Текст книги "Gideon's War / Hard Target"

Автор книги: Howard Gordon

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 32 (всего у книги 38 страниц)

Ten minutes later they had immersed him in a bath of warm water in a bathroom large enough to house an entire family. It took Nancy a moment to adjust to the young man’s wrecked body—his truncated legs, his missing arm, the scar tissue that formed the topography of his face.

After a few minutes Evan began to shiver so hard that the women had to brace him.

“That’s a good sign,” the big nurse said. “It means he’s warming up.”

Soon the shivering stopped, and a few minutes later his eyes opened. He stared around dully, his eyes finally settling on Nancy.

“Who are you?” he asked

“My name is Nancy Clement,” she said. “I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

The nurse said, “She came to help me find you.”

The young man squinted at the nurse skeptically. “No, she didn’t.”

“Of course she did,” the nurse said. Nancy had told her not to call the police, and now Margie felt indebted to the FBI agent, for saving not only Evan, but also her job.

“Margie, can you give me a minute alone with this nice FBI lady?”

“Why?” the nurse said.

“Please,” he said. “Just once, can you just do what I ask?”

The nurse’s slab of a face reddened. But finally she stood and stalked out of the bathroom.

Nancy felt awkward now, alone in the room with a naked man. But Evan Wilmot seemed unfazed. She supposed when you were disabled, you got used to people hauling you around, washing you, bathing you, seeing you naked.

“No,” the young man said, as if reading her mind. “You never get used to it. It always sucks. But I have to stay in this water or I’ll get sick.”

Nancy cleared her throat.

“So,” Evan said sadly, “my father has done something terrible, hasn’t he?”

Nancy cocked her head. “Has he?”

Evan smiled sadly and looked off into the steamy distance. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, he has.”

30

MANASSAS, VIRGINIA

By all accounts, Gideon Davis was a gifted diplomat—engaged, charming, and direct. But because many of the qualities that make a diplomat effective are diametrically opposed to those that make a good soldier, the two professions often find themselves at odds. Gideon had often been sent places where only soldiers dared to go and had overcome the occupational bias against him. Over the years he had befriended a wide range of soldiers and CIA operatives and military contractors—some of them fairly shady characters.

So when he needed a mil spec weapons package, he knew just the man to call.

“Hi, Paulus,” he said from a pay phone outside a 7-Eleven in Manassas. “It’s Gideon Davis. Call me back on a secure line.”

Three minutes later the phone rang. “Gideon,” Paulus Lennart said, “it’s been a long time.”

“I’ll make it quick,” Gideon said. “I need breaching charges. Preferably ribbon-type-shaped charges. Plus some detonating cord and a trigger. Also a Barrett with ten rounds of armor-piercing incendiary.”

“You’re fucking joking,” Lennart said.

“Not as long as you owe me for Cameroon.” After a long pause, Gideon continued, “Plus, I guarantee that it won’t blow back on you.”

“How soon do you need this?”

“Two hours.”

< Leeeeeee Paul/div>

“Can’t do a Barrett that fast,” he said. “I’ve got an Accuracy International sitting around, though. Bolt action, .50 BMG, shoots a quarter minute of angle, nice Leupold glass, the whole thing.”

“Fine.”

“What do I get from this?”

“Besides my undying gratitude? Twenty thousand.”

“I’ll take the twenty, you can hold the gratitude.” The phone went dead.

Two hours and ten minutes later Gideon was standing in the parking lot of a Super Target in Centerville when a battered blue van drove by. Gideon heard the door slide open behind him. But by then it was too late.

A bag had gone over his head and someone extremely quick and strong had lifted him off his feet. The door of the van slammed shut and then the van peeled away.

Gideon clawed for his Glock, but a massive hand closed over his fist, and the bag was pulled from his head. Holding him from behind was a young man with the physique of a battle tank, his arms looped around Gideon’s chest like a band of steel. Paulus Lennart dug the tip of his gun barrel into the tender flesh of Gideon’s temple.

“Don’t ever do something like this to me again.”

“Like what?” Gideon asked.

Lennart was a wiry South African with a short grizzled beard and longish graying hair. He had worked as a contractor for the State Department and was responsible for several killings in the small African nation of Cameroon, which—although committed in the interest of the United States of America—had nearly resulted in his beheading by an unfriendly local regime. Thanks to Gideon, however, Lennart was still alive.

“You didn’t see fit to mention that you’re wanted by the FBI?”

“Wanted for questioning,” Gideon said. “Big difference.”

“You think this is funny?”

Gideon pushed the pistol away from his head. “We have good intelligence that there will be an attack against a target on US soil. If I don’t have the weapons I asked you for, innocent people will die. Now are you going to help me or not?”

Paulus Lennart leaned forward and looked straight into Gideon’s eyes. His jaw worked on a piece of chewing gum like he was trying to kill it. Gideon could smell the Juicy Fruit on his breath.

Finally Lennart leaned back and said, “I don’t get you, man. You’re supposed to be some diplomat, but you keep getting yourself into all this third-degree ninja shit. Who’s the real Gideon, huh?”

“When you figure that out, let me know,” Gideon said. “In the meantime, have you got my explosives?”

Lennart didn’t move. “Am I going to be sorry I did this?”

“I have a great many talents,” Gideon said. “But reading the future is not one of them.”

“How did you ever become a diploghtng,mat, man?” Lennart said. “You suck in the reassurance department.”

“Have you got the stuff or not? Because I’m on a tight schedule.”

“You got my money?”

“You know I’m good for it.”

“You’re killing me.” Paulus Lennart looked at the huge young man who was still holding Gideon around the chest, gave him a brief nod. “Go ahead,” he said. “Get this guy his gear and get him the hell out of here.”

31

CENTREVILLE, VIRGINIA

I’ve seen that man before,” Verhoven said as he and Tillman crossed the parking lot of a sizable park in Centreville, and approached Gideon. Off in the distance a couple of joggers ran by, looking at their watches.

“He’s been around, so it’s possible,” Tillman said evenly.

There had been a time a few years ago when Gideon had been on the news a lot. Gideon wore wraparound sunglasses that he’d purchased at a local CVS and a GLOCK SHOOTING SPORTS FOUNDATION hat. He hadn’t shaved for two days and hoped that between the hat, the shades, and the scruff on his face that Verhoven wouldn’t recognize him.

“You’re late,” Tillman said.

“You call at the last minute asking for very specialized items, you better plan on showing a little flexibility,” Gideon said. He was making a strong effort to play the role of a professional soldier. “Where’s my money?”

Tillman signaled to Verhoven, who threw a small gym bag on the ground. As Gideon took a quick inventory of its contents, Verhoven continued studying his face. His scrutiny wasn’t lost on either Gideon or Tillman, though both men pretended not to notice.

“Couldn’t track down a Barrett,” Gideon said as he tossed the money in his car. “You’re gonna have to make do with an Accuracy International bolt gun.”

“It’s still a .50 BMG, right?” Tillman said.

“Yeah.”

Tillman looked at Verhoven, who shrugged.

“They make a hell of a good rifle,” Gideon said. “SAS guys all use them.”

“Scope?” Tillman asked.

“Leupold Mark IV. Mil-mil, ten power fixed. Just like the big boys.”

“Good enough,” Tillman said.

“It’s all in the trunk,” Gideon said.

As they all went to transfer the equipment, Verhoven kept stealing glances at Gideon, who decided it was time to call him on it.

“Is there a problem? Because you keep looking at me, and I don’t like being looked at like that by anyone who’s not a wiflllllllntentoman.”

“I’ve met you before,” Verhoven said.

“I don’t think so.”

Verhoven nodded, but he was clearly unsatisfied with Gideon’s answer. A moaning sound from Verhoven’s car interrupted the moment. It was Lorene.

“You should see how she’s doing,” Tillman said, hanging back with Gideon as Verhoven went to check on Lorene in the backseat of the car.

“They’re hitting the State of the Union,” Tillman whispered, waiting until he was sure Verhoven was out of earshot.

Gideon blinked. He’d been privately speculating on potential targets they might be hitting in the DC area, but this was far more serious than any scenario he’d imagined. In fact, because the State of the Union address was such a hard target, he had discounted it at the outset.

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty much. Although we’re staging some support operation in Virginia. Not sure yet what it is.”

Gideon felt the mounting pressure, as if sandbags were being piled on his shoulders. “We can’t bring this to the FBI until we’ve got hard evidence.”

“I know that,” Tillman said. “Hang back and shadow me, and as soon as we’ve got something we can move on, we’ll pull the trigger.”

Gideon nodded as Verhoven rejoined them. “She’s doing okay,” he said to Tillman.

“Got a problem in the car?” asked Gideon.

“No problem. My wife isn’t feeling well is all.”

“You should take care of that.”

“It’s no concern of yours,” said Verhoven.

Gideon nodded, then clapped Tillman on the shoulder. “I’ll be seeing you,” he said.

“Not if I see you first.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Tillman laughed. “Asshole,” he said. Then the two men climbed into the Honda and disappeared down the road.

As Tillman drove away, Verhoven said, “That man seemed very familiar to me.”

“We go way back. Went through Ranger training together. Good man.”

“He seemed quite disrespectful.”

“He doesn’t know you, that’s all. Situation like this, a guy in his shoes has to be careful.”

“I still recognize him from somewhere.” Verhoven made a sucking sound through his teeth. “It’ll come to me.”

“Where to?”

“We need to find a quiet hotel, a place with no lobby so nobody watches us going in and out. We can drop Lorene off, then reconnoiter the target. That way we’ll be ready first thing ugh Ast thing in the morning.”

Tillman knew that Gideon was listening in on the radio that he’d left turned on in his pocket. “There’s an Econo Lodge up there off of Lee-Jackson. How’s that work for you?”

Verhoven shrugged. He seemed intent on his own thinking.

“There’s always the Hampton Inn. Good breakfast buffet.”

“Could we skip the travel review?” Verhoven said.

“Hey, you’re the boss,” Tillman said. “Econo Lodge it is.”

32

POCATELLO, IDAHO

The Jeep started hard. Evan had given Nancy the keys to his father’s vehicle. Outside it was dark, and the temperature had dropped to around ten degrees Fahrenheit. The snow was still coming down, but it wasn’t the choking blizzard that it had been earlier. It took some careful driving to get to the clearing where the structures stood, but the big tires of the Jeep kept traction as long as Nancy went slowly.

Evan told her he had been investigating his father’s suspicious behavior with John Collier when he came upon the woman’s hand. Whatever his father was doing in the woods—and by now he was fairly certain that it did not involve producing ethanol—had resulted in the death of at least one woman. Evan explained that his father had become a stranger to him. Since Evan had come back from the war, his father had become harder and more reclusive. But nothing could rationalize the horrible truth of what Evan had discovered.

Evan gave Nancy directions back out along the logging trail where she had found him. He was too weak to go with her, and even if he weren’t, he could not bear it. She took the keys to the Jeep and left Evan with his eyes closed, scarred hand extended up out of the blankets, as if he were a drowning man reaching for the surface of a pond.

Now Nancy parked the car, grabbed her flashlight, and climbed out, leaving the headlights on. Even with the mittens, the hat, and the coat she had borrowed, the air was bitterly cold. Behind the first building she found the bulldozer, the apron of broken earth spread out before it. She tromped through the snow that covered the rubble of frozen earth until her flashlight landed on a small lump about a foot high, toward the edge of the scar in the ground. She walked toward it, dusted off the snow with her mitten, and gasped—her sharp exhalation marked by a puff of condensation.

She was looking at a delicate hand reaching up through the frozen ground.

Unable to excavate with any efficiency, she pulled off her mittens to use her bare hands. Eventually, she uncovered the entire arm and the shallow form of a woman’s chest.

Nancy pulled out the burner phone she had bought at the airport in Las Vegas and quickly discovered that there was no cellular signal. Then she put the phone away. Even if she were able to reach Gideon, what could she say except that someone—and maybe several people—had been killed here. But it still gave her nothing to take to Dahlgren. Dead people recovered from a pile of dirt was a state crime, something to alert the sheriff about. But theheiiiiiii D‡re was no hard evidence of a plot against the government of the United States.

She got up and walked around to the first building. The door was locked, so she walked to the second building. Inside she found a tangle of complex stainless steel piping attached to various sizes of vats and pressure vessels. It looked similar to the larger pharmaceutical labs Nancy had raided during a joint task force she had served on with the DEA. But these vessels were far larger. And most importantly, it didn’t smell like a meth lab. Small-scale meth labs could often be smelled by neighbors a mile away. But here the smell wasn’t bad. Only a faint, bitter odor that reminded her of almonds.

She walked slowly around the deserted building, probing with her flashlight. On the far end of the room she found a pile of what appeared to be a root vegetable she didn’t recognize, although it was similar to potatoes or yams.

She examined one, which was frozen to a rocklike consistency. She tossed it back in the pile and continued surveying the room.

It was clear as she followed the pipes that the roots were being ground up, the liquid residue piped into a large vat. That vat led to a series of increasingly small steel vessels. Something was being distilled from the roots, and perhaps chemically altered. She reviewed the various naturally derived drugs she was aware of: cocaine, heroin, khat, THC, psilocybin. None of them came from root vegetables.

At the far end of the room was the smallest of the vessels. It appeared to be refrigerated—though that seemed a little unnecessary today. At the bottom of the vessel was a small petcock. She turned the petcock. A single drop of a thin clear liquid ran from the petcock and fell to the concrete floor where it rapidly froze. She considered touching it, but then decided that might not be wise.

Was it possible, she wondered, to synthesize some kind of explosive compound, like nitroglycerin, from a vegetable? If so, she would be wise not to mess with it. She walked out of the shed and around to the other building. The door was reinforced with heavy steel. She drew her Glock and fired point-blank into the door bolt. Dahlgren had forced her to give up her service weapon, so this was a spare she kept on hand. It took half a magazine to finally blow a hole in the door so she could get in.

The room inside was spacious and appeared to be some sort of dormitory. Along one wall stood a row of bunk beds with personal items lying here and there—photographs, a Bible, several dog-eared magazines written in French, with pictures of people Nancy took to be Africans. It was clear that nobody was living here now. The room was nearly as cold as the ten-degree weather outside. On the far side of the wall was a small kitchen. She walked over and found several pots and pans on the stove, one of them full of scorched food. It was as if everyone had left the place in a hurry, before they could even remove their food off the stove.

Whoever had lived here was now probably buried beneath the snow.

Oddly, the rest of the room was empty. It seemed like an awful lot of space for the use it had been put to. Looking around some more, she noticed a foot-long smear of blood on the polished concrete floor. And now, having keyed in on this first blood, she noticed other jagged streaks of dried blood—like the brushwork of a desperate painter. Crusted in one of these was a clot of hair. Then, she felt her eyes begin to sting.

She became aware of the smell of almonone Q of almonds, and within a minute, Nancy’s throat tickled uncomfortably, her nose burned, and she began to feel nauseated. She walked outside and took several deep breaths. The fresh, frigid air burned her nasal passages, even as it relieved the tickling sensation.

A survey of the perimeter revealed a huge air-conditioning unit that looked more suited to a far larger building. Still feeling woozy, she went and sat back down in the Jeep. She had left the vehicle running and was comfortable inside.

She considered heading back to the Wilmot house but decided to take one last circuit of the dormitory building. The wind was bitter cold, and although she understood that she had no choice, she was immediately sorry she hadn’t stayed in the Jeep. Back inside the big room filled with beds, the almond smell seemed even more noxious—as if she were more sensitive to it now than she had been earlier. Suddenly her stomach cramped up. She ran outside and threw up in the snow.

And then, suddenly, she understood. It was like watching the fractured pieces of a puzzle knit themselves together into a unified picture.

Cyanide. Wilmot and Collier were manufacturing cyanide gas.

She ran to the Jeep, climbed in, and began driving quickly up the road. Get to a phone.

The Jeep bumped and slammed as she forced the aging four-wheel-drive vehicle down the slippery rutted road. She could see the house in front of her when she remembered Evan’s wheelchair lying across the logging trail. Driving down here, she had steered carefully around the abandoned wheelchair. But her racing mind had forgotten that, and now the big lump in the snow rose up suddenly before her. She yanked the wheel to the right.

The Jeep pitched up onto its left wheels, hanging there for what seemed an interminable moment, before rolling over.

Once, twice, then a third time.

Nancy hadn’t worn her seat belt. She felt herself slamming hard against the floor—or what seemed like the floor until she realized it was actually the roof.

The Jeep lay quietly, the noise of its impact muffled by the snow. From her inverted position Nancy could see the big house only a few hundred yards away, its windows lit up bright yellow against the whiteness of the snow.

She crawled out of the Jeep and felt something very wrong with her left leg. The pain was acute. Although she could barely put any weight on her leg, she began hobbling toward the house, which suddenly seemed very far away.

33

WASHINGTON, DC

Dale Wilmot and John Collier landed at Reagan National Airport, where they rented a gray Buick Enclave—an SUV guaranteed to attract no attention. They drove back to the hangar, loaded their luggage into the vehicle, then proceeded to downtown Washington, DC, where they checked into a suite at the Hay-Adams Hotel. The two men declined the assistance of a bellman and unloaded the vehicle themselves. Collier had managed to pack their equipment into several suitcases that fit neatly on the steel luggage cart.

Once they were in their suite, Collier turned on his laptop and beganInsssssss T‡ to review his notes on an encrypted file. But Wilmot found himself unable to concentrate and walked out onto the balcony overlooking the mall. Night had fallen, but the Washington Monument and the Capitol were brightly lit.

Despite its catastrophic government, this remained a great country. Even now, especially now, he felt a rush of patriotic pride when he saw the great dome of the Capitol building.

He wondered what Evan would think, knowing what he was about to do. In the breast pocket of his jacket, Wilmot carried the letter he hoped would explain his actions to his son. If not tomorrow, then someday, Wilmot hoped Evan would understand.

Wilmot recalled the first time he had looked down at Evan lying burned and broken in Walter Reed, his face slick with antibiotic ointment. He found himself wondering: if God himself offered to make his boy whole again in exchange for Wilmot aborting the mission he and Collier had planned, would he take the offer?

As he took in the majestic view, he decided that he wouldn’t.

Fate had dealt him this hand precisely because of who he was: the only man capable of taking the harsh but necessary action of punishing those most responsible for ruining the state of the union.

“All set,” Collier said as he joined Wilmot on the balcony. “Christ, it’s cold out here.”

“I didn’t even notice,” Wilmot said.

“Are you hungry?”

“I am,” Wilmot said, not looking at the young man. He wished Evan were here. The truth was that whatever anger he had once felt toward his son had faded long ago. The young man had made a choice, a courageous choice, certainly not one that many people in his shoes would have made.

“Should I order room service?” Collier asked.

Wilmot realized that the last person he wanted to share his last meal with was Collier.

“If you don’t mind, John, I think I’ll dine alone,” Wilmot said.

“Sure. Yeah. Okay.” Collier’s voice was etched with disappointment, but Wilmot didn’t care a tinker’s damn how John Collier felt. He was now, as he’d always been, an ugly, stunted person—angry, vicious, and weak.

Wilmot went down to the Lafayette Room. It was full of people he’d seen on television, even a few he’d met in person. But nobody approached him, nobody asked him how he was doing. Which was just as well. At the moment Wilmot preferred his own company.

Normally, he was a beer man, but tonight he was in the mood to celebrate. He called over the sommelier.

“Suppose this was your last meal,” he said. “What would you drink?”

The sommelier didn’t miss a beat, and suggested a Château d’Yquem ’61.

“No. Something American.”

“I see,” the sommelier smiled conspiratorially. “Because of the State of the Union tomorrow. I have just the thing.”

The sommelier brois aelier brought out a big cabernet bottled in 1983 by a Napa Valley winery Wilmot had never heard of. He almost sent it back when he was told that it cost nearly six hundred dollars. But then he thought, what’s the point of being rich if you were too cheap to blow a few hundred bucks on a bottle of wine on the most important day of your life?

Wilmot ate a steak, a bone-in filet, very rare, with a baked potato drenched in sour cream and butter, and declined the salad. Only a squirrel would eat a pile of leaves for a last meal. He smiled to himself. He had never enjoyed a meal so much in all his life.

The sommelier refilled his glass until the bottle was empty. He didn’t feel drunk, but he noticed he had trouble holding his fork steady. He ate a slice of apple pie with vanilla ice cream for dessert, but the magic seemed to have drained out of the moment. He asked the waiter to scare him up an Opus X cigar, then paid his bill with a generous tip, and went for a walk along Pennsylvania Avenue.

Low, ragged clouds covered the moon as he walked past the White House and lit the Opus. Normally it was his favorite cigar, but today it tasted harsh and sour. Looking at the Capitol in the distance he felt suddenly impatient. He wanted to get the show on the road. He tossed the cigar onto the street, where it skittered across the asphalt with a shower of sparks. A pencil-necked geek in a Prius cursed at him as he slowed for a red light.

He felt the low flame of anger kindling inside him. When he was a young man he would have run up and given the little shithead a beat-down. Something in Wilmot’s smile must have scared the driver, though, because he peeled out of there as soon as the light turned green.

Wilmot started back to the hotel, feeling ready. It was time to teach a lesson to the people who had taken everything from him. It was time to change the country. It was time to make history.

When he entered the lobby, he withdrew the letter he’d written to Evan, and reread the last paragraph.

As horrible as the events of this day have been, they were also necessary. The corrupt and cynical gang of thieves and madmen who call themselves our government have grown like a cancer that will kill its host unless it is removed. Today we, the people of the United States of America, have finally been given a chance to remove this cancer and to reclaim this great nation as our own. I hope that, in time, you will come to understand why I have done what I have done, and that you will be as proud of me as I have been of you.

With love,

Your father

He put the letter back in the envelope and addressed it to Evan. Then he handed it to the clerk.

“Would you mail this for me in the morning?” he asked.

“Certainly, sir.”

“And I’ll need a five AM wake-up call.”

“Of course.”

Then Dale Wilmot went upstairs to bed.

34

TYSONS CORNER, VIRGINIA

Dr. Nathan Klotz slept soundly in the king-size bed next to his two daughters. With their mother working double shifts providing security for the State of the Union address, the girls insisted on a sleepover. He had not objected because it was easier to have them in the bed than to wake up every two hours when they called out for Mommy. He missed his wife, too, but the pride he took in her job made him miss her a little less.

Downstairs, the remains of the meal they had defrosted and cooked were still on the table. Dr. Klotz had been too tired to clean up after bathing and reading to the children, so he left the dishes and planned to deal with them in the morning. There was very little left over anyway; his wife was an excellent cook. Even the girls had polished off their plates.

Had he been awake and clicked on the real-time surveillance monitor his wife had installed on their desktop computer, he might have seen the old Honda that had passed before his house three times before finally stopping.

35

TYSONS CORNER, VIRGINIA

Tillman knew he’d have to make a decision sooner than later.

Until now, he had smiled and nodded at Verhoven’s crazed political observations and had followed his orders without questioning them. But if he went much further, he’d be committing crimes that could get him sent to prison for the rest of his life.

Verhoven drove by the house slowly in the old Honda. It was like a dozen other houses on the same street in Tysons Corner: two-car garage, two stories, dormer windows, wood siding painted in one of the three colors of beige approved by the neighborhood association. They planned to invade it and hold its occupants hostage. Tillman’s heart was thumping uncomfortably as he weighed whether to go through with the operation or turn his gun on Verhoven and Lorene.

The problem was that he had still not learned enough about how the principal attack would go down, and the part they were supposed to play in it. Would the plot fail or be aborted if Verhoven didn’t execute his part of the plan? Or would the plan just have to be adjusted in some minor way? Could Tillman stop the killing of hundreds of people if he preempted whatever was about to go down in the home of Dr. Nathan Klotz?

“One more pass,” Tillman said as Verhoven slowed the car. He was stalling for time.

“Why?”

“This is a normal-looking neighborhood, but the house has four pan-and-scan video surveillance cameras on the eaves. My guess is they’re mounted on motion-activated servos. Whoever lives here is not some normal suburban Joe.”

“That’s immaterial to your role here.”

“Dammit,” Tillman said. “You’re a drug dealer who runs around in the woods with a bunch of dumb kids playing war. I’m a professional. This is what I do. Looking at this place, I can tell you that if we mess up on one single aspect of the op, we will be royally and irrevocably fucked.”

“This is a need-to-know—”

“I’m very familiar with what need-to-know means, Jim.” Tillman was hauling out his most intimidating Special Forces NCO demeanor. “And right now I need to know what we’re doing here. No offense, but you’re in over your head.”

“Oh, I am?” Verhoven glared icily at him.

Tillman met Verhoven’s gaze and glared right back at him. After a moment Verhoven looked away.

“One more drive-by,” Tillman said, “and this time you tell me every goddamn thing you know. Or I’m getting out of this car and hiking off into the wild blue yonder.”

The car was quiet.

Lorene was lying prone in the backseat, and she propped herself up. “We need him,” she said softly.

Verhoven grimaced, then continued around the block and said, “Look, I don’t know any specifics about the individual who owns this home. All I know is that there is a state-of-the-art security system, top-notch surveillance, the windows and doors are bullet resistant, and there’s a safe room on the upper floor.”

“Are we here to kill these people?”

“No,” Verhoven said. “Our mission is to capture the occupants and keep them alive. There are three people in the house—an adult male and two children, ages four and six. We are to capture and control these three individuals, hold the premises, and await further instructions.”

“From who?”

“I’ve told you all you need to know,” Verhoven said. “And more than I should have.”

“Is there a wife? Girlfriend?”

“Wife. But she’s not home.”

“So what are the Barrett and the incendiary rounds for?”

“In case they make it to the safe room.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Tillman said. “You’ll burn down the house and everyone inside. Those .50s could blast through the rest of the house like tissue paper and burn down the next three houses on the block.”

“I don’t anticipate letting them reach the safe room.” Verhoven stopped the car and stared stiffly straight ahead. Tillman heard the irritation in his voice.