Gibson grinned and put the binos back up to his eyes. “Yup, you’re the team leader.”
Swanson swept the area with his scope, trying hard to maintain mental focus. That this was a safe house was a guarantee that there would be access to weapons, gear, and money. But the walls would be thicker than normal, the courtyard could be a killing zone, entries could be booby-trapped, and sensors and cameras could be hidden, along with tricky alarms. Luke should have told him about this before they came. And his father was a spook, too? Slow down. Improvise. Carry out the mission.
He motioned for Gibson to spread away and skirt the big outer wall to the left while he went right; they would meet in the rear. Gibson nodded and snake-crawled away, fading from sight within seconds. Swanson moved closer, extending a hand to touch the wall. It was just the usual brick-hard clay found around most houses in the region, a way to maintain privacy and safety while keeping predators from the animals. It was about eight feet high and no doubt topped by broken glass along the lip to discourage anyone from climbing over. He slowly worked his way forward, finding no trace of alarms or cameras. The wall was aged and patched, and Swanson thought it was more for show than anything else. He neither heard nor smelled any animals, and there were no tracks. Maybe Gibson was right and nobody was home.
Step by step, he moved along until he reached the far corner, where he pressed against the wall before doing a peekaboo that exposed his head for only a moment. Gibson was right there, leaning against the wall, waiting with his snubby Heckler & Koch MP5KA submachine gun dangling from one hand. Gibson gave a thumbs-up, and Swanson moved closer as they both took a knee.
“Clear back that way,” Gibson reported.
“I assume you know the way in?” he whispered, face to face. If it was a safe house, there would be some emergency ingress and egress points.
Gibson motioned directly above where they stood. “No obstacles at that point up top. Same on the front eastern corner. Soft landings on the other side. A tunnel leads from the bedroom out to the goat pen for a fast getaway.”
Made sense, Swanson thought. “We’ll go over here. You first.” He hung Excalibur on his shoulder and laced his fingers together to make a stirrup. “Give me your foot.”
Gibson gave him a funny look, slinging his HK. “It’s only eight feet, Kyle,” he said, and jumped. His fingers snared the clear spot and he hauled himself up in one smooth motion, confident of what was up there. Swanson handed up the long sniper rifle and pulled himself up while Gibson dropped into the courtyard with hardly a sound. As promised, there were no shards of glass or embedded nails to slow their progress. Swanson went over, picked up his rifle, and strapped it over his back. The barrel length would be of no use in close, so he slid his preferred sidearm, a Colt .45 pistol, from its nylon holster.
Snipers are creatures of their surroundings, and the courtyard was an entirely different environment than beyond the wall. Although the enclosure was open to the sky, it was essentially cut off from outside influences. Their night vision had to make some adjustments, too. Slowly, things began to materialize and take shape in the vague light; the open space was no nest of junk, but neat and orderly. Solid black became deep purple. A slight breeze outside might be unfelt inside. Noise would be amplified or reduced on different sides of the wall, and it was so quiet that he heard a small flotilla of birds flutter overhead. Humidity would be different. While making the necessary physical adjustment, Swanson grabbed Gibson hard on the shoulder in an urgent warning.
When Gibson turned, Swanson gestured as if he were puffing on a cigarette and pointed toward the house. He had smelled cigarette smoke. Gibson dropped all pretense of laziness and went on point, steady as a bird dog. He could smell it, too, and brought the HK to his shoulder as he studied the shadows. The aroma was familiar. It was Marks’s favorite brand. Gibson nodded that he understood.
Swanson fought back his anticipation. This was no time to get stupid. They communicated with hand signals, deciding to make a two-direction entry: Swanson in the back door and Gibson bursting through the front as soon as he heard Swanson yell. No matter how good Mr. Marks was, he couldn’t take out two professional CIA shooters hitting at the same time.
Swanson had been doing this sort of thing for years, so stalking a target was thoroughly ingrained in him. Back on his belly, he started the crawl toward the rear portal, inching over the approximately twenty feet to his goal. Survival depended on remaining invisible. A bucket was in the way, and he wormed around it. The earth pressed against his body. Excalibur was an added weight and rode at an awkward angle, and although he would rather not take it off, it would be a hindrance in any close-quarters dance. He silently removed the rifle and propped the barrel against the house. Picked up the .45. Back to crawling. Slow, small, precise movements would get him where he wanted to go.
The smell of smoke lingered in the air like a sour, tantalizing perfume as Swanson worked his way forward. Their quarry must be in the front room. No lights were on. Swanson made it to the single poured-concrete step and studied the door. It was open about two inches. Why? To catch some night breeze, or an invitation to a trap? In an instant, Swanson voted for a trap. This was too easy. A seasoned operator like Nicky Marks smoking a telltale cigarette and leaving a door unlocked and open?
The unexpected, deafening crash of a flash-bang grenade tore the silence, followed by a lightning-bright burn of incandescence. It sparkled Swanson’s night vision for a few heartbeats, and he wondered why Gibson changed the plan so abruptly. He shook his head and charged inside, stumbling over a chair as he bolted into the room swirling with acrid smoke.
“GET YOUR HANDS UP, SWANSON! GET ’EM UP! DROP YOUR WEAPON!”
Swanson saw a shadow in the smoke transform into a full figure and he recognized Nicky Marks, rooted in a shooting stance, both hands around the butt of a Glock pistol with a laser sight mounted on the rail. The pinpoint scarlet streak cut through the smoke and danced on Swanson’s face. An error!
Swanson didn’t hesitate. He did a halfback juke to the left and the red dot followed, then he planted his weight on his right foot and leaped directly at Marks with a war cry of his own.
Marks pulled the trigger and a single shot rang out, but the bullet buzzed past wide to the left, missing by no more than an inch and splintering the chair where Swanson had been a moment earlier. Marks had screwed up. Overconfident. Swanson felt no fear as he closed in, piloted by instinct.
The pistol swung back as Swanson tackled Marks around the waist, beneath the gun, slamming him against the wall, off balance and back on his heels. Marks got off another wild shot before Kyle smashed down on the gun hand with his own pistol. Both weapons flew away in the collision. The red streak spun crazily, and Swanson logged that information away: Both guns out of the fight.
The aggressor now, he grabbed Marks by the collar, feeling the man squirm as he searched for a hold of his own. Swanson freed his left hand just long enough to smack a sharp elbow strike aimed at the nose, but Marks turned his face aside. It was only a glancing blow.
Marks drove a hard flat hand just below Swanson’s sternum, and although there was no room for a follow-through, he dug into the abs as if trying to pull out the liver. At some other time, in some other situation, the strike might have been painful, but with the adrenaline pumping it was no more than an insect bite to Swanson. Still, it was enough of a technical score to force him to oof out a breath and lean away.