Strigoi

by John O'Brien

  With gloved fingers, I carefully lift the razor wire from a bracket bolted to the side of the pole and slowly move the strand down the wall so I don’t cause the entire coil to vibrate. The slight tension of the coil causes the strand to pull against the length of duct tape between it and the pole, creating a gap wide enough to slip through. The length of duct tape extends just across the top of the wall and would alert the guards if we happen to trip on it, so we’ll have to be cautious with our footing.

  We aren’t operating under zero footprint inclusions to our orders, so the guards are expendable. I sure bet they didn’t know that when they so confidently walked to their posts earlier, expecting another boring night staring into lit fields and the dark woods beyond. With a warning that the sentry on the back wall is heading in my direction, I ease down a step, crouch, and press against the cool adobe wall, then take out my suppressed 9mm loaded with subsonic rounds.

  “Clear on the side,” Mitchell states, meaning that the guard on the side wall isn’t looking or is walking away.

  The night is quiet, the crash of surf far down the ridge having faded long ago. The night isn’t cold enough for my exhalations to condense, but I control my breathing nonetheless. Crouched and ready to spring, I hear the scuffle of boots across the gritty surface of the adobe ledge. Baker gives me a constant update of distances. Mitchell’s silence means that the other way remains clear. Below me, two of my team have scaled partway up the ladder, the third holding it steady. The scraping footsteps grow louder.

  “He’s over you,” Mitchell comments.

  “Que mier…” the guard starts saying, his voice quiet as he mutters to himself.

  Before he can get further, I lunge upward, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him to me. I place the barrel of my handgun under his chin where it meets the neck, angling it up. The recoil is absorbed as the subsonic round exits the barrel and slams through his palate, through his sinuses, and into the soft tissue of his brain. The noise of the suppressed shot is next to nothing with the slow moving rounds and with the soft part of his chin dampening the sound. The only noise is from the slide rocking back and chambering another round. A warm flow of blood runs over my gloves and a flap of hairy skin flops to the side from the bullet exiting the top of his head. Still pulling on his shirt to ensure that his body doesn’t scrape the strand of duct tape, I feel his now dead body begin to fall over the side.

  With the body over the wall and on the verge of toppling, I feel hands reach over my shoulder to take the weight. I lift the dead man’s legs with my free arm to ease him over the tape I’ve placed. Transitioning the weight from one teammate to the next, the body is lowered and placed against the wall. Immediately after the body is passed to those below, I step through the gap and assume the sentry’s duties. With the lights shining brightly outward, the ledge is mostly in shadow, so I’m only just a silhouetted figure.

  After passing through, I ease the razor wire back to its bracket and time my walks along the ledge to remain apart from the others. If I get too close, they may want to engage in some conversation about their prowess among the ladies, and it will become quickly apparent that I’m not their buddy whom they lose to at cards. I have to time this well, waiting so the sentry I share a corner with is close but with the others faced away. We have to own the corner before we can proceed further inside.

  While keeping an eye on the guards, I look over the inside grounds. The residence is a two-story adobe structure with light blazing from windows on the first floor and stretching long across nicely trimmed lawns. Several of the rooms on the second floor are illuminated, with one flickering in a faint bluish color. I surmise that it must be a TV room where other guards might be relaxing or the owner enjoying an evening watching I Love Lucy. A curtained room along the side on the same level is darkened with the same blue glow visible through a crack in the curtains. With the light constant and not flickering like the other, I’m guessing that must be a security room. I log the layout in my mind.

  Outside, two lights posted on the walls illuminate much of the manicured backyard, but leave the edges in shadow. There’s a small swimming pool with an accompanying pool house, the calm waters showing the blue of underwater lights. The exterior sides of the house aren’t lit, but the grass alternates between darkness and yellowish beams of light cast from the lit interior of the first floor. Additionally, flashlight beams swing to and fro from two guards walking the perimeter. They stroll along the side and into the backyard. Although the sentries posted on the walls can see their progress, there aren’t any greetings exchanged. The two, armed with M-4s and talking quietly to each other, walk around the pool and vanish up the other side.

  Turning my attention back to the sentries, I see my corner compatriot standing near said corner with an orange glow outlining his silhouette. Quickly glancing at the others and finding them heading away, I loosen the sidearm in its holster and start toward.

  “Do you have a smoke?” I ask in Spanish, muffling my voice and keeping my head down.

  He turns and reaches into the front pocket of his fatigue shirt, withdrawing a wrinkled pack. As he shakes one of the cigarettes free, I slowly withdraw my handgun. With the pack between us, I reach out to take the extended smoke while placing the barrel angled just under the diaphragm. Pressing the weapon against the surprised man’s fatigues, I pull the trigger. The bullet punches through the clothing, up under the ribs and through into the heart. The subsonic round then exits out the back of the upper shoulder in a splash of blood, unseen in the darkness. The suppressed shot is further muffled by the sentry’s clothing, which also hides the flash.

  Behind me, Taylor carefully but quickly removes the razor wire from its bracket as I take the weight of the man. I remove the man’s hat as he is passed down the ladder in the same fashion as the first. Taylor quickly climbs on the ledge, takes the offered hat, and assumes the guard’s position.

  With the corner now ours, I watch the remaining guard on the back wall while Baker and Mitchell make their way across the open area. We then play the red light/green light game, each teammate individually climbing up the ladder and over the wall to hang off the interior ledge. They then drop the remaining five feet onto the lawn and crouch in the darkened corner. While Baker remains on the ladder, Mitchell assumes my position as I drop to the ground.

  The three of us hiding in the shadows of the corner crouch and press tightly against the walls as the flashlights of the roving guards appear. I contemplate taking them out, but the lack of their presence will be noticed by the others on the walls. Before we can attempt an entry, we have one remaining guard on the side to take care of. After the guards pass, the three of us furtively move in the shadows along the edge of the wall behind a line of decorative shrubs.

  With my NVGs in place, I’m under where the sentry conducts part of his patrol, and I sidle to the outside edge of one bush, eyeing the guard walking the front wall. He walks in and out of sight as the manor’s wall blocks the view of his entire patrol path. When the sentry is out of sight and there’s no chance of the ground patrol returning anytime soon, I call clear and let the teammate above decide the timing to clear the last section of wall. I hear nothing in return, meaning that the guard patrolling above isn’t in a good position.

  After a few passes of the walking patrol, I hear Taylor call, “Target down.”

  The three of us quickly move from cover and adjust to where my teammate is rolling the body over the edge. While we don’t fully catch him, we slow his fall so he doesn’t hit with a loud thump. Tossing the guard’s tell-tale hat back to the ledge, the teammate grabs it and quickly assumes the sentry’s position. At the corner, Baker clambers over, pulls up the ladder, and drops it into the shadows on the inside. If he left it on the ledge and something happened to them, we’d have no way up. He then retrieves the hat as we move back to the corner, hauling the body and depositing it in the shadowy depths. We now own our corner and one side.

  Although the compo
und is near the coast and the air is chilled, it isn’t enough to leave any dew on the lawn that would reveal our passage. Squatting in the shadows, I look at the windows along the side, searching for the best way in. From my vantage point, I don’t see any indication that they are alarmed, nor do any inside shadows cross in front of the lighting.

  Once the patrol again makes their way past and is out of sight, I glance to ensure the front sentry is also hidden before running across the side yard, keeping to one of the shadowed strips. Pressing against the adobe wall next to a window, I peer in from one corner. I’d use the signal mirror tucked into my pocket, but the inside light may reflect off it and draw attention.

  I search more closely along the window’s interior, not finding an intrusion detector. Continuing to scan the room, I find it clear of any personnel, and a search of the room’s corners doesn’t reveal any motion sensors. Whoever is using this place is obviously relying on the armed perimeter guards, with the exception of a rear door camera and possibly one at the front. At least that’s the case so far. And, there isn’t anything placed in front of the window that could turn this into something akin to dropped silverware spilling down stairs.

  My heart is pounding against my ribs and I have to force myself to keep my breathing steady. I absolutely hate urban environments, which includes building interiors. All it takes is for someone to decide they need a cup of tea or to look for a misplaced magazine and there you are, both staring at each other with surprised expressions, one momentarily confused and the other knowing the gig is up. I’ve been shot before. That life experience has been checked off and, like having a kidney stone, it’s not something that I want to do again.

  A quick nudge on the windows shows that they’re locked, so they at least have that modicum of security. Rising, I note that the mechanism centered on top of the lower sliding window is auto-latching. That’s a good thing because it means the pins are tapered on the bottom for easy closing. Looking to make sure the way remains clear, I remove a tool from the cargo pocket of my fatigue pants. It’s much like a paint scraper, with a thin, sturdy blade a few inches wide with a taper at the very edge. Sliding the tool into the narrow gap with the tapered part of the blade toward the inside, I press upward until I feel solid resistance. A solid tap on the bottom of the handle and the tool slides up past the pins. I then edge the window up less than an inch so that the change isn’t noticed and quickly move back across the lawn to the shadows to let the patrol pass again.

  When the way is clear, I run across and glance at the window rails to see that the paint is smooth and the frame is not worn or splintered. That will allow the window to slide up effortlessly and with minimal noise…that’s the plan, at least. I inch the window open, making sure to push evenly on the sides so they don’t catch and make noise. The window rolls upward with a soft hiss. Placing my carbine against an inside wall, I grab the sill on one side and push upward with my arms and legs. Bending my knees and swinging my legs through the opening while rotating my upper body, I land reversed, with my arms holding the sill and my toes settling to the tiled floor. After raising my goggles, I quietly close the window so a draft of cooler air doesn’t reach further inside. Plus, I’m pretty sure the patrolling guards might notice an open window where there wasn’t one previously. Grabbing my carbine, I move away from the window so as to not cast a shadow outside.

  The brightly lit room, its doors closed, is empty, and there is no sound of feet racing down hallways due to some alarm I missed. After waiting for another pass of the patrol, Freeman and Burkhart join me in the room, the last one through closing the window so that the lock is engaged. You just never know when one of the patrolling guards will take it in his or her head to check. Maybe they are required to do so every hour or every few laps. Or, perhaps they’re supposed to every time and they’re just lax about it. I honestly don’t care, I just don’t want someone to check the window and have a giant question mark appear over their head when it opens. My grandpa’s “always leave a gate how you found it” rings through my head.

  Making sure that my shadow doesn’t cross the threshold of the door leading out of the room, I ease a fiber-optic camera from my small pack. The thin tubing slides under the door and shows a tiled hall with elegant light fixtures attached to the walls leading in both directions. Toward the back of the house, an arched open doorway leads to a large, brightly lit room that opens up to both sides. To the left and front, the hall has several rooms with lights showing from under the doors and ends in what looks to be a large entrance foyer. The angle of the interior front wall of the foyer and accompanying bannister suggests a wide stairway.

  At the moment, there isn’t any traffic in the hall, nor can I hear footsteps shuffling across the tile. However, if my assumptions of someone upstairs watching television and the security room are correct, then they can get hungry at any time. My concern is about the hostages, should we be discovered and an alarm raised. And, that’s if those taken are even here. The security indicates that something valuable is in this mansion, whether that is the hostages, some important cartel family, or it’s being used as a stash house. The quality of the expansive manor and surrounding grounds suggests that it’s reserved for high-ranking members or family.

  We’re going to have to search the entire house, to include possible hidden entries leading underground, and we can’t very well do that without the very real chance of running into someone. With our weapons-free orders, I want to eliminate any interior threats first.

  My pulse throbs in my ears as I withdraw the fiber cable and stuff the camera apparatus in my cargo pocket. Taking hold of the handle, I turn it slowly and ease the door open. Once there’s a large enough gap, I slip through to the right, bringing my M-4 up and ready. Those behind quickly enter the hall to the left, the last one easing the door closed.

  The sconces set into the wall cast the corridor in dim lighting. I’m pressed against the wall, aiming toward the large room in the back, the other two looking toward the front in the same manner. I hand the fiber camera to them and have them check the remaining rooms along the hall while I creep toward the back.

  Bright radiant light spills from the open archway. Easing along the wall and avoiding decorative tables holding vases and other objects, I peek into the large room. It covers the entire width of the house, with two glassed windows leading into the backyard. One side holds a modern kitchen, with a sunken seating area on the other side. Windows encompass most of the outside wall, the light from the room spilling out into the pool area. I don’t dare enter in case the remaining sentry on the back wall or those patrolling should happen to look inside.

  Easing back, I meet the others near the front where they indicate that the rooms along the hall are clear. If the house holds any kind of conformity, then there has to be a hall on the other side of the formal staircase with other rooms. Although the floors are relatively clean, there is dust gathered along the edges and a thin layer on the decorative tables. That’s somewhat a relief, as it indicates there probably isn’t staff or people living here full time. It certainly makes the situation less messy.

  Our choices to clear the first level are either to cross the back room or the foyer. Thick, elegant wooden doors adorn the entry with a crystal chandelier bigger than my Jeep Wrangler hanging from a long loop of chain. Along the top of the outside wall are tall windows to let in light during the day. Just inside the entryway, wide arched doorways lead to either side into larger plush rooms. Underneath the massive staircase is another short hallway with a sloped ceiling and wide bookcase along the taller section of wall, lit by a line of track lights on the sloped ceiling that shine directly onto the rows of books.

  Now, that’s an odd place for a bookcase.

  Although we’ll be partially shielded from any outside view on the ground level, with the high-banked windows there’s a chance of being observed from the outside once we start climbing the staircase. The interior is quiet except for a hum of the systems nearly below t
he threshold of hearing, more felt rather than actually heard.

  Signaling to cross under the stairs and to search the other rooms, the three of us rise from our crouched positions and quietly head down the last part of the hallway and turn right. The way the lighting falls on the shelves and the wall nearest the stairs dimly lit, the whole arrangement looks odd; I mean, who would place a bookshelf where it can’t be seen? As we inch along, I notice very faint scratches on the tiled flooring. If I hadn’t been looking for something like it, I would have missed it. This tells me a lot, especially considering that the interior of the hall didn’t have any interior branching doors for the last half of it.

  Sending Freeman and Burkhart down the hall to check out the rooms, I crouch against the inside wall. Burkhart will provide security against someone coming from the large room in the back, leaving Freeman to check the rooms with the fiber camera. A sudden jostling noise echoes across the vast foyer, coming from the entrance.

  “We have company entering from the front door. Make yourselves scarce,” I whisper into the radio, thumbing the mic button secured around my pointer finger.

  Slowly sidling deeper into the gloom, I hear the front door swing open. I force my muscles to relax, but the quivering tension inside tightens my gut. Although the overall plan will require eliminating the guards, any premature action could make this go sideways in a hurry. With adrenaline heightening my senses, the rush of air from the swinging door sounds like a gale force wind. The large wooden door shuts with a heavy thud, the vibration felt through my boots, followed by the thumps of footsteps across the solid floor.

  “Go tell Roberto and that lazy ass Felix it’s their turn. I’m going to get something to eat,” one says, speaking in an American accent with a slight southern twinge.