CHAPTER 48
TOM PETTY GOT IT right. The waiting is the hardest part.
Rizzo and I are crammed together with Mahoney and two FBI technicians in the rear of a van kitted out with communications gear, computers, and video screens. Behind the wheel in front is an FBI agent with a beard and long hair. He’s wearing a tattered baseball cap, dirty jeans, and a sweatshirt.
The second feed is coming from a stealth drone overhead; it shows an external view of the motel and an infrared image of the room’s interior.
“He’s there,” mutters Rizzo, pointing at the screen on the left.
I nod. “Sure looks like it.”
The infra shows a glowing red image right where the motel bed likely is.
The Ford pickup is still sitting in front of the unit. Unlike every other vehicle in the parking lot, it’s backed in, facing the highway.
I tap the screen. “See that? He’s positioned for a quick escape.”
Mahoney picks up a handheld radio. “All teams, this is Alpha. Maintain radio silence. Drone is showing a heat source coming from the room’s interior, left side. No motion. Target could be sleeping.”
A digital clock over the screens counts down.
Three minutes to go.
I’m suddenly feeling very claustrophobic. I don’t like being safe and secure in the rear of a van. I want to be with the entry team.
But that’s not my job today.
My job is to observe and investigate. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
Two minutes to go.
Rizzo looks at me. “You’re not used to sitting on your ass, are you?”
“No. I’m not. I’d rather be the first one through the door.”
“Me too,” she says. “With a fire team right behind me.”
We have a lot in common, me and Rizzo.
One minute to go.
The clock hits 11:00.
Mahoney puts the radio to his mouth. “This is Alpha. All units, execute!”
I lean forward, my face just inches from the video screen on the right. I watch as a brown UPS truck rolls into the parking lot and stops near room 14, blocking the Ford pickup. An FBI agent in UPS brown steps out with a package and an electronic keypad.
As he starts walking casually toward the motel’s office at the other end of the building, the UPS truck’s side door slides open and four heavily armed HRT special agents jump out.
One is carrying a metal battering ram. Another holds a small sledgehammer.
The other two have ballistic shields on their backs.
The agent with the ram smashes Aiden Phillips’s door in as the guy with the sledgehammer breaks the small side window and tosses in an M84 stun grenade—a flash-bang.
I see the flash and a burst of smoke. Anybody in that room is now blinded by the light and deafened by the 170-decibel blast.
The door is hanging loose on its hinges. The two agents with ballistic shields lead the way into the room.
Mahoney slaps the van driver on the shoulder. “Now! Go!”