“Yes, sir.”
“And call DC. We need HRT up here yesterday. We need air support. We need . . . Hold on.” He felt a gloomy, corrosive anger pouring over him, but he knew the boys were counting on him to stay cool, so he concentrated on keeping his voice commanding but conversational. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Director Wilson? Yes, sir, Dahlgren here. I’m afraid things have gone sideways on us up in West Virginia. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. We’re probably looking at a standoff. It’s that moron Gideon Davis. He provoked this entire thing, I’m afraid.”
Tillman trotted up the creek bed in a crouch, hoping to turn the sniper’s flank. In about fifty yards the cut through which the creek flowed began to flatten out, decreasing the amount of cover available to him. He went to his knees, then to a low crawl, finally slithering out behind a clump of rhododendron.
It took a moment for his eyes to pierce their camouflage, but eventually he was able to make out the sniper and his spotter. They wore ghillie suits with vegetation shoved here and there to break up their outlines and make them blend into the surrounding woods. The suit was hiked up enough on one of the men that he could make out big white letters on the back of his shirt:
FBI.
So they were Feds.
Tillman considered what to do. Shooting them was out of the question. He considered simply bailing into the woods and leaving Lorene to die. But he didn’t like that option for a variety of reasons. Leaving a woman to die—no matter how crazy or deadly she might be—just wasn’t his style. Besides, another plan was beginning to form in his mind. Until he could bounce it off Gideon, though, he had two well-trained and well-armed men lying not thirty yards in front of them, men who wouldn’t mind a bit if he was dead, but who he couldn’t respond to with lethal force.
The spotter was situated behind a 20-power scope, an M-4 in his right hand, periodically spraying a barely aimed three-round burst at the area where Lorene was still concealed. It was obvious that his primary concern was not Tillman and Lorene, though. He was focused on the spotting scope, still calling whispered shots to the shooter, who was picking out targets of opportunity down near the house. The shooter lay prone behind his bolt gun, eye to the scope, oblivious to everything but the image in his scope.
Tillman pulled out the balaclava he was carrying and slid it down over his head unt th caril it covered his face and neck. As much as anything else, he needed not to be recognized by the men he was about to take on. He crept closer. Eventually the spotter exhausted the magazine on his M-4. As he rolled onto his side to feed another mag into the carbine, Tillman charged out into the opening and jumped between them.
“Don’t even think about moving,” he said softly, the Glock aimed at the spotter’s face.
The spotter was a big, hard-looking man. Ex-military unless Tillman missed his guess. Tillman could see the spotter was deciding whether or not to make a grab for his sidearm. The shooter swiveled his head around and then froze like a deer in the headlights. Tillman knew that in sniper teams, the spotter was generally the more senior and experienced man. Whatever the spotter did, Tillman was counting on the shooter to follow his lead. Control the spotter, he’d control the team.
Before the guy could make a wrong decision Tillman planted his boot on the spotter’s hand, and said softly, “Guys, I’m not here to hurt you. But I will kill you if you don’t do exactly what I tell you to do.” He was keeping his voice low. The plan forming in his mind required Lorene to remain ignorant of what he was up to. “Spotter, pull out your SIG with your thumb and index finger, taking great care not to get your finger near the trigger. Then drop the mag and very carefully pull the slide back and show me clear.”
The spotter seemed oddly reassured by Tillman’s professional manner. After only the briefest hesitation, he unloaded his SIG.
“Now the same with the M-4 . . .”
Once the spotter was disarmed, Tillman ran through the same drill with the shooter, making him unload his sidearm and the Remington 700 bolt gun. Having disarmed both men, he whispered to the spotter, “Give me your radio.”
The spotter did as he was told.
Tillman screwed the radio into his ear just in time to hear a commanding voice on the other end say, “Sniper team, retreat to your rally points. We’re falling back to consolidate our position. Repeat. Retreat to your rally point at this time. Copy?”
“Say ‘Roger,’” Tillman said to the sniper. “Not one word more, not one word less.”
The sniper didn’t hesitate. He hit the send button on his radio and said, “Roger.”
“You guys have been ordered back to your objective rally point,” Tillman said to the spotter. “I’m gonna make a deal with you. I’m gonna let you take your weapons with you. Load ’em up when you get back to the rally point, your boss’ll never know I got the drop on you.”
The two men looked at each other, then nodded.
“What’s your name, spotter?”
“Crane,” the big man said.
“Agent Crane, you can tell your commander your radio got hit, whatever, you lost the thing. You don’t mention me, nobody’s ever gonna be the wiser what a shit job you did of holding your position. Hoo-ah?”
“Hoo-ah,” Crane said, confirming Tillman’s guess that the man had served d & lmain the military before joining the FBI.
“All right guys . . . bolt comes off the 700, upper comes off the M-4, slides come off the SIGs, stow all the pieces in your drag bag. Then I’m gonna fire four or five shots in the air. Soon as I fire, you start running. Got it?”
The two looked confused.
“You don’t need to know what my agenda is, boys,” Tillman said in his best NCO voice. “Just do what I say. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
The two Feds stowed their weapons in the sniper’s camouflaged drag bag, the bag used to protect the sniper rifle while crawling into position.
“I was never here,” Tillman said. “You never saw me.”
Without waiting for an answer, he fired the Glock into the ground close enough to spatter dirt in their faces. Ba-bang. Ba-bang. Bang.
The men were gone within seconds.
Tillman waited until they had disappeared completely into the trees, then sprinted to the creek bed, where he found Lorene lying on her side, pale and sweating.
“What happened?” she croaked. “I heard shooting.”
“They’re dead,” he said. “Now let’s get you back to your husband.”
Surprisingly the firing had ceased within a matter of minutes. Tillman was unsure what had happened, what had driven the FBI to withdraw from contact. He suspected that they had not brought enough agents to take on Verhoven’s men.
Whatever the case, by the time he and the pale and bloody Lorene had reached the Verhoven house, no one was shooting.
“Thank God!” Verhoven said as Tillman brought her in the back door, supporting most of her weight. “What happened?”
“I caught one,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to smile. “I’m okay, though. Tillman saved me.”
“In here,” Verhoven said, pointing to a guest bedroom on the first floor.
The mood inside the house was tense and chaotic. Despite all the maneuvers and range practice, this was the first time any of them had ever exchanged live fire, and several were clearly in shock. Two had thrown up, and one was pacing a tight line back and forth, muttering repeatedly, “What are we going to do? What are we going to do?”
“Sir,” one of the young men said, “the guys think we should surrender.”