He found a door that opened on the little combination kitchen-dining room and risked a glance through windows that had not been washed in years. There was no sign of life inside the darkened room, but he caught a hint of shadowed movement through a doorway leading to the living room beyond. If they were concentrated there, he had an opportunity to take them unaware and nail them down before they could react against the hostages.
He worked a thin stiletto along the door jamb, raised the screen door's latch and held his breath against the possibility of rusty, squeaking hinges. When the door swung back without a sound, he used one knee to hold it open, concentrating on the dead bolt that secured the kitchen door in place. It took a moment, but his pick eventually overcame the tumblers and he eased the door ajar, prepared for any challenge from the darkness, any sound that might betray an enemy within.
He stood inside the kitchen with the silver Lawgleg in his hand, the smell of dust and ancient Pinesol in his nostrils. It was time for thunder, and he left the sleek Beretta in its armpit sheath as backup to the heavy .44 AutoMag in his fist. The soldier had already milked surprise for all that it was worth; when he emerged to face the enemy, he wanted them to hear his thunder, smell the gun smoke that accompanied cleansing flames.
And it was down to seconds now, a span of heartbeats, waiting for Brognola to complete his move and find a suitable position in the front. He heard the doomsday numbers falling in his head and knew that soon he would be forced to move, regardless of Brognola's readiness. Before the gunners panicked and decided to proceed without a call. Before one of them started getting hungry and emerged to fix himself a snack.
Before it was too late for all concerned.
Outside, Brognola pressed himself against the wall surrounded by the thorny hedges that had sheltered his approach. Thick drapes were drawn across the picture window to his left, preventing any glimpses inside the safe house or learning anything of Helen and the kids. They must be still inside, he guessed; the cleanup crew would not be here unless they still had work to do.
But were the hostages alive?
It violated every regulation in the nonexistent book for gunners to eliminate their marks inside a safe house. Still, things happened in the field that could not be anticipated in an office. Not in Langley, not in Washington, not even in the White House. Circumstances altered cases, and he knew the gunners must be itchy now, aware that they were running overtime. They would be anxious to evacuate the premises, and carrying a body would be easier than shepherding a hostage any day.
The man from Justice made his mind a blank, deliberately expunging visions of his wife and children stretched out on the floor inside, already zippered into body bags or wrapped in plastic shower curtains for the ride to an incinerator or construction site where they would simply disappear. The Company was good at working disappearances, although its paid magicians usually practiced out of country. So there was all the more incentive to see the job behind them before somebody dropped a wrench into the works. If they were taken in the midst of pulling down domestic violence, if the slightest hint should find its way to the Senate oversight committees, all concerned were in the soup. They didn't need that kind of heat at Langley, and Clandestine Ops would move the earth to keep it quiet.
Brognola's mission, failing to secure Helen and the children, would be simply to ensure that all involved survivors, anyway were treated to a dose of grand publicity. He thought of Susan Landry, other contacts he had cultivated in the media, in Congress, and he knew that he could pull it off.
Unless he bought the farm right now.
Survival was the first priority, at least until he was convinced that he had come too late for his family. If he came too late to save them, then survival paled beside the grim priority of personal revenge.
But he could not be sure until he was inside. Until he saw them for himself.
For now his target was the door, ten feet away. It was secured with double locks and opened on the living room or so he had surmised without an opportunity to case the floor plans. The gunners would be concentrated there, and he would stand a sixty-forty chance of being riddled on the threshold if he moved too soon. It all came down to Bolan now, and while he waited, Hal prepared himself to do or die.
The Bulldog .44 had been reloaded after Arlington, and now its weight was reassuring in his fist, a tangible extension of his rage. The snubby .38 was in his other hand, a lighter weapon, every bit as deadly with its load of Glaser Safety Slugs. He would be forced to kick the door the Glasers wouldn't penetrate but with the anger and frustration churning in his stomach, Hal was certain that it wouldn't be a problem.
Getting in was easy. Getting out alive was something else again.
The animals inside were not the authors of his pain. They were performing under orders like attack dogs on the leash, and he would not be satisfied until he found their trainer, looked the bastard squarely in the eye and pushed a bullet through his guts. A Glaser, if he still had any left when he was finished here. If not... well, he would have to improvise.
Fifteen seconds later he had worked his way along the wall until he reached the porch, ignoring thorns that snagged his trench coat, plowing bloody furrows on his hands and wrists. The pain was nothing. His mind was on the mission... and what lay beyond.
Ten seconds, and he stood before the silent door with guns in hand, his pulse a numbing drumbeat in his ears. If Bolan was on schedule, he would be inside by now. If he had been delayed... then what? Then nothing, dammit. Hal was going in regardless, holding to the schedule that they had agreed upon.
He had not come this far, endured this much, to stall and blow the only fleeting chance that he might ever have. If there was any chance at all it lay within, and Hal was grabbing for it, reaching out to catch the lifeline that could save him yet or, failing contact, that could pitch him into outer darkness, save him from the burning ache that had resided in his stomach since he walked into the empty cabin... how long ago?
It seemed like forever.
Whatever life was left for him lay inside, and he was only seconds away from a close encounter with his destiny.
Ten minutes come and gone without a call. Blake Lindsay checked his watch once more and muttered something unintelligible as he retrieved his mini-Uzi from the couch beside him.
Grymdyke must be fucking crazy to ignore the schedule as he had. It was unheard of leaving agents in the field without their orders, hanging on with hostages in tow and no idea of what was happening outside. Blake didn't give a damn about the drop at Arlington, whichever way it went, but he had been assured by Grymdyke his control that there would be a call no later than 1:30. It was now 1:43, and he could think of no excuse for stalling Gino and Carmine any longer. They were itching to be out of there, and he could not restrain them any longer. It was time to leave.
Another minute wouldn't hurt, he thought, and then decided against it. If Grymdyke had intended to make contact, he would certainly have called by now. His negligence was inexcusable, and Lindsay meant to take it up with his superiors unless he had a change of heart and dealt with Milo on his own.
It would be satisfying, but there were the realities of life within the Company to be considered. Protocol and channels, all that kind of bureaucratic bullshit. He had Grymdyke dead to rights, but there were ways and means of dealing with a drone who couldn't pull his weight. It wasn't like the old days when you took some bastard on an outing to the Everglades and left him there. Perhaps in Third World fields of operation, if you covered up your tracks, but these domestic jobs required a different level of finesse.