They had left the black SUV parked alongside the other large and luxurious vehicles in this upscale neighborhood. Quickly exiting the vehicle, they moved across the back lots, out of the streetlights to approach the target residence of the evening.
This was their last chance. It was the fourth break-in over the three days since their insane escape from the police station in the Catskill Mountains. They had tried to lay as low as possible, and fortunately, the destruction of the police station had prevented the distribution of any photographs of their new appearances. These they maintained, enhanced, even as they were always careful never to stay in one place too long or expose any form of real identification in anything they did.
They still could not reach Fred Simon, but the man he had sent to free them from capture had provided a set of useful items. ATM cards linked to unknown bank accounts. Credit cards with false names that issued no alerts. Firearms and ammunition. It was nearly a fugitive survival kit.
At an out-of-the-way motel in New Jersey the first night after their escape, they had begun a systematic search through the names they found in the documents on Miller’s computer. One after another, they had held stakeouts of the residences. When no one showed, they would break into the houses, canvas every square inch for panic rooms, information, anything they could find.
They consistently found nothing. No one was ever home. No secret rooms concealed frightened men. No information on computers or in filing cabinets. The houses showed all the appearance of being abandoned. Dust collected on the furniture, food rotted in the refrigerators, and mail piled in the boxes. The occupants had fled and were not coming back. Lopez couldn’t blame them. They were being hunted by a fierce creature that showed no mercy.
Houston broke their enforced silence as they approached an iron fence ringing the property they sought. “This is it, Francisco. We’ve done the alphabet. Zulu.”
Lopez found it ridiculous, these spy codes. Once an enemy had obtained the key, it was all for nothing. Miller’s computer had been compromised. Now all the players and their little codes were open to them. Assuming you can find them.
He raised the pistol she had given him from the SUV stash and checked the safety as she had instructed. Houston watched him with disapproval. “You need proper firearms training. One of these nights you’re going to trip and shoot me in the back.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” said Lopez. “Have you identified the security system yet?” It was their pattern. Houston would spend some time finding and then disabling the home security systems, while Lopez kept watch. And I try not to shoot her in the back.
“No, let’s move along the fence to the front of the house.”
“We’ll be exposed.”
“I know that!” she snapped. “But I’m guessing that the main circuitry runs through the gate up there in this place. I don’t know where else it could be. We’ve nearly been around the entire perimeter.”
Lopez nodded and followed her forward as they crouched low along the six-foot-high fencing. The fatigue and stress were draining their patience. Houston always found some clever way to bypass security systems — he didn’t doubt her tonight. But he remembered the past failures. They would spend hours searching through the home, only to decide half an hour before sunrise that it was for nothing. Then they would steal out, careful not to alert any neighbors, and drive back to whatever motel they were staying at for the day. There they would crash, sleeping off the long hours, to rise the following evening for the next house.
The sudden appearance of a pair of headlights signaled that tonight would be different. A lone car pulled into the cul-de-sac and stopped almost violently in front of the gate. Lopez and Houston instinctively crouched lower, their dark clothing and the black of the metal fencing camouflaging them. A lithe, middle-aged man exited the vehicle, quietly closing the door. He looked around anxiously but did not spot them. Satisfied, he held up a remote control, tapped a code into it, and the gate began to open slowly.
“Jackpot,” whispered Houston, the first smile in days flashing across her face. They watched him enter and then quickly sprinted to the front of the property. Just as they reached the entrance and stepped through the gate, they saw him push open the front door and move quickly inside. The gate had not even completely opened yet.
Near the entrance, Houston located a signal box for the security system inside the fencing. Within seconds, she had the casing off and was inspecting the circuit board with a set of makeshift tools. “Careless,” she said, smiling. “He deactivated it when he entered and hasn’t toggled back. He must be in a hurry.”
“And anxious,” said Lopez. Their eyes locked.
“Zulu,” said Houston, turning her attention back to the box. “It’s a brittle serial architecture. Now that I’m inside, I can kill the entire thing from here.”
“Well, do it! We’re in the stage lights here!” said Lopez, feeling like the eyes of the community were boring down on them.
“It’s done,” she said, her eyes darting toward the house. “Let’s find another way in.”
They raced around house and found a back door. Without the security system to contend with, Houston simply picked the lock, and they were inside in seconds. Drawing her weapon, she moved carefully and quietly through a large kitchen. A bluish light could be seen faintly emanating from a room down a hallway on the right. Frantic sounds of objects moving and a clacking on a computer keyboard broke through the stillness of the home. Houston nodded toward the hall and the door, and Lopez nodded back. They moved slowly toward the sounds, Houston sliding with her back along the wall until she came to a stop beside the door. Lopez copied her movements and followed.
With a sudden spin and jump, Houston was straddling the doorway, her firearm aimed inwardly. There was a scream from inside and the sound of glass shattering. Lopez leapt into the room behind her.
“Don’t move!” she yelled, walking slowly forward.
Lopez saw a frightened-looking man standing awkwardly next to a computer terminal. A gun was on the desktop a few feet from him, and a shattered picture frame lay between his outstretched hand and the weapon. He looked back and forth between the two intruders and gasped.
“You!”
Houston motioned with her weapon for him to step away from the desk. “Who were you expecting?” The man didn’t answer, but he moved as she commanded. “Oh, I know! The killers. The wolves hunting you and your dirty little program down.”
Lopez stared in shock. He knew that man, that face. He had seen it on too many television reports, in too many magazines. Mark Blobel. The director of the CIA Renditions Branch for a number of years. It was surreal that he stood in the same room with this man, even stranger that they were pointing a gun at him.
“You don’t understand!” yelled the former branch director.
“Oh, but we do, Zulu,” she said, smiling at his second gasp.
“How do you know that name?”
“Sit down!” she barked, and Zulu sat on a faded brown couch. His hands twitched as she moved in front of him. “Not to sound too dramatic, Zulu, but you might say we know almost everything.”
“You think you know everything,” he said with a sneer. “But you don’t. Who do you think you are?”
Houston waved Lopez over. “Francisco, see what’s on that monitor. He came back here for something on that machine. I’ll keep my eyes on the little panther here. What were you in your younger days, Zulu? Some sort of martial arts legend, right?”