Black Flagged Apex (64 page)

"Here's where we find out if that wig was worth it," Daniel said.

Munoz just nodded, having already settled into his meditation. Daniel would hold the wheel while Munoz lowered the window and held a suppressed pistol in the other, timing the approach so that he could fire point blank into the furthest guard's head upon pulling parallel to the shack. Fayed would shoot the other guard from the rear driver side. Daniel watched one of the guards nonchalantly grab his shoulder handset and presumably relay information regarding Anne Renee's arrival. He didn't detect any signs of panic or alarm among them. A quick scan of the estate in front of them confirmed that none of the patrols were in sight and that the guard shack was partially obscured by the cluster of pines he had spotted earlier. Their approach had been perfectly timed by Munoz.

Daniel held his own suppressed pistol between the front passenger seat and the door, just in case. The decoratively spiked front gate started to swing inward as the Mercedes pulled up to the two guards. Even as both of the driver side windows descended, neither of them looked interested in the vehicle. Daniel gripped the wheel just before Munoz raised the pistol and fired a single .40-caliber bullet through the guard's forehead. The two shell casings hit the front windshield and deflected onto the dashboard.

Munoz threw the blond wig in Daniel's lap and accelerated through the gate, barely missing the slow-moving barrier. He heard a whirlwind of activity from the rear seating area, as Fayed, Paracha and Melendez traded out their compact P90s for more suitable long-range weapons provided by Karl Berg's contact. They would close the main house on foot, possibly traversing up to 800 feet depending on how far they could drive the SUV. The P90's effective range remained well inside of 200 yards, which could put them at a significant disadvantage if they needed to engage targets at the house. The vehicle slowed, and Munoz eased it off the blacktop next to an untamed row of yellow forsythia bushes.

"That's as far as we can go without breaking into sight."

Everyone dismounted at once, and more rifles were exchanged with Paracha, who handed them out from the depths of the SUV's third row of seats. Melendez held out a suppressed M1A SOCOM 7.62mm rifle and a combat load-bearing vest for Daniel. He took the vest, sliding it on before grabbing the rifle and slinging it over his shoulder. He snapped the olive drab vest shut, checking it for loose pouches or anything that could snag on the bushes. They had pre- rigged all their gear on the dirt road off Route 6, swapping 7.62mm and 5.56mm magazines between vests, based on weapons assignment.

Daniel and Melendez had chosen the longer-range M1A, a close relative of the venerable 7.62mm M-14 rifle, which saw extensive action in Korea and Vietnam and continued to serve as a battlefield sniper weapon. The SOCOM was designed using lighter materials and featured a shorter barrel, which increased the operator's maneuverability in close quarters battle, but reduced the effective sniping range of the rifle. Still, a skilled shooter could easily hit targets at 400 yards with the steel sights, reaching out even further with magnified optics. He didn't foresee any problems with the delivery of highly accurate fire to cover the assault team's approach.

All of their weapons were fitted with suppressors. Fayed, Paracha and Munoz carried the Mk 18 Mod 0 rifles used earlier in the day at the laboratory. Equipped with unmagnified EOTech sights, they would be more reliable inside the house or on the immediate grounds. Their directive was to advance quickly under direct cover fire from Daniel and Melendez.

Once Daniel snapped his vest together and fitted his headset, he started jogging toward the trees directly ahead of them. He wanted to be in position when the three men crossed the open area. He loaded his rifle on the move. Melendez sprinted west, looking for a position located roughly one hundred yards across the point, where he could scan for targets on the far side of the house. Spread apart among the trees, the two of them could effectively clear the entire approach to the house and eliminate patrols. He reached the pines and raised his rifle, scanning for targets among the thick tree trunks. He easily trampled the thin layer of newly formed spring brush, reaching the edge of the tree line and staring out at the expanse of ground leading to the house.

He counted two patrols in plain sight and located another possible sentry at the edge of a cluster of smaller trees near the house. The house itself was massive, measuring at least one hundred and fifty feet across. He stared at the stone-laden, modern post-and-beam structure, which featured five chimneys protruding from the green metallic roof. He was truly impressed with the sheer size and quality of design. Apparently, bottling the earth's water and selling it was a lucrative business.

The western end of the two-story vaulted-roof house angled north, featuring a four-bay garage. Several SUVs and trucks crowded the driveway in front of the garage, possibly belonging to security personnel or guests. He didn't see any obvious luxury vehicles among them, or the telltale black Suburbans used by most government agencies. This might purely be a True America gathering, which suited him best. There would be no survivors.

He stared through the rifle's ACOG scope at the windows along the front of the house. Not surprisingly, the front of the house contained few windows. Like most lake homes, windows were an afterthought on the landward side, deferring to vast ceiling-to-floor glass facing the water. Beyond the three patrols in front of him, he spotted one additional guard standing under the home's covered porch entrance. He highly doubted anyone was stationed in one of the small windows. This might be easier than he had originally predicted. He crawled forward a few more feet to clear brush and extended the rifle's bipod, resting it on the soft ground. He now had a perfect one hundred and eighty degree view of his killing field.

"Overwatch One is set. Confirm four targets in front of the house, including the front porch," he said.

"Overwatch Two is set. Three targets in range on western side. I'll take the front porch."

Daniel didn't protest. Melendez was an excellent shot. Several seconds passed before he heard Melendez again.

**

Melendez sighted in on the sentry standing on the front porch and eased his breath. Firing a single 7.62mm bullet accurately through a sixteen-inch barrel at a target more than 700 feet away wouldn't be easy. At this range, the M1A's standard twenty-two-inch barrel would be more appropriate, but their mystery benefactor had opted for a conservative mix of multipurpose weapons. A wise decision given the uncertainties that existed yesterday. He couldn't complain, though he'd much prefer to take down the closer patrols, then move a few hundred feet closer to compensate for the short barrel. Unfortunately, the guard standing at the top of the steps was in the ideal surveillance position, representing the greatest threat to their element of surprise. He'd have to go first.

Melendez aimed at the stationary guard's nose and raised the rifle's barrel less than a millimeter to compensate for the distance. He'd be happy to land the shot anywhere between the man's throat and forehead. Any lower and the bullet could strike the man's ballistic vest. Any higher and it could deflect off his skull. Either of those scenarios would drop him temporarily, but could give him a chance to raise the alarm. Melendez needed a clean shot that would either instantly kill or paralyze the target. He nudged the ACOG's vertical crosshair directly in the center of guard's head and added another ounce of pressure to the trigger. The rifle bucked into his shoulder, sending the round downrange.

Melendez brought the ACOG's sight picture back to the door, centered roughly on the space previously occupied by the guard. Before firing, he had taken a mental picture of the background, lining up fixed objects with the hash marks just beyond the target. He could see a significant scarlet mess on the wooden door twenty feet back from the front of the porch. A mess like that could only mean one thing. He confirmed the fatal headshot and passed the report.

**

"Front door target is down," crackled his earpiece.

Aleem Fayed started running toward the house. He was looking at traversing about three football fields at a full run, loaded down with gear. As one of the Middle East operatives, his training focus had been field craft and close-in engagements. As he hit the fifty-yard point, he was glad that Sanderson had pushed their physical training so hard. Fayed had never ceased to bitch up a storm on one of their ten-mile conditioning runs or during the course of an unannounced hike in the woods. Sanderson and Fayed clearly had a different concept of the word "hike." Realizing that he still had a full minute of running in his immediate future, Fayed promised himself never to complain again.

He could feel the burn in his legs from the sprint, but his lungs still felt strong thanks to Sanderson's routine. He'd need that lung capacity when he reached the house. Daniel's plan didn't include a short break to regain their breath. They would go to work on the house immediately, assuming they reached the house intact. The two guards in the distance were still standing as he closed the distance, forcing him to wonder why Daniel hadn't started firing. If he approached any closer, one of them was bound to hear him and turn around, which could eliminate the element of surprise.

The guard closest to their small group was located fifty yards away, slightly offset from their path. He was faced away from them, walking toward the house, but that could change at any moment. He heard Daniel's rifle cough, sending a bullet somewhere downrange, but the sentry in front of him didn't fall. A guard Fayed hadn't spotted dropped to the ground at the edge of the tree cluster near the house. Now he was screwed. He raised his rifle and stopped, sighting in on the guard along their path. There was no way he hadn't seen the other guard's head explode. A snap passed Fayed's head, and the heavily equipped sentry in Fayed's sights dropped his rifle, reaching up for his neck with both hands. The guard sank to his knees as another bullet sailed overhead, eventually striking the furthest lookout in the forehead, just above the binoculars he had raised to his face. Daniel's voice came through his earpiece.

"Assault, the path is clear. Advise if you see more targets."

Fayed leapt forward, quickly acknowledging the fact that Daniel had perfectly coordinated his shooting, prioritizing the targets according to threat level against the assault team. He felt a little better running blindly across Daniel's killing field. He just hoped that True America didn't have someone with similar skills.

**

Jackson Greely took a sip of the amber liquid from the heavy crystal tumbler and savored it in his mouth for a brief moment before swallowing. The warmth spread immediately, from his stomach to his head. This was some of the best scotch he had tasted in a long time. He stared at the exquisite crystal decanter sitting on the silver tray. His gaze shifted to the sparkling lake beyond the infinity pool next to their table. They sat in all weather, European country-style chairs arranged around a low teak surfaced table. Greely wasn't accustomed to this kind of luxury, but he could certainly get used to it. Lee Harding looked equally at ease in these surroundings. Brown had looked unsettled all afternoon, which prevented Greely from fully relaxing.

"This is superior scotch, Owen. Very nice," he said.

"A family favorite. Glengoyne Seventeen Year. Simply one of the finest scotches in production. Of course, I'm a bit partial to the distillery."

"I thought your family was Irish?" Harding said.

"We are, but my great-grandfather traveled to Glasgow several times a year on business and discovered their distillery just north of the city. He fell in love with their scotch and struck up a deal with the Lang Brothers to import it into Ireland, but this eventually ran afoul thanks to rising troubles in Northern Ireland, though he did make a tidy sum of money in those few years and maintained a good relationship with the Langs. When he brought our family over to America, he settled in the Syracuse area. He spent most of his fortune struggling to establish an import business for his beloved Scottish whiskey, a business better suited for the east coast. He'd made some small investments in Canada, which paid off big time when prohibition hit. The whiskey market in Canada soared overnight, as you can imagine. Crystal Source water sprang to life a few years later, no pun intended."

"That's an incredible American success story," Greely said.

No wonder the family was wealthy. Like the Kennedys' vast empire, the Mills dynasty had its roots in bootlegging. Greely's great-grandfather had worked in the Ohio mills, earning an honest living while trying to keep his family alive. There was a stark contrast between Mills' version of the American dream and Greely's.

"Indeed it is. But it pales in comparison to the legacy we will leave the American people. Gentlemen, by my watch, the last shipment has departed. Here's to America's New Recovery," Mills said, raising his glass.

They all toasted to the New Recovery and downed the remainder of their drinks. Jackson turned to Mills.

"Still haven't heard from Anne Renee?"

"Not yet. She should be on her way. We get shitty reception all along the lake," Mills said.

"Have you tried to call her?"

"She usually checks in once an hour, or whenever a shipment leaves. The last shipment left at 1:20. She called a few minutes before that. We're fine," he said.

Greely gave Harding a skeptical glance, before turning to Brown, who hadn't said a word.

"You look nervous," Greely said.

Brown put his glass down on the table. "Anne Renee is sharp. If Brooks mentions anything about executing Carnes and the rest of the lab people, she'll make a run for it. It was a bad idea to mix those two together at this point."

"Brooks won't say a word. He's been on the inside from the beginning. Part of the club," Mills said.

"You could say the same thing about Carnes," Brown said wryly.

The black handheld radio sitting in front of Mills chirped, followed by a transmission. "Mr. Mills, this is the front gate. Ms. Paulson has arrived with Mr. Brooks."