“Without protocol, everyone is everyone. Russians, Americans, Israelis, Chinese. Everyone.”
“But why?”
Sirens grew louder in the distance.
“Please tell me why.”
The man managed a laugh that triggered a gout of blood from his mouth. He spat but made no effort to wipe it away. “First you kill me and then you ask for favor,” he said. “You have balls. Protocol is your only way to live,” he said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Boy knows. Ask him. Go. Go now and run. Live quickly because I think you will die soon.”
“Jolaine!” Graham yelled. “They’re coming! Don’t you hear the sirens?”
She watched the wounded man’s smile, his contentment obvious. He’d said all he intended to say, and would be dead in minutes.
Jolaine stood and walked around to the driver’s door of the Mercedes. “Out,” she said. “I’m driving.”
“Thank God,” Graham said. He ran to the other side.
His ass had barely touched the seat before she hit the gas and they were on their way.
Protocol is your only way to live.
CHAPTER TWELVE
At one level, Jonathan thought that Venice had the hardest job of all of them. While she didn’t get shot at — well, except for that one time — she had the burden of waiting and listening until someone chimed in with a sitrep. Jonathan didn’t think he’d be able to do it.
It was nearly four in the afternoon now, and the sun hung high and hot over the gently rolling terrain.
“According to Venice’s satellite downloads, this isn’t going to be an easy house to find,” Jonathan said. He knew they were close, but the unrelenting woods were loath to give up driveways. “What’s that up there?” A medical caduceus had been nailed to an otherwise unremarkable tree.
“I see a cross and tangled snakes,” Boxers said. “Doctor shit.”
They turned into the drive, through the heavy woods to another turn at another caduceus, and up to the front of the house. A nice place, bigger than he was expecting, but nothing remarkable in its two-story design.
“Ready for things to get interesting?” Big Guy asked.
“Soon enough,” Jonathan said. “Go to Vox.” From this point on, everything they said would be live on the radio, without having to push a transmit button. “Mother Hen, Scorpion,” he said.
Ten seconds passed. “Go ahead, Scorpion,” Venice said. “I’m here. Nice to hear from you. It’s been a while.”
“Big Guy and I are home now,” Jonathan said, knowing that she’d understand them to be at the target house. “How are your eyes?”
“Still blind,” she answered.
Jonathan had been hoping for satellite support from SkysEye, a satellite imagery service established by his now fabulously wealthy former Unit compatriot named Lee Burns. Built with private funds under the auspices of assisting in petroleum exploration, the SkysEye network had proven to be extraordinarily helpful to Jonathan over the course of his freelance years — well worth the staggering price tag — providing nearly military-quality imagery of fine details from a couple hundred miles in the sky.
Given their past relationship, and the nature of the missions upon which Jonathan embarked, Lee Burns typically moved heaven and earth to accommodate his needs. Sometimes, though, the timing just didn’t work out. Lee had a business to run, after all, and Jonathan imagined that sometimes it would be hard to tell the representatives of Mega-rich Oil Company that their multimillion-dollar contract would have to wait while the system was repurposed to support an illegal operation.
“Big Guy and I are both on VOX,” Jonathan said. “The security plan is hot now.” The security plan mandated situation reports — sitreps — every seven minutes, or more frequently if the situation warranted. Translated, that meant that the risks of getting hurt had just multiplied.
“Speak up, Big Guy,” Venice said.
“Right here,” Boxers replied, thus completing the radio check.
“I’ll take the front,” Jonathan said, “and you take the back. When we’re both in position, I’ll knock. If someone answers, we’ll play it by ear. If they don’t, we’ll crash the door.”
As an afterthought, Jonathan added, “Mother Hen, before we make a mess here, you are one hundred percent sure that this is the house where the car is registered, right?”
“One thousand percent,” Venice replied.
Jonathan looked to Boxers, and Big Guy nodded. “All right, then. Report when you’re in place.”
As Boxers disappeared toward the black side of the building, Jonathan headed toward the white side. Jonathan estimated the age of the place at around thirty years — old enough to need new fascia board but not so old for the need to be urgent. Having traveled the world several times over, mostly focused on the dirty bits that normal people tried to avoid, he’d seen all different terrains, from the vertical to the flat. It occurred to him as he looked back the way they’d come that this place was just boring.
Jonathan hated approaching a building that he only suspected concealed a bad guy. If he knew for a fact that an enemy was in place, he could approach with guns blazing. When less than certain, the mere presence of a firearm could turn a benign situation violent, converting otherwise good guys into bad when they reacted with legitimate fear at the sight of the weapons.
Jonathan walked warily down the weed-infested brick sidewalk with his Colt holstered and concealed by his denim jacket. If needed, he could draw the weapon and have shots downrange in two seconds, but that brought him little comfort. Not many gunfights lasted as long as two seconds.
As he closed the last few feet to the front door, he stopped short as his attention was drawn to the doorjamb. The wood near the dead bolt was splintered, hunks of wood avulsed from the rabbet. The effect was to leave a giant scar of raw, unpainted wood.
It was time to draw down. As he reached for the .45, his earbud popped. “Scorpion, Big Guy,” Boxers said. “I’ve got signs of forced entry back here.”
Just like that, everything changed. “Me, too. Are you prepared to crash the door?” Jonathan asked over the air.
“Oh, yeah.” It was like asking a kid if he was ready for Christmas.
“On my count,” Jonathan said. He gripped the Colt with both hands, thumbed the safety off, and poised it close to his chest, the grip an inch from his breastbone.
“Three… two… one.”
They needed a new car. The Mercedes was still drivable but it had been shot to shit — not suitable for being seen in public.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Jolaine said.
“You killed those people,” Graham said. His eyes were huge. His hands trembled.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Jolaine said. “But we’ve—”
“Don’t apologize.” He seemed appalled that she would even think such a thing. “You were friggin’ amazing. I mean, Christ, they were going to kill us, and you just mowed them down.”
Jolaine appreciated the enthusiasm, despite knowing that after the adrenaline wore off, Graham would suffer from the reality of those images.
Grateful that the streets were relatively empty, but fully aware that she and Graham were far from invisible, she whipped the Mercedes into an alley between two buildings that looked underutilized, if not abandoned. The windows had been soaped, and grass grew through cracks in the pavement. It was exactly the kind of industrial neighborhood that one would expect to be served by the Hummingbird Motel. She created her own parking space next to a bulging Dumpster.
“We need to get out,” she said. “This car is too obvious.” As she spoke, she opened the door. “We need to walk.”