erupting inside the barn. Three rapid, back-to-back gunshots answered the burst, and things got quiet. Their job had just gotten infinitely more complicated.
Chapter 36
Oakton, Virginia
Munoz simultaneously detonated the three charges spaced evenly against the barn’s locked side door, knocking it off its hinges. He pushed the door out of the way and burst into the sunlit space, panning rapidly from left to right with his M4 carbine while hugging the wall to the left of the door. An extended burst of gunfire exploded from the depths of the barn in his peripheral vision. He centered his EOTech sight center mass on a man partially visible on the opposite side of the barn and fired twice. A third bullet fired from one of Munoz’s teammates struck the gunman’s head, snapping it backward. The body dropped below the floor, indicating the possibility of a staircase.
A quick glance to his right revealed a pair of motionless, contorted legs protruding into the barn from the outside. Daly covered the staircase while Munoz backtracked a few steps and peeked through the door. Foley’s head was canted sideways, her eyes staring vacantly at nothing—a red dot visible just below her right eye. A ballistic helmet wouldn’t have made a difference.
“One tango down. Hostage is located below ground level. Alpha Three is down,” said Munoz.
He moved forward, searching the barn for a second shooter while Daly focused on what appeared to be a rectangular staircase-sized opening flanked by open trapdoors. Munoz signaled for Daly to stop. Any closer and someone in the basement could take a shallow-angled shot at them. He had a few other concerns too, having to do with the floor beneath them. It was solid earth, but he suspected that would transition to wood planks at some point closer to the suspected stairwell. If the planks weren’t tightly laid, it might be possible for the two remaining hostiles to track their approach using the natural sunlight entering through the windows.
Munoz took a moment to analyze the situation. The opening was about fifteen feet away from the front of the barn, leaving him with the impression that it was the farm’s original root cellar. The subterranean space probably started at the hole and extended to the front of the barn. It gave him a slightly clearer concept of his engagement zone.
A few more hand signals revealed his updated plan. Munoz lowered to the floor and slithered to the left of the opening, making sure he stayed below any possible sightlines into the cellar. He stayed on hard ground the entire time, confirming his suspicion about the room below. When he descended the stairs, the threat axis would be limited to a one-hundred-eighty-degree arc. Not exactly a narrow field, but it could be worse. He also had to worry about someone hiding under the stairs.
A double nod set everything in motion. Daly lobbed a flash-bang grenade into the cellar while Munoz scrambled across the dirt floor toward the top of the stairs. When the flash-bang grenade immediately sailed back out of the wood-framed opening, headed back toward Daly, Munoz rolled off his back into a prone position at the top of the stairs and triggered his rifle-mounted flashlight.
The powerful light exposed a man with a submachine gun at the bottom of the stairs, who instinctively raised a hand to block the light. The first bullet from Munoz’s rifle passed through the man’s palm, striking him in the face. Two more bullets hit him in the neck and upper chest, knocking him backward. Munoz rolled away, narrowly missing a long fusillade of bullets splintering the wood floor where he had just lain.
“Hostile down. One hostile remaining,” said Munoz.
With one shooter left and the angle of hostile fire established, Daly edged past the inert grenade he had thrown as a decoy and tossed a live flash-bang into the darkness below. Munoz added a second. When the first grenade deton
ated, Munoz lifted himself into a crouch at the top of the stairs, feeling a quick tap on his shoulder that indicated Daly was in position for the assault. The second blast jarred them into action.
Munoz and Daly rushed down the stairs in staggered formation, hopping to the right when they were clear of the ceiling. They triggered their lights and sought cover behind the closest support beams, searching for the last target through the thick cloud of freshly disturbed dust. A burst of gunfire erupted, the bullets smacking into the thick support beam in front of Munoz and peppering the staircase.
A bullet grazed his left leg and tugged at the right shoulder of his ballistic vest. Daly crouched behind his beam, pressing his hand into his thigh. When the bullets stopped flying, Munoz raised his rifle and scanned in the direction of the gunfire, fully aware he might take a bullet to the face. The rifle light was a bullet magnet, but it was the only way to penetrate the darkness and dust scattered by the flash-bang grenades.
He immediately located Berg secured to a chair toward the back of the cellar. A form shifted behind the CIA officer’s naked body, the last hostile using his hostage as a shield to reload. Berg’s face was bloodied and bruised. Multiple lacerations crisscrossed his chest and thighs. Mercifully, his manhood appeared undamaged. Berg squinted, confirming that he was still alive.
“Hostile is using Berg as shield,” he said into the radio.
The former SEAL glanced in his direction, and Munoz gave him a quick hand signal. Daly nodded, then straightened up, pointing his rifle toward Berg. The CIA officer responded to the focused LED lights, turning his head.
“Withdraw your men immediately, or I’ll kill him!” yelled the man hiding behind Berg.
Munoz and Daly remained silent, focused on their rifle sights.
“Backup is a few minutes out! You don’t have time to think this over,” said the man. “I already got what I needed out of him. You withdraw now, and Mr. Berg gets dropped off at the nearest ER. You have my word.”
No response. Munoz took most of the pressure off his rifle’s two-stage trigger. He could see an inch of the guy’s head behind Berg’s, which wasn’t enough.
“Are you fucking crazy? You’re going to get yourselves and Berg killed. That’s not your mission!” the guy yelled. “If my backup gets here before you stand down, there’s no deal.”
A long pause ensued before their target raised his head a few inches above Berg’s right shoulder. Two small holes appeared in the top of his forehead and Munoz rushed forward. He passed Berg, pausing to fire two bullets into the hostile’s inert body.
“Hostile down,” he said. “Berg is alive, but needs immediate medical attention. We’ll need a vehicle on-site for extraction. Possible hostile backup en route.”
“Juliet one copies, en route for pickup,” said Jackson. “Great work, gentlemen.”
“Echo team staying put,” said Graves. “I need to divert local law enforcement responding to reports of gunfire. They don’t have an address, but they’ll be crawling all over the area shortly.”
“Oscar One, set up sniper position facing Hunter Mill Road. Oscar Two, clear the house. I don’t want any surprises.”
By the time he finished issuing the final orders, Daly had freed Berg from the chair.
“I want pictures of these guys, Scott. Grab their phones too. I’ll take care of Berg,” said Munoz. “Pass that along to Oscar Two.”
He found Berg’s clothes in a pile next to the chair, taking the time to dress him in his pants, stuffing his phone and wallet into a cargo pocket.
“We need to warn Audra Bauer,” croaked Berg.
“Who’s Audra Bauer?” said Munoz.
“CIA. She’s in danger.”
“We’ll work on that once we get out of here.”
“Call her now,” Berg insisted.
“I need to move you ASAP,” said Munoz, lifting him off the chair. “How far away is Bauer?”
“CIA. Langley.”
“She’s in the safest place she can be right now,” said Munoz. “You ready to move?”
Berg nodded, grunting in pain as Munoz and Daly helped him out of the barn. Berg started to protest when they reached the barn’s side door, Foley’s body blocking their way.
“We need to keep moving,” said Munoz.
Daly pulled her out of the way and lifted her lifeless body onto his shoulders.
“Leave her,” said Munoz. “We don’t have the time.”
“No,” growled Berg, not a hint of compromise in his voice.
Munoz relented, not sure how they were going to deal with a dead body. Berg represented enough of a challenge. Fortunately, one of their vehicles was essentially windowless.
“Echo team, we’re going to need to make a transfer in the church parking lot,” said Munoz.
“Copy that,” said Graves.
“And as soon as you get the cops off our back, I need you to find us some private lodging and a doctor willing to make a house call. Berg is in bad shape.”
“What’s Alpha Three’s status?” said Jackson.
“KIA.”
Munoz had a strong feeling she wouldn’t be the last. Something was way off with all of this.
PART THREE:
BLACK MAGIC
Chapter 37
Vienna, Virginia
Jackson couldn’t hear what the doctor was saying through the closed French doors, but the young physician treating Karl Berg had behaved justifiably nervous upon first meeting his patient. Berg’s wounds, while superficial, were extensive. Dozens of shallow cuts, evenly spaced and methodically applied to the front of his torso and legs, could not be explained away by a simple accident, or a complicated one. It was obvious that the wounds were intentionally inflicted, and Jackson would be skeptical too about the purpose of the private medical care he’d been summoned to provide.
The doctor stood up from the chair next to the brown leather couch and shook Berg’s hand, sharing a few more words. Probably asking for the tenth time if Berg wanted him to call the police. The physician feigned a smile and made his way to the doors. Jackson got up from the chair he’d dragged into the hallway outside of the study.
“So what’s the verdict?” he asked.
The physician glanced nervously around the spacious home.
“The man you just treated saved my life a number of years ago. I owe him everything. On top of that, he’s my best friend. I know this doesn’t look good, but trust me when I say that my friend is now in good hands. A few hours ago, that obviously wasn’t the case.”
“I don’t want to know any of the details,” said the doctor.
“All the better,” said Jackson. “What are we looking at?”
“The patient needs rest, obviously. You need to keep him well hydrated and nutritionally satisfied.”
“Yeah, yeah. That sounds like advice for a nursing home resident. Move on to the important stuff.”
The doctor frowned. “Well, unfortunately, you’re going to need to treat him like a nursing home resident for a week or two, maybe longer. Most of the cuts will heal on their own, with constant supervision. You’ll need to clean them a few times per day, replace the gauze and tape. Watch for signs of infection. I left a bottle with some strong antibiotics that he should start taking immediately. Follow the instructions. I stitched a few of the deeper wounds. Same rules apply. The big thing here is that he needs to remain completely immobile until the shallow cuts scab over. I counted seventy-six separate wounds. I suspect a few of the deeper ones that I stitched could count twice, since there’s evidence of repetitive injury.”
“What does that mean?” said Jackson, pretty sure he had a good idea.
“I’d rather not speculate out loud,” said the doctor. “Bottom line, he needs to stay still unless you want me to stitch up the remaining seventy wounds.”
“I think we’d rather avoid that,” said Jackson. “He’s been through enough.”
“That’s an understatement. You have my secure email address. I�
��d prefer you use that if you have additional questions or concerns. Call this number,” he said, producing a card with nothing but a phone number, “if you need me to visit before our next scheduled appointment.”
“When do you need to come back?”
“I’d like to check on him in two days.”
“Same time?”
“I’ll be here. Email if there’s a change to that plan,” said the doctor.
“Thank you. I appreciate your timely response and discreet service.”
The doctor smiled politely and walked to the front door. Jackson followed him onto the wide, wraparound porch, catching a glimpse of Melendez near the property’s inner gate. The primary gate stood a quarter of a mile away, concealed by the thick woods surrounding the estate. Melendez opened the gate manually for the doctor’s convertible Mercedes, securing it after him. Jackson waved, drawing a nod from the operative, who disappeared into the foliage with his sniper rifle. Back inside the spacious home he found Munoz in the entrance hallway.
“Berg was concerned about someone named Audra Bauer. She works at Langley, so I told him she’s safe for now,” said Munoz, checking his watch. “It’s getting close to four o’clock. If she’s somehow linked to Berg in all of this, she’ll be next.”
Jackson saw Berg motioning for him. “Speak of the devil.”
“How are you feeling, my friend?” asked Jackson, approaching the couch.
“Like I have a thousand paper cuts,” said Berg, through swollen lips.
“Seventy-six to be precise,” said Jackson, eliciting a short laugh that looked like it hurt Berg more than helped. “Sorry, man. What can I get you? The place is stocked.”
“I’ll take that bottle of Barolo if it’s still around,” said Berg, causing himself to laugh and wince.
“Maybe we should knock off the jokes,” Jackson suggested.
OMEGA: A Black Flagged Thriller (The Black Flagged Series Book 5) Page 19
