Chapter 52
Chapter 52
B ill and his three agents took a satellite reading and found we were four hundred yards from the cabin, which Camp confirmed. “Three ninety-seven.”
I pulled my suppressed AR from its soft scabbard, cycled the bolt, and loaded a 220-grain hollow-point .300 Blackout into the chamber. For close quarters, which this was, I wanted something relatively quiet that would thump them. Which this would. I then handed the thermals to Camp as we inserted comms into our ears. I passed Maggie to him too. “You quarterback. I need you on overwatch. I need the location of cameras and trip wires. Not to mention people.”
He stopped me. “What’re we calling the bad guys?”
I considered this. We needed a word that stood out and could be discerned above the wind noise. “Popsicles.”
He nodded.
I pointed at the three agents. “I want you three around the back. But don’t get caught in the line of fire. Take cover. There’s gonna be a lot of lead headed your way, and I don’t want to accidentally shoot you. I doubt the girls are in the main cabin. Probably an outlier. Whatever degenerates are holding them will no doubt feel comfortable near the fire and insulated below these low clouds and snow. Not to mention the cold. They’re feeling safe in these conditions, even cocky, which is to our benefit. If they haven’t heard us, and don’t see us, we’ll catch them off guard.”
Camp interrupted me. “And if they have and do?”
I pointed to Maggie. “Then you’d better get skippy.”
I turned to Ashley. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’re gonna sit right here and let us go in without you?”
He spat blood and wiped his face with his sleeve. “None whatsoever.”
I was about to offer an objection when he said, “My girls need to see their dad walking into that hell. Not the vice president sitting out here worried about his life.”
He had a point. I motioned behind me. “Then you’re on my six. And you don’t move until I tell you.” He was about to speak when I held up a hand. “That is not open for discussion.”
Ashley had been powerful long enough that he didn’t like being told what to do. But he also knew I was right and that he was no good to his girls or the country if he was dead. He nodded.
I looked at Bill. “You don’t need me to tell you what to do.”
He stepped in front of Ashley. “I got him.”
I turned one last time to Ashley. “You bring anything that belongs to the girls? Maybe smells like them?”
He opened his flight jacket and pulled out a small stuffed tiger, about the size of my hand. Most of the hair was worn off, one eye was missing, and one ear had been chewed off. The tail had been sewed back together in three places. It was a beautiful tiger.
“It’s Sadie’s.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I skirted the lake as the ice cracked beneath me. I’d never been colder in my entire life. Gunner circled my legs, sniffing the air. When the cabin came into view, I studied it. Whoever had chosen this location had done so after some forethought. Dense forest surrounded the cabin on three sides. Each side was an organic mess. It looked like God had played pick-up sticks with the earth, leaving snow-covered mounds in an indiscernible and certainly impassable pile, making a natural fortification. The thought occurred to me that an underground bunker was more than likely. Something to remember once we got inside.
I knelt, Gunner alongside me, and studied the door and windows. Some two hundred yards. No movement but I could see the glow of a fire inside and a shadow passing by one window. I crept through the trees, Camp in my ear telling me I was clear of cameras and wires. In my mind, I heard Steve’s voice warning me of a trap.
Gunner was the first to hear it. Followed by Camp. “You hear that?”
Come to think of it, I did. “Yes.”
We studied the air above us. A hundred feet off the deck a drone appeared, making a programmed grid search of the island. We froze. I whispered, “You got it?”
Camp whispered, “Hold.”
A suppressed rifle has a distinct sound. Sort of a crack followed by a prolonged whistle that fizzles out. The wind was constant at ten miles per hour with gusts to fifteen, both of which wreak havoc on a bullet. A second passed as Camp adjusted his windage, then pressed the trigger. The wind muffled the percussion crack of the projectile and most of the whistle. The bullet struck the drone, flipped it, and blew it into several pieces that fell quickly all around us.
Camp muttered, “Shoots a half minute right.”
I smiled. Camp’s description of Maggie’s point of impact relative to her point of aim was a sarcastic and degrading comment on my ability to zero a rifle. I let it slip, but what I did not let slip was how calmly Camp performed under pressure—after having survived a plane wreck. “Keep an eye on the cabins. I imagine someone is about to come looking for their fifteen-thousand-dollar drone.”
Thirty seconds later, Camp whispered, “Contact nine o’clock.”
Gunner had already seen them and was trained on the sound of boots on snow. Through the trees, I spotted two scouts carrying Sbrs patrolling the perimeter. Based on the language coming out their mouths, they were neither focused on the perimeter nor happy about searching for a drone. They didn’t like the cold any more than I did.
“Murph?”
Camp’s question was a tough one. Did we shoot two men walking around a remote island in Alaska when we didn’t know for sure the girls were here? What if we discovered they were not? Given the conditions, my ability to surprise, overwhelm, and eliminate a threat using my hands was next to zero. They’d hear me crunching through the snow, not to mention the fact that my movements and reactions wouldn’t be all that fast given the cold.
“Hold.”
“You sure?”
“Check.”
The two passed, not finding the drone, said something about the wind gusts, and returned to the cabin. Camp crackled, “Clear.”
No sooner had he said that than he whispered again, “Contact three o’clock. Danger close.”