“Let’s get it all out,” Jackson said. He grabbed a case of ammo and slid in through the opening. At first, it appeared to be no more than a narrow crevasse in the cliff, but ten feet later it widened into an open cavern of around five hundred square feet. It was dry and smelled of old dirt. Cases of MREs and bottled water were stacked neatly along one side, sleeping bags and packs along another. Jackson picked a space near the entrance and set the crate down. Thirty minutes later, the two men had unloaded all the weapons and ammo. They stopped for a moment to admire their handiwork.
“Pretty, ain’t it?” Mertz said finally. “Seems a shame to leave it here.”
“Yeah.” Jackson grabbed a rocket launcher and slung it over his shoulder. “Find some rounds for this.”
“I thought it was all ’sposed to stay here. That’s what your daddy said.”
“Change of plans.” Jackson patted the rocket launcher fondly. “These babies pack a round that will take out an armored vehicle. They’re a lot more effective than what we’ve got if we have to deal with any pursuit problems.”
“What kind of pursuit problems?” Mertz asked suspiciously. “There weren’t nobody following us.”
“And we’re going to keep it that way.”
“But your daddy—”
“I’m on-scene commander. I’ll deal with him when we get back to HQ. And this little baby will make sure that we do.”
TWENTY
Tombstone had spent most of the two hours and twenty minutes it took to get to Carter’s HQ on his cell phone. Just as they pulled into their staging area some two miles from the compound, he’d finished scribbling a list of names and phone numbers he’d just gotten from the Navy Reserve Air detailer. He’d smiled slightly as he wrote the names down, the memories of the time he’d served with each man and woman clear and vivid. Better to have those on his mind than Bull Run.
They trekked through rugged terrain, moving slowly and quietly, avoiding the sentries Greenfield’s scouts had found. Bratton had provided no more detailed information, but he’d nodded matter-of-factly as the scouts reported each listening post. Finally, they were in position.
“Are you sure this is it?” Tombstone asked, his voice a whisper.
“That’s always the question, isn’t it?” Greenfield said. He studied the small farmhouse they were encircling. It was too much like the last time, too much like the Smarts’ place.
Like it, but with differences. Cinder-block building instead of wood-frame, with a sturdy two-story wooden barn about a half a mile away. With his binoculars, Greenfield could see fresh tire tracks leading into it. The missing National Guard trucks and weapons, he was willing to bet. There was none of the small, wild rustlings that indicated livestock and other animals somewhere nearby. None of the fresh, pungent smell of them, either. What manure he did smell was old. Whatever this place was now, it was not an active farm.
Cinder blocks. At least it won’t burn.
The house backed up to a stretch of trees, partially sheltered from northern winds by them. There were no lights on, but Greenfield knew in a way he could not describe that whoever was inside was awake and watching them.
“This is it,” Greenfield said, certainty in his voice. “It’s not like last time — this one I’m sure of.”
Tombstone studied him for a moment, seeing the strain in the man’s face. He glanced back at the farmhouse, then at his second in command. For a moment, he had doubts about what he had done, putting Greenfield in this position. Maybe he would have been better off with someone not tainted by the Smart incident.
But no — after this many years of experience in leading men, Tombstone knew when someone was about to crack and when they weren’t. Greenfield was certain of what was inside, and watching him now, the way he moved with quiet competence, the confidence in his voice, Tombstone was, too.
“OK. Let’s let them know we’re here,” Tombstone said.
Greenfield smiled, and it was not a pleasant sight. “Call me crazy, but I think they already know.”
“Yeah, maybe. Get the snipers in position. Let’s send them a wake-up call.”
Behind the glass, the windows were boarded up. The first tear-gas rounds fired shattered the glass and cracked the boards, but remained outside the house. Even from there, gas drifted into the house, and the men inside reached for their gas masks.
“They’ll know soon that it didn’t work,” Abraham said quietly. “Be ready.” He glanced around at the faces and saw that they were nervous but determined.
“They took the first shot,” Abraham continued. “I want the rest of the world to know exactly how they conduct their operations.” He turned to the latest visitor to the compound and fixed her with a cold glare. “And you’ll tell them, Ms. Drake, won’t you? Every detail.”
Drake kept her voice flat and level. “Every detail.” Her voice was muffled by a gas mask.
“If they start firing immediately, get your ass down the ladder.” He pointed at the open hatch in the middle of the kitchen floor. “I showed you the back way out — get moving. We’ll be right behind you. We don’t intend to go down like they did at Bull Run.”
For that, Pamela was immensely grateful.
Tombstone swore silently as the tear-gas canisters bounced off the windows and fell to the ground. “Which way is the wind blowing?”
“Away from us,” Greenfield said dryly. “I’ve done this a few times, you know.”
“Yeah. Looks like they have, too. So what’s next?”
“We start talking.” He picked up a bullhorn and handed it to Tombstone. “Would you care to do the honors?”
“Attention inside the house. Abraham Carter, you are surrounded. Put down your weapons and come out with your hands up.”
Drake started. Tombstone! What the hell are you doing here? She started to speak, then thought better of it. They weren’t telling her everything they knew. Why should she?
“Back door,” Abraham ordered. One of his lieutenants moved a rug aside and jerked on a metal ring attached to the floorboard. A hatch swung up from the floor. “Down the hole, Drake. And stay back from the ladder. When we start moving out, it’s going to happen fast.”
Drake started to resist, but Abraham reached out and slapped her across face hard enough to make her yelp involuntarily. “I will remind you that the condition of your being allowed to remain here as an observer was predicated on obeying my orders without argument. Now move.” He pulled back the slide on his 9mm and chambered a round.
Pamela glared at him, anger written in every line of her face and body. But she stepped back, still facing him, until she reached the ladder, then proceeded down it. Abraham watched her go, and then turned to the rest of the men. “Tough little thing, isn’t she?”
“Carter, this is your second warning. You have five minutes to lay down your weapons and surrender. Your immediate cooperation is required to avoid serious consequences.”
“Don’t answer,” Abraham said. He examined the firing hole carved out of one board, tried to see if he could see them. They were maintaining good firing discipline, he noted. There was no reflected light, no sudden flaring of matches or cigarette lighters to give them away. Still, once the shooting started, Abraham would know exactly where they were.