by Bobby Akart
Schwartz Lodge
Kutztown, Pennsylvania
Of the six members of the team, Delta was the only one who’d engaged in multiple stakeouts. He’d practiced a variety of surveillance procedures and had learned to deal with adverse conditions, as well as boredom. On this night, the team was fortunate that the weather was favorable. After the cold spell that had engulfed the Eastern United States the week after New Year’s Eve, unusually mild temperatures had become more prevalent. Without the benefit of AccuWeather to plan by, the team had to be prepared for anything.
Delta provided them the benefit of his experience as he guided them into place. First and foremost, he told them, was to get into position unnoticed. If either Briscoe or Schwartz caught a glimpse of movement outside, they might hunker down, flee, or, if they had a security team on the property, initiate a firefight.
He also reiterated a word that Alpha and Tom had used during their briefing the night before—patience. Stakeout work could be long and arduous, especially when the ultimate goal of the team was to assassinate their targets. Sitting in an unmarked car full of coffee and snacks was one thing. Observing their targets for purposes of assessing their defenses with the ultimate goal to kill them was much more difficult. One hasty pull of a trigger, or even a mistake in judgment that revealed their location, could imperil the entire operation.
With the teams in place, they periodically checked in with one another without becoming chatty on their comms. Delta and Alpha spoke the most, constantly checking in as they became more comfortable that their two targets were alone.
Delta and Cort had positioned themselves nearest the lodge in order to see inside the large plate-glass windows that flanked the stone fireplace. Even in the dim light, Cort, who had seen both men at various political functions over the years, could accurately identify them and confirm their presence.
More importantly, Delta and Cort were able to determine that the two targets were alone inside the spacious lodge. For hours, until well after midnight, they hadn’t seen any other human activity, whether inside or outside the lodge. Occasionally, a gray squirrel scampered across the grounds around the home, drawing the attention of several rifle barrels as it hopped from tree to tree.
“I’ve got movement,” announced Bravo, who was teamed up with Charlie. The two were assigned the east end of the lodge, which contained a large wooden deck on the lower level. A combination of Adirondack chairs and patio furniture dotted the spacious area overlooking a small pond.
“Roger,” said Alpha quietly into his radio. “Go ahead.”
“One male. Maybe six three. Dark hair. Smoking a cigarette. Check that. Smoking a cigar.”
Cort, who allowed Delta to communicate with the team, had an earpiece that allowed him to listen into the exchange. “That’s Jonathan Schwartz. He’s a cigar connoisseur.”
“Is he alone?” asked Alpha.
“Roger,” Bravo quickly replied. “I can take the shot. Easily.”
Alpha was quick with his response. “Negative, Bravo. Stand down, but eyes on the prize.” Naturally, he’d like to catch the two men separately, but it needed to be done quietly so they didn’t alert the other one.
For several minutes, Jonathan casually walked along the deck, periodically stopping to take a deep draw on his cigar, illuminating the cherry on the end, and then exhaling a puff of smoke, which floated into the air.
All teams waited, hoping that Briscoe would suddenly appear on the deck. With the two men alone and probably unarmed, Bravo team could end this mission with a few well-placed rounds.
*****
Jonathan took in the night air and the stillness provided by the surrounding woods. The lodge was enveloped in trees except for the hundred yards of grassy lawn that surrounded the building. During the winter, the Kentucky bluegrass that was predominant in that part of Pennsylvania lay dormant but provided sufficient cover from the heavy snows the region was accustomed to.
He had no qualms about smoking the cigar inside the lodge, although he was respectful of the fact that Briscoe was a nonsmoker. Typically, he’d position himself near the hearth, allowing the heat of the flames to carry the cigar’s smoke up the chimney.
However, he needed a break from the conversations with Briscoe to be alone with his thoughts. He missed his father, who was much more than that. György Schwartz was his mentor, partner, and best friend. Father and son shared a special relationship with common interests ranging from matters of international finance, advancement of their political ideologies, to sharing a fine cigar.
Oddly, Jonathan had never smoked a cigarette. There were several reasons that a cigar was more relaxing to Jonathan. Partly because of the social aspect, but also because of the time it took to smoke.
A cigarette could be smoked in just a few minutes. To Jonathan, smoking a cigarette was more about getting a nicotine fix than it was taking a moment alone with one’s thoughts. Smoking a cigar required an investment. Depending on the size, a cigar took anywhere from thirty minutes to two hours to enjoy. It gave him the opportunity to take time away from the demands of his complicated life. It provided him an outlet, as an excuse, to enjoy a glass of brandy, sit in a comfortable chair, and relax.
Medically speaking, a cigar supplied his body with nicotine, lots of it. In fact, the average cigar contains more than ten times the nicotine of a cigarette. This served up a healthy dose of relaxant to a man who lived in a pressurized world of high-stakes financial games and political machinations.
Above all, for Jonathan, he simply liked the taste. His favorite smokes provided a variety of flavors, each subtle in their differences, much like coffees and fine wines.
He casually paced the deck, drawing on his Fuente Fuente OpusX. The lengthy double corona provided him a smooth boldness with a sweet lingering taste.
Alone with his thoughts, the nicotine began to take effect, relaxing his body and allowing his mind to clear itself of clutter. He forgot about hiding from the FBI. He put Briscoe out of his mind for the moment, a man who should be his mortal enemy, but because of circumstances had become his ally.
Jonathan took a deep breath, chasing the previous draw of his cigar with a healthy dose of fresh air. His mind was devoid of thought, until it wasn’t.
A chill overcame Jonathan’s body, causing him to pull his sweater a little tighter across his chest despite the warmish temperatures. He lifted his cigar and studied the thin trail of smoke, which rose a few feet into the air before floating away.
Genetically speaking, he’d inherited many traits from his father, including an unparalleled intuitiveness. Some might refer to the gift as being clairvoyant or as possessing a sixth sense beyond the widely recognized human senses of sight, hearing, touch, taste, and smell.
Jonathan’s ability to perceive beyond the five senses was one of his best attributes and a tool that he’d used on many occasions when dealing with others, whether in a boardroom or when testifying before Congress.
He considered another draw on his cigar, hoping to shake the uneasy feeling that had overcome him. Then he decided against it. His mind screamed warning bells. His body’s adrenal glands responded as a fight-or-flight response took hold.
I have to remain calm. Am I being paranoid? Or watched?
Jonathan calmly rubbed the cigar out on a deck rail and defiantly flicked it toward the woods, unknowingly in the direction of his watchers.
Chapter 39
Schwartz Lodge
Kutztown, Pennsylvania
Jonathan calmly walked inside the lodge, closing the door behind him. Briscoe sat quietly in the semidarkness, sipping his brandy and watching the flames dance in the open fireplace. The shadows created by the stone surround, coupled with a protruding, rustic mantel, mesmerized Briscoe as the brandy numbed his senses. Progressively each day, Briscoe consumed more of the sweet-tasting spirit. Jonathan assumed it was the only way that Briscoe could cope with the situation he was in. Drinking to dull the senses and escape from his troubl
es was a weakness in Briscoe that Schwartz tolerated simply because he enjoyed the man’s company. After this, they’d no longer be besties, as the younger generation would say.
Jonathan paused at the door, facing Briscoe. He moved his right hand behind his back and turned the bolt lock on the patio door, causing a loud click that caught Briscoe’s attention.
“Expecting the boogeyman?” Briscoe said with a snicker.
“Briscoe, I want you to listen to me and be calm as I speak,” began Schwartz. “Do you understand?”
Telling a sober person don’t look almost always results in the person looking anyway.
Briscoe’s reaction, fueled by alcohol, was much different. He shot up out of his chair in alarm. “What? Is there somebody out there?”
Jonathan rolled his eyes and immediately moved to calm Briscoe down. He took him by the arm and walked him over to the bar. He spoke softly as they walked through the living area. “I don’t know for certain. It’s just a feeling.”
“Something has you spooked,” began Briscoe, who’d suddenly moved from a state of half-drunkenness to stone-cold sober. The candlelight from the lanterns on the bar top illuminated Jonathan’s face. “I can see it in your eyes.”
Jonathan reached for the brandy and poured himself a glass. Then he topped off Briscoe’s. The two men raised their glasses and offered one another a toast, as had become their custom.
“I was finishing my cigar and a sudden sense of dread came over me. Maybe it was the brandy. I don’t know, but something caused me to change my mood.”
Briscoe raised his glass to his lips but didn’t take a sip. His voice was serious. “It’s the same feeling I had at Monocacy Farm the other day. It wasn’t paranoia. Rather, it was more like a heightened sense of awareness. Something in my gut was screaming—run! So I did.”
“My gut is telling me that we’re being watched,” said Jonathan. “We need to make a decision.”
“Like what? Run? To where?”
Jonathan took his brandy and calmly walked to the center of the room, avoiding the windows and doors and using the massive support posts as something to lean on. Subconsciously, he was using them as cover. “It could be nothing, Briscoe. We could take our rifles and confront them.”
“That’s suicide if they’re Trowbridge’s people. Or even if it’s the FBI. Trowbridge is pulling their strings, too.”
Schwartz walked toward the fireplace and sat on the hearth, intending to keep his profile low. “Under the circumstances, it could be someone who wants to break in. You know, burglars. If they saw me on the deck, it might have changed their mind. I just think there’s something more to it.”
“What do you suggest?”
Schwartz rubbed his temples. He was more interested in protecting himself than his newfound friend, who’d outworn his usefulness at this point.
“We can catch them by surprise if we take off,” he began, skewing his plan to benefit himself. “I’ll go in one direction; you go in another. If we split up, it will be harder for them to pursue us. If I’m wrong, and hopefully I am, then we can always come back and finish our brandy.”
Briscoe seemed conflicted. He set his glass down and began to walk toward the patio doors before catching himself. He turned to Jonathan. “I’m an old man and not capable of outrunning trained killers, if that’s what we’re facing. I successfully escaped the mansion because of the tunnels. I won’t fare so well in the woods.”
Jonathan thought for a moment. An opportunity had presented itself, one that would lead the assassins, if any, after Briscoe. “You take the four-wheeler, Hanson,” he said sincerely, using Briscoe’s first name for effect. “I was outside on the deck long enough to know that whoever might be watching us didn’t approach the lodge in a vehicle. It was too quiet. By taking the four-wheeler, you can easily get away and then, if necessary, make your way back later and retrieve your vehicle from the barn.”
Briscoe nodded and his mood lightened. “This may be much ado about nothing, anyway. However, I do appreciate your offer, one that makes sense. What about you?”
“I know these woods,” replied Jonathan. “I’ve come here off and on most of my life. I’m familiar with the trails, the terrain, and the places to hide. Like you, I’ll make my way back to the barn when it’s safe. And, like you said, it may be nothing but paranoia getting the best of me.”
Jonathan didn’t really believe that last statement. He had convinced himself that there was a threat surrounding the house, and he patted himself on the back for convincing Briscoe to become the proverbial rabbit in the chase.
“Well, then,” started Briscoe, “I guess this may be the time we part ways. Jonathan, I never imagined that you and I would meet, much less share lively conversation and a bottle of brandy. I don’t know what the future brings for us both, but I hope that we can evade our pursuers and meet up again someday for a drink.”
After Briscoe’s heartfelt statement, it would’ve been easy for Jonathan to make a better effort to protect the older man from harm. In the end, his survival instincts ruled his decision-making.
“I agree, my friend. I hope that I’m wrong and, afterwards, we can reconvene our brandy tasting. But for now, let’s talk about how we’re gonna pull this off.”
*****
“All teams. I’ve got headlights. East drive, near the road.”
Alpha whispered his observations into the microphone attached to his chest rig. He’d been constantly surveying their surroundings in addition to remaining focused on the lodge. The last thing he wanted was company.
Delta came on the radio. “Roger that. They appear to be stationary at the entrance. Maybe there’s a gate?”
Alpha thought for a moment. If Schwartz had seen them, or if his security personnel were patrolling the property’s east and north boundary, which consisted of local roads, they might be returning. The time was right for the teams to make their move, but he needed to cut off this vehicle, too.
He exhaled and gave his orders. “Delta team, secure the east entrance. Do not allow that vehicle to approach. Bravo team, hit the east deck. We’ll cover the west entryway.”
“Alpha, this is Delta. Roger. Out.” Delta and Cort backed away from the house and made their way to the washed-out gravel driveway that led from the lodge to Krumsville Road.
“Roger, Alpha. Bravo team advancing now. We’ll move in on your go.”
Hayden, who’d remained in a prone position for the last hour with her rifle trained on the front door, rose into a low crouch to join Alpha. She shook off the stiffness and adjusted her hair under the camouflaged Duke Blue Devils ball cap.
“I’m ready,” she told Alpha with a nod.
“All right, we’ll follow Delta’s advice on how his SWAT teams would hit a subject’s location.”
On the helicopter flight, Delta had discussed how SWAT teams conducted raids. Naturally, law enforcement used more than two teams of two, but the principles were the same. Each team was to form a single-file line known as a snake. This minimized the number of team members who became a vulnerable target to the subject.
Alpha and Bravo would run point for their respective teams. It was their job to breach the entry first and neutralize any subjects they encountered. These two men had the most experience in close-quarters combat. The point man in a raid such as this was the person most often required to make a split-second decision. He had to assess whether the subject was armed, hostile, or perhaps simply a hostage or innocent bystander. The results of this instantaneous analysis were matters of life and death for all involved.
All four of the team members had practiced clearing buildings and rooms during their time at the Haven. Each member was assigned an area of responsibility when entering a room. Both Alpha and Bravo were ambidextrous, allowing them to be accurate using their weapons both left and right handed. Hayden and Charlie were more comfortable clearing the left side of a room.
Alpha had the forethought to bring some of the smoke grenades left
over from the raid on the Varnadore Building. The smoke, coupled with his bellowing voice in the darkness, would serve to disorient Briscoe and Schwartz as they entered the lodge. All it took was a distraction of a few seconds for the two teams to take defensive positions and identify their targets, being careful to avoid friendly fire.
Delta told them that ninety percent of all SWAT call-outs ended without a shot being fired, and the subject was surrounded without injury. He also warned all of them to be aware of the enormous number of variables they might encounter. All successful raids were dependent upon proper training, quick decision-making, and avoiding shooting other members of the team.
Alpha gave the order.
“Go.” A simple two-letter word with deadly ramifications.
Both teams slowly approached their assigned entrances, opting to disregard the garage doors that were built into the basement of the lodge. Moving quickly from point to point, the teams used landscape features and trees to mask their approach. They used the bounding overwatch approach, which was successfully utilized by law enforcement and military, until they reached the final stretch of open ground to the doorways. Then, single file, the two teams raced across the lawn with their weapons drawn and their bodies hunched over to maintain a low profile.
Alpha arrived at the stone entryway first and pressed his back against the wall so he couldn’t be seen through the windows flanking the front door. Hayden was hot on his heels, quietly making her way to the other side of the door.
Alpha keyed his mic. “Alpha team in position.”
“Roger. Bravo ready.”
Alpha knelt down and reached across the glass panes until he had a firm grip on the door latch. He pressed down with his thumb to determine if it was locked.
It was.
He thought for a moment. He’d have to break through the glass to unlock the bolt lock from the inside. He’d need a distraction, which meant he’d have to send Bravo team in a few seconds ahead of him.
“Bravo team. Over.”
