This time they both heard it — a loud snap! of a twig, on the treeline. Ysidro pushed the guard hard to the right to get him out of the light, the coffee and burger went flying, and a SIG Sauer P226 9-millimeter automatic was in his hands in the blink of an eye. “Call it in, damn it!” Ysidro said in a loud whisper.
“Station three, intruder east on the treeline,” the guard radioed. He took cover behind a tall bush and retrieved the nightvision scope, quickly scanning the—
He saw a lone figure, running toward the house beside the gravel driveway. The guard raised his AR-15, sighted with the scope — then recognized the runner. “Mick, damn it, what the hell are you doing?” the guard whispered into his radio. The running man dropped to the ground, waving his rifle at the treeline. “Mick, answer up!”
“What?” the second guard radioed back — the first guard could see him talk into his left sleeve while holding his earpiece in his left ear. “Was that you talking, Tommy, you asshole?”
“Was that you on the treeline?” the first guard radioed back. He saw the guard named Mick lower his head in nervous exasperation. He lifted his sleeve mike to his lips. “Station three, secure. Stand by and I’ll clear the treeline.” He saw the second guard start to get to his feet, angrily brushing himself off and shouldering his rifle on its strap. “Mick, stay put until I clear the—”
Tommy saw the second guard named Mick suddenly turn toward the treeline, and seconds later he heard another sound — but this one wasn’t a twig.
An unknown voice shouted, “Freeze! Federal agents!”
Mick fumbled with his rifle, but he didn’t get it up to his waist to try a shot from the hip before he heard three quick pop-pop-pop's from a suppressed automatic three-burst submachine gun, and Mick went down.
“Intruders, treeline east — federal agents!” Tommy radioed. He scanned the treeline and saw only one figure, dressed completely in black, with a military-style helmet, ballistic face mask under a pair of night-vision goggles, black fatigues, and black body armor with the words U.S. MARSHAL on the front under a combat harness. “I only see one, treeline east! I—”
The greenish image of the marshal suddenly disappeared in a puff of fire, and the guard dropped the night-vision scope and rubbed the pain from his eyes. The security supervisor inside the mansion had activated the motion-sensing land mines that ringed the compound, and the first marshal was history.
“Lost contact with Davis on the ground team at target thirteen,” the airborne assault leader reported. “I heard a challenge, then shots, then nothing.”
“I’d call that an ‘officer needs assistance,’ ” Deputy Chief Marshal William Landers said. “Should’ve known it would be target thirteen — my unlucky number.” Dressed in full body armor and protective headgear, Landers was aboard one of the three CV-22 PAVE HAMMER tilt-rotor aircraft just outside Cazaux’s Bedminster home. Landers was the number-two man in the U.S. Marshals Service, a twenty-one-year veteran, an experienced field agent, and former commander of the Marshals’ Special Operations Group, also known as SOG. “Let’s go in using assault plan Alpha.” The PAVE HAMMER, formerly one of the Hammerheads’ antismuggling aircraft and still sporting its distinctive Department of Border Security high-visibility orange markings, lifted off from the interstate rest-stop parking lot and leaped into the sky, rotating its wingtip engine nacelles so the two large rotors were pointing at a 45- degree angle for more forward speed.
From other staging areas nearby, two more CV-22 tilt- rotor aircraft lifted off at the same time and raced for the estate. There were several large homes in the Bedminster area described by the unknown informant during his brief phone call, so the Marshals Service had immediately dispatched several agents from the New York City, Philadelphia, and Newark offices into the area to start surveillance on each suspected residence. Unfortunately, it had taken the apparent death of a marshal to find the right one. Now, the three CV-22 aircraft, each carrying ten fully armed SOG agents, were encircling Henri Cazaux’s mansion in the hopes of capturing the world’s most wanted criminal.
Landers’ CV-22 took only two minutes to approach the estate. Flying low and slow, the hybrid airplane-helicopter slowed by swiveling the rotors to full helicopter position. When it was about five hundred yards from the mansion, it activated its bank of four 3,000-candlepower NightSun searchlights and turned them onto the front door of the mansion. Landers, standing between the pilot’s and copilot’s seats, watched their approach through the CV-22’s telescopic TV camera. At two hundred yards, Landers clicked on the public address speaker: “Attention. This is the U.S. Marshals Service. We have a federal search warrant and demand entry. Come out of the house immediately with your hands up.”
“U.S. Marshals, my ass,” Tomas Ysidro said to Henri Cazaux. “Let’s take care of those motherfuckers ourselves, Henri.”
The two terrorists finished donning their own assault uniforms — skin-tight protective black body suit, Reactor combat gloves, balaclava hood, black Hi-Tec trail sneakers, and a combat ALICE harness laden with pistols, knives, grenades, and other tools and devices. “Can’t risk it, especially not with assault aircraft out there,” Cazaux said.
“We play it right, one of those choppers could be ours.”
“I said, we cannot risk it,” Cazaux snapped. “The time to play action hero will come, Tomas, and I want you with me when it comes. But for now, we need to survive to execute the rest of our plan. Execute the escape plan and we will meet in the Catskill ranch in six hours. We’re going after a prize much greater than a few tilt-rotor aircraft,” Cazaux said, extending a hand. Ysidro took it, then they embraced. “Bonne chance, mon ami. ”
“Fuck you too, my friend,” Ysidro said in return. He pulled up his balaclava, then turned to his security supervisor. “Deactivate the land mines for ten seconds after you see the DOOR OPEN light, then turn ’em back on.” His eyes flared for an instant, punctuating his last order: “And I want to hear plenty of fireworks out here or I’ll come back and stuff your nuts down your throat. Hear me?”
“I heard an explosion, then lost contact with Davis,” one of the other ground agents reported. “I’m thinking the place is mined.”
“Shit,” Landers said. “That entire front lawn might be mined — that takes care of our landing zone.” He turned to another person watching the scene below next to him. “Thoughts, Agent Harley?”
U.S. Secret Service Agent Deborah Harley, wearing the same body armor and assault gear as the U.S. Marshals— except her body armor said TREASURY AGENT on the front— studied the TV image carefully. “I don’t see those guards on the rooftop anymore — we’re going to have to assume the roof and that balcony over the front entrance are booby- trapped too. Let’s—”
“Unit One, this is Three, four motorcycles leaving the house at high speed,” one of the other CV-22 pilots radioed. “One each cardinal direction.” Harley and Landers picked up one of the motorcycles barreling northbound, going at least sixty miles an hour straight for the woods.
‘Try to stop them without killing them!” Harley shouted.
“All units, clear to engage riders, try to interdict only, do not shoot to kill.” Landers knew it was a useless command — anytime a weapon was used during a mission like this, death was always a possibility, especially with the weapons the CV-22s had. Trying to wound someone with a weapon designed to destroy an armored vehicle or a building was sometimes just not possible.