Chapter 18
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Rural Illinois
Four men emerged dressed in full combat gear. Kevlar vests and tactical helmets. Advanced optics mounted on assault rifles. They moved in coordinated patterns with no wasted motion.
The same kind who’d tried to kill Flint in Texas.
Drake counted weapons. Four assault rifles. At least two sidearms. Probably grenades or flash-bangs.
He had one pistol with fifteen rounds.
The odds sucked.
But Drake had advantages they shouldn’t expect.
He knew this terrain. Farm country was his home turf.
Texas farms had taught him about silos and machinery.
He’d also learned a few things about asymmetric warfare in the Marines.
Small unit tactics. Defensive positions.
How to make superior numbers work against them.
The lead man raised a bullhorn. “Drake. We just want to talk.”
Drake smiled grimly. Same lie they’d probably tried to sell Flint.
He circled behind the grain silo. The structure was concrete and steel. Reinforced to hold thousands of tons of grain. Built to last, he knew it would stop rifle rounds.
The tactical team advanced in a standard four-man formation. They covered each other’s movements using textbook infantry tactics. He wondered briefly which military unit had supplied the training.
Drake let them get close to the Honda before he moved.
Close enough to commit to their approach and make retreat more difficult.
When he was satisfied with their position, Drake emerged from behind the silo and fired.
He put two rounds into the trailing man.
The target dropped without a sound, but his weapon clattered on the concrete.
The noise alerted the remaining members of his team. The three spun toward his position like a choreographed dance.
By the time muzzle flashes erupted, Drake was already moving. He rolled behind a piece of farm machinery before the bullets sparked off its metal. High-velocity rounds punched through sheet steel.
“Contact rear!” one of them shouted.
Drake counted muzzle flashes. Three weapons still in the fight. Automatic fire echoed off the farm buildings.
Drake had thirteen rounds left.
He belly-crawled under a hay baler. Cold mud soaked through his jacket. He came up on their flank.
The team had taken cover behind the Honda.
Good cover if he’d stayed behind the silo.
But it was the wrong angle for Drake’s current position.
Steadily, he fired and put three rounds into the second man. The target pitched forward, landing across the Honda’s hood. Blood splattered the windshield.
“Two down,” Drake muttered. “Two to go.”
His effort had revealed his position to the remaining shooters. They opened fire and raked the farm equipment around him.
Hydraulic fluid spurted from punctured lines. The air smelled like hot air and chemicals.
Drake stayed low. He moved toward the machinery shed. More cover. Better angles. Concrete block construction that would stop anything they fired.
His phone buzzed. Text message.
He ignored it and stayed focused on the tactical situation.
The enemy had superior firepower but an inferior position. They were pinned behind the Honda.
Drake had the entire farm complex for cover and concealment. Grain silos. Equipment sheds. Rusted machinery. Dozens of firing positions.
Basic tactics. Use the terrain. Control the engagement. Make them come to you.
Drake worked his way around the machinery shed. His boots squelched in mud mixed with old motor oil.
Finally, he could see both remaining targets. They were focused on his last known position. Scanning the wrong sector.
He smirked. Classic mistake.
Drake lined up his next shot on the team leader. He squeezed the trigger twice. Double tap. Exactly where he’d placed the bullets.
The man spun and went down hard. His weapon clattered across the gravel. Metallic ringing echoed off concrete walls.
One left.
The last shooter broke cover. He sprinted toward the grain silo. Smart move. Better concealment. Concrete walls three feet thick.
The sprint exposed him during the movement though.
Twenty yards of open ground. No cover. Nothing to conceal him.
Drake tracked him with the pistol and then fired three times. Rapid succession.
The runner stumbled. His legs tangled. He collapsed twenty feet from cover. Face down in the mud.
Drake waited a full thirty seconds. No movement from any of the targets.
Wind whistled through the farm buildings.
He approached each body carefully. He checked for life and found none.
He searched for identification. Nothing. No wallets. No phones. No unit patches or insignia. Just high-end tactical gear and expensive weapons.
Drake called Flint’s number.
Flint answered immediately. “Status report.”
“Four down. All threats neutralized.” Drake walked back toward the Honda. Bullet holes had ventilated the rear window and both rear quarter panels. Spider web cracks spread across safety glass. The engine compartment looked intact, which meant it was still drivable.
“You sure?” Flint asked with real concern.
“Positive. But we’ve got the same problem. No identification. No intelligence. These guys are ghosts.”
“Corporate cleanup crew?”
“Has to be. Training, serious resources, and zero accountability.” Drake checked his watch.
Two-thirty in the afternoon. Plenty of time to reach Peoria before the records office closed. Government bureaucrats kept banker’s hours.
“You need backup?”
“Negative. I’m mobile and mission ready. Still planning to work my charm on those adoption records.”
Flint was quiet for a moment. “They knew exactly where you were going.”
“Which means we’re getting close to something they desperately want to protect.” Drake climbed back into the damaged Honda.
Glass crunched under his boots. Cold air seeped through bullet holes, but the engine started without complaint. Japanese reliability at its finest.
“And worth killing for,” Flint said flatly.
“That too.” Drake put the Honda in gear. Gravel crunched under the tires as he turned toward the main road. “I’ll call you when I have the names and addresses. Should be within three hours.”
“Be careful.”
“Copy that.” Drake ended the call and drove back toward the main road.
In his rearview mirror, four bodies lay motionless beside the grain silo.
The farm looked peaceful again from this distance.
The dead men would be discovered soon enough.
With luck, Drake would be long gone before local law enforcement came looking. He glanced at the clock on the Honda’s dash. Not much time to make it to Peoria. He floored the accelerator.