Chapter 23
“The wolf is not alone: it is always in company.”
Axel
Hidden by the Belarusian woods, Lucky points to the sixth drone circling over the well-lit villa. “Oi! We got another one.”
As the buzzing increases, the hole in my heart rips open further. Once the sun rises, we’ll have to postpone our raid for another twenty-four hours. God knows what might happen to Gwen in the meantime.
The leaves on my right rustle. Invisible, on his stomach next to me, Suds curses under his breath.
Trever taps his tablet and hisses. “Holy shit. Someone hacked into our global positioning satellite. According to the coordinates, the whole of Europe has moved to Nigeria.”
He pushes the screen over the pine needles so I can read the latitude and longitude. “06 05.0000. Perhaps those numbers indicate a time of day?”
“Not any default setting I’ve ever seen.” While the analyst purses his lips, Hunt scratches his short facial hairs.
“Why wouldn’t it just pop up all zeros?”
My thoughts echo theirs until a burst of insight blindsides me. “I don’t understand how she did it, but Gwen is sending us a message.”
“Daaaammnn…” Eyes widening, Suds tilts his camouflaged face. “All y’all may be right.”
Slate, stationed in an oak tree on the other side of the compound, clicks his mic. “The Defense Department sent us a white paper last week warning us of new GPS attacks originating in Belarus.”
Before long, the conversation dies down in my headset, allowing me to state what I know is fact. “My wife is giving us a heads-up. Of this, I am certain.”
“To what end, mate? And why six-oh-five and not on the hour?” Thank God Lucky’s following the same playbook as me, but the rest will need more than my gut-level assessment.
“Sunrise.” Suds’ suggestion gets shot in mid-flight.
“5:43 AM. Sorry, boss.” As Rhonda shakes her head, our team leader clears his throat.
“Check deliveries.”
Slate's man in New York answers after a short delay. “… copy. Searching satellite images… Well, I’ll be dipped in… Sending feed.”
Viewed from a high altitude, a bug-like vehicle moves away from a town square and disappears under a forest canopy. At 6:05 in the morning, the same insect passes through a gap in Ledbetter’s thick wall.
“That’s three hours from now.” My heart rejoices. I'm coming, babe.
Suds pulls out his tablet, opens a map, and zooms in on a sharp curve in the road, about a mile from the estate. “I suggest we hijack their delivery here.”
“Affirmative. Move out. Stay outta sight.” At Slate’s command, we lift to our feet, lower our night vision goggles, and jog through the trees.
Sometime past dawn, we stand on the roadway and point our weapons at the box truck’s windshield. Behind the wheel, a pale, acne-covered teen holds his shaking arms in the air.
Using a maternal tone, Rhonda tells the kid she will shoot him if he so much as blinks. Once we’ve hidden all the cardboard boxes in the forest, we climb in the back and pray the Belarusian delivery boy doesn’t deliver us to the enemy.