The MP5 used 9mm rounds, which would be largely ineffective against body armor. However, Troy and the other men were not trained to shoot at center mass — between the throat and waist — as most law-enforcement and military personnel were. RCS agents were trained to fire at the head, because most individuals didn’t wear helmets in situations they were involved with. A head shot was obviously more difficult, but also much more effective.
All three submachine guns were outfitted with sound suppressors, which slightly reduced the velocity of the round and therefore its effectiveness, but Troy was willing to give up a certain amount of firepower in exchange for stealth. Hopefully they could neutralize the individuals inside without using guns. But if it turned out otherwise, these weapons outfitted as they were would enable them to pick off enemies one at a time without alerting others. All three guns were also equipped with dual magazine clamps.
“All right, let’s go.”
As the men broke from the trees and approached the tall, four-slat fence, they spread the distance between themselves to make for more difficult targets in case they were being glassed.
“Just confirming we have full license from COC tonight,” Agent Idaho called over in a low voice as they dropped down off the fence and began jogging toward the main house. “Is that correct?”
“That is correct,” Troy confirmed. “If you acquire a target and you believe you are in danger, shoot to kill. Don’t bother asking about intentions.”
“Roger.”
Troy motioned to Agent Idaho by tapping his right ear. Then he veered off from the other two men until he was fifty feet away and then flipped a switch on his belt that engaged the mobile intercom system they were using tonight. “Testing Idaho, come in, Idaho.”
“I got you, Montana.”
“Testing Wyoming, come in, Wyoming.”
“I got you too, Montana.”
Troy veered back toward the other two men as they headed across the field past three horses grazing peacefully on the scraggly grass. He glanced at his watch. It was after midnight.
The Ford Explorer was ten years old and looked every bit its age. The fenders were rusty, its dark blue paint was chipped and fading, and the front seats were in desperate need of reupholstering — the cloth covers were ripped, coffee stained, cigarette burned, and smelled like mildew. But the truck could flat-out fly. Maddux kept the engine and the transmission in perfect condition. He always kept pristine what couldn’t be seen. It was one of his “live by” rules. He believed that things that couldn’t be seen were much more important than things that could. Image was unimportant. Effectiveness was everything.
Too bad he couldn’t fully take advantage of the vehicle’s speed tonight, he thought as he came out of a long, gentle left-hand curve in the middle of the North Carolina countryside east of Raleigh. He couldn’t risk being pulled over. Not with all the guns in the back. Some bored hillbilly cop might want to search the vehicle for anything he could plunder. Then there’d be an ugly incident. Maddux didn’t have any problem with killing a cop if he was getting in the way of what the country needed. It was the time being pulled over would take up that would be the problem. As far as he was concerned, time was life’s most precious gift and was never to be wasted.
It had been a long trip from Pennsylvania, and his interrogation of Imelda seemed like days ago now. He couldn’t shake the fact that she’d watched her child die without giving up any important information. He had no doubt that she was involved in the mall attacks somehow, or at least knew a great deal about them. But she hadn’t said a word. She was an amazing patriot — for the enemy.
Maddux glanced at his watch. It was after midnight. He’d make the Kohler family farm in ten minutes.
A solitary individual, tagged Agent Bridger for the evening, knelt in the thick brush beneath the tree line fifty yards north of where Troy and the other two men had been watching and waiting. Agent Bridger grabbed the nightscope off the ground and watched as Troy and the other two men jumped the fence and headed across the field past the horses toward the main house of the farm.
Troy had no idea he was being watched, but that was for the best. Hopefully there would be no need to intervene. Hopefully everything would go smoothly and Troy would rescue Major Travers without incident.
Agent Bridger stowed the night-vision glasses. It was time to follow Troy and the other two agents. Staying here wouldn’t help them if things got hot in one of the buildings across the pastures.
Troy and the other two men had searched the cabin and the first barn. There was no one in the cabin and nothing in the smaller barn except two horses. After rapidly overpowering a lone individual in the second, larger barn, they’d hog-tied and gagged him. Troy was fairly sure the guy had no idea what was going on. But it was better to neutralize him and come back later, after the fireworks were done, if there were any. So they’d stuffed a rag in his mouth and left him in a corner of a stall with a big mare who looked terrified, too.
Now they were headed for the main house.
A covered porch wrapped around all four sides of the huge home. As they burst out from behind three old maple trees and raced up the wide set of stairs at the back of the structure, a silhouette appeared at the door and fired. The lone bullet missed, and whoever had just fired disappeared. Surprise was no longer in their corner. The sound suppressors on the MP5s had quickly become irrelevant.
Shrill, muffled voices rose from inside as Troy pressed himself against the bricks beside a window. With the butt of the MP5 he broke out several panes of glass. Then he unloaded his first clip of twenty-five rounds into the darkened room beyond with an across-and-back motion. He had no desire to be shot at, but, in a way, he was glad that person at the door had fired first without yelling out for any ID. They were completely justified now. No question.
As Troy quickly switched clips on his gun, Agents Idaho and Wyoming crashed through what was left of the window. When the new clip snapped into place on the underside of the barrel, he dove through the window and rolled, following the other men into what turned out to be a large formal dining room. He scrambled to his feet and quickly glassed the area. It wasn’t much of a dining room anymore. Everything was basically shot to hell.
He motioned to the other agents and then stabbed in the air at the curving double staircase to their right. They nodded and, with their submachine guns leading the way, raced for the steps. They had to make certain the upper floors were clear first. They couldn’t have enemies trapping them in the basement, where they figured the target was — because as far as they could tell from the recon there were no exterior steps leading out of the basement and back up to the ground.
Troy pressed his back to the wall outside the large kitchen as Agents Idaho and Wyoming sprinted up opposite staircases, came together on the landing at the top, and then disappeared. Troy quickly became aware of how alone he was. For the next few minutes, as Idaho and Wyoming made certain the two floors above were clear, things could get dicey down here depending on the number of adversaries in the house. Because they definitely knew they were under attack now.
Troy kept the barrel of the gun swinging back and forth in front of him as he listened intently for any sounds of a battle breaking out above him.
Maddux could feel the coming combat. He’d always had that sixth sense about battle. He figured any warrior worth his weight in gold on the field did.