Black Flagged Apex

Chapter 57





2:19 PM

Lake Shore Drive

Lake Wallenpaupack, Pennsylvania



Daniel stared out of the window at the lake. He would have preferred a nighttime attack on Owen Mills' lakeside compound, but the clock had started ticking when Anne Renee Paulson's body hit the warehouse floor. Her cell phone indicated that she had called a local number hourly since yesterday afternoon. Her last call had been placed at 1:15, roughly twenty-five minutes before the attack. He expected an inbound call to her phone any minute.

Fayed had suggested leaving the phone for Jessica to answer. Graves and Gupta had a headset microphone that could imitate hundreds of situations and modify her voice. They could mimic severe interference, which might have been enough to keep her contact from becoming overly suspicious. Daniel decided against this option, mainly because Jessica hadn't recovered a fraction of her hearing. Plus, Paulson and her contact might use a code word to start their conversations. He didn't want to tip their hand, especially since they would arrive at Mills' gates in less than two minutes.

Instead of regrouping at their rental house on Cadjaw Pond, they drove the three vehicles south on Route 6 for a few minutes before turning off on an unmarked dirt road. From there, they split into two teams and abandoned the Jeep Grand Cherokee.

Jessica joined Graves and Gupta in the van, along with Wilkins and the two men from the warehouse. With her hearing compromised, she didn't protest the decision. Her team would return to Cadjaw Pond and start to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. The two electronic warfare specialists had everything figured out by the time they arrived at the house fifteen minutes later. Wilkins helped them access Crystal Source's server network to acquire a list of known cell phone numbers for the convoy drivers identified. They also checked the Crystal Source trucks for active GPS signals. As suspected, the built-in GPS trackers had been disabled.

Once this information was passed on to Sanderson, they abandoned the safe house near Honesdale, leaving the men restrained in separate rooms.

Daniel and the rest of the team transferred their equipment to Paulson's Mercedes-Benz GL Class SUV and spent the next ten minutes gearing up for the inevitable assault on Mills' lakeside mansion. Mills was the key to unraveling the entire conspiracy. He had hand delivered the metal boxes containing the target information to Paulson, and at some point, he had given each driver a key to open the box. They had found the key to open the last box on the driver that Melendez had shot. All of this had been carefully planned to keep the target information compartmentalized. Even Paulson may have been kept in the dark regarding the final target selection.

If anyone knew where the convoys were headed, it had to be Mills. Only Mills could have arranged the deliveries, which he would have kept quiet. Mills clearly had some hefty political connections somewhere. Securing a one-time contract to deliver water to the United Nation's Headquarters building couldn't have been easy. Then again, when bottled water was currently the only safe and trusted drinking option on the table in the United States, it may have been a slam-dunk for Mills. It wouldn't surprise Daniel in the least to learn that Mills had been in active negotiations to deliver water to the U.N., when the crisis "conveniently" erupted.

Five more convoys were likely headed to similar, but unknown targets. The NSA was tracking four of them. Their mission was simple: acquire the missing convoy's final destination as quickly as possible. Based on the information available, the convoy in question had left the warehouse around nine in the morning and could have already delivered its cargo to a target as far away as Washington, D.C. This possibility precluded the best assault options, like a water approach at dusk, or a multiple-point perimeter breach. They had barely carved out enough time to survey the compound.

Located at the tip of Boulder Point on the western bank of northern Lake Wallenpaupack, Owen Mills' estate occupied a vast stretch of the most desirable real estate on the lake. With sweeping views of the water spanning east to west, his lone mansion commanded most of the point. A single looping road swung down from Lake Shore Drive, closely following the shoreline and passing several luxury homes on its journey to the front gate of the estate. The road turned inland at that point and crossed the small peninsula, depositing cars back onto Lake Shore Drive. A formidably tall, yet elegant black wrought-iron fence spanned the peninsula, actively discouraging tourists from taking a closer look at the massive house in the distance.

From Ledge Point, a smaller peninsula to the east, they had spent close to fifteen minutes observing Boulder Point, counting guards and looking for patterns. Their first obstacle would be the gatehouse. Manned by two armed guards and located one hundred feet from the eastern shoreline, the stone shack guarded the only road leading to the mansion at the southernmost tip of the small peninsula. The property itself was relatively featureless, with the exception of several thick pockets of towering pine trees. One of the pine tree clusters stood between the gatehouse and the main structure, hopefully obscuring the view between the two structures. They planned on using Paulson's car to approach the gate without raising any alarms. Once the guards were neutralized, they would ditch the car and approach on foot. Taking the car any further would attract too much attention.

Beyond the gatehouse, several lone guards armed with assault rifles patrolled the property. Unfortunately, their observation detected no discernible patrol pattern. None of them came any closer than three hundred feet to the wrought-iron fence, giving Daniel the impression that Mills didn't want to attract the wrong kind of attention. Even the guards at the gate kept their weapons concealed inside the shack, though Daniel could see the barrel of an AR-15 through one of the windows. Clearing the patrols wouldn't be a problem. He was more concerned about what waited for them inside the house.

The guards patrolling the estate looked better trained than what they had encountered in the warehouse. They were heavily armed with optics-enhanced assault rifles, outfitted with body armor and apparently taking their jobs seriously. They constantly communicated using hand signals or talking into their shoulder-mounted microphones. It appeared that Mills had reserved the best operatives for his personal security detail. On the eve of True America's greatest moment, he supposed this was appropriate. Or maybe Mills had VIP guests, which raised a completely different realm of possibilities. The men on patrol didn't look like Secret Service agents, but they could easily pass for civilian contractors assigned to a VIP-protection detail.

"There's the turnoff for Boulder Point Road. We're about a minute from the gate," he said, applying the turn signal and easing the car over the dashed yellow line.

Despite the fact that they were about to jump headfirst into a battle against a numerically superior force, he started wheezing in laughter. He couldn't help it. With one of Jessica's blond wigs jammed over his head, Munoz looked like a transvestite prostitute that had long ago given up trying to maintain the pretense of being a woman. Before leaving with Graves and Gupta, she had tossed it into the back of the Mercedes, thinking it might come in handy approaching the gate. Anne Renee Paulson had blond hair. Laughter erupted from the van, causing Munoz to slam on the brakes and spill everyone forward.

"How about a little f*cking professionalism?" he hissed, slamming them all back into their seats by rapidly accelerating.

"Just be glad we're not taking pictures. You look beautiful, by the way," Daniel said, igniting another round of snickering.

"F*ck you, Petrovich."

Munoz continued along Boulder Point Road until the gatehouse appeared over a slight rise in the road. Melendez lowered the rear passenger side window. If the guards reacted before they reached the gate, Melendez would raise himself out of the window and fire his suppressed P90 over the top of the SUV. He was their long-distance insurance policy.

"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."

Mills grabbed the radio. "Excellent. Let her through. Make sure they are shown to the pool terrace."

"Understood," the guard responded.

"See? Nothing to worry about. How about another round of drinks? I'm bringing out the cheap stuff after this." Mills chuckled.

"I'll make sure Anne Renee and Michael find their way down to the pool," Brown said.

This statement struck Greely as odd. For some reason, he didn't like the idea of Brown alone with Paulson and Brooks. Something about Brown definitely fueled his paranoia.

"Security can take care of that," Mills said, pouring generous amounts of scotch into each glass.

"I want to get a read on these two before we invite them to share drinks. I'd rather not get shot in the face," Brown said.

"If you're so worried, just take care of them now," Mills said.

"In front of the other operatives? That's a guaranteed death sentence. We stick to the plan, unless I sense a real problem. Don't worry. Brooks has a shitty poker face. If they're planning something, I'll know it right away," Brown said.

"F*ck. Now you have me paranoid," Mills said.

"We have plenty of security around here. We're safe," Greely said.

He gestured to the three casually dressed guards standing between the pool and the beach less than a hundred feet away. Unlike the patrols, these sentries were dressed in casual business attire and didn't wear body armor. Short-barreled AR-15 rifles were slung around their backs as they surveyed the lake.

"I'm still checking them out," Brown said.

"Suit yourself," Mills added.

Brown stood up and walked up the stairs to the deck, navigating his way to the screen doors beneath a massive two-story wall of wide glass windows framed by stone.

"I wish your wife didn't have a problem with firearms," Greely said. "I feel a little exposed sitting here unarmed."

"Are you worried about Brown? His loyalty to the cause is second to none. Trust me on that. He's just being cautious. Nothing wrong with that," Harding said.

"I suppose not, which is why I'd feel better with my Colt," Greely said.

"Sue Ellen will not allow them in the house, which is why I own several houses," Mills said, laughing at his own joke.

"I can't imagine she feels too comfortable about all of this firepower on the estate," Harding said.

"I convinced her that kidnapping threats have been made against the family because of the water crisis. She loves those kids more than life itself. As long as the weapons stay outside of the main house, I could land a battalion of marines on that beach."


**

Brown strode across the slate floor of the Vista Room and headed right for the Grand Entry. All of the rooms in this house had a f*cking name, and he'd already forgotten most of them. Mills had subjected them to a tour of the estate, once they had all arrived earlier today. Prior to this morning, none of them had been invited to Mills' exclusive Lake Wallenpaupack estate. They'd always met in his "lesser" homes or at retreat locations throughout the region.

Wallenpaupack. Brown promised himself that if he ever had enough money to buy a lake house, it wouldn't be on a lake with such a stupid name. He felt like a douchebag even hearing someone else say it.

He hoped to hell that he didn't run into Mills' trophy bride. More like old trophy, though you couldn't tell by the amount of work she'd had done on her face, which is why he hoped to avoid her. She was teetering on the edge of looking like one of those cartoonish Hollywood freaks that got a little bit carried away with collagen injections and skin tightening. She wasn't there yet, but give her a couple more years and she'd be forced to take drastic action to continue looking thirty years old. According to Mills, the two of them had been high school sweethearts. Mills had recently celebrated his fiftieth birthday, which put Sue Ellen in her late forties. Once she hit fifty, the gains achieved through simple plastic surgery and Botox would start to diminish, forcing her to either accept the aging process or continue the madness and risk looking like Donatella Versace.

Brown stopped at the far end of the Vista Room, at the custom-crafted, arched doorway leading deeper into the house, and wondered if he should have taken the smaller opening on the other side of the fireplace. The house had so many rooms and hallways that he imagined unattended guests could disappear, only to be found hours later. It was truly an outrageous spectacle and, frankly, didn't square well with the workingman focus of True America's manifesto, though he was quite sure that Owen Mills wouldn't hesitate to waste an hour of anyone's time explaining how his success embodied the true potential of America's resurgence to greatness. Somehow, inheriting a multimillion dollar company from your parents was considered an American success story in his world.

Before stepping out of the room in search of the Grand Entry, he couldn't resist looking back at the sweeping panoramic view of the lake through the virtual wall of windows behind him. He estimated the view to span one hundred and twenty degrees from the two-story fieldstone fireplace at the back of the room. He shook his head at the king's view of Lake Wallenpaupack before continuing.

He had chosen hallways wisely, seeing the front door in the distance. He hoped Anne Renee hadn't figured out her fate. She'd be hard to track down if she vanished. The arrival of Paulson and Brooks closed the loop on their involvement with Al Qaeda. The guards brought to the Mills' estate for the "exclusive" VIP-protection detail were all that remained of the teams assigned to steal the virus canisters from Al Qaeda cells in the New York Tri-State area. They couldn't completely erase True America's links to Al Qaeda, but they could take steps to prevent detailed testimony regarding the unsavory relationship.

Paulson had been intimately involved with the plan to fund Al Qaeda's overseas efforts to acquire the virus, which was enough to put her in the ground. Her direct coordination of their plan to steal the canisters from Al Qaeda and "redistribute" the virus ensured her execution. Greely had recruited her through a military contact, but he had never grown fond of her. Brown had detected from the beginning that Greely was simply using her intelligence background to fill a temporary role within the organization.

Mrs. Mills would leave with the kids for their house in St. Kitts early tomorrow. After they departed, Greely, Harding and Brown would host a celebratory picnic on the estate for True America's most loyal and valuable members, none of which would leave the property alive. He didn't look forward to loading over twenty bodies onto a truck.

Brown approached the door and noticed something he hadn't seen before. A hand-sized red splotch adorned the center windowpane on the left side of the double pine door and daylight shined through two small holes in the door. It didn't register with Brown until he drew closer and saw that one of the holes was splintered. He immediately grabbed his radio and sprinted to the wall next to the bloodied window.

He was f*cking right about those two, but he didn't think they'd have the nerve to take on his entire security detail. He wondered if they had managed to turn any of the estate's security detail. The New Recovery could end right here at the estate if Paulson managed to recruit any of the guards. He needed to get his hands on a weapon. That stupid Mills bitch had put a moratorium on firearms in the house, and her equally f*cking stupid husband had agreed.

"All patrols, this is Brown. Shoot Paulson and Brooks on sight. They've gone rogue. Secure the VIPs in the guest house."

His radio wasn't squawking as many replies as he had expected. Either most of the security team were already dead, or they had turned and were converging on the pool. He thought about warning the men near the beach. They would rush to protect the men sipping scotch by the pool, but would never expect the other guards to fire on them. This whole situation was about to explode, which made him think briefly about his other option. Get the f*ck out of here. He thought about it for a second, but decided to do some reconnaissance first. If Paulson and Brooks were acting alone, he would be running away for no reason.

Brown opened the heavy front door and crawled through the opening, scrambling to the crumpled guard located at the foot of the covered porch. The guard lay face down in a contorted position, with his head hung over the top step. He saw no blood on the porch. The guard's AR-15 was nowhere in sight, which really worried him. He stayed low, continuing to the top of the stairs, hoping to find a pistol in the man's thigh holster. He reached the man and started to turn him on his side. What he saw on the stairs stopped him cold.

The granite stairs leading to the driveway were soaked bright red, in a fan-shaped pattern starting where the man's head touched the top stair. The back of the man's head was completely missing, which struck him as odd. He glanced behind him at the door and saw the remnants of the sentry's brains and skull fragments on the door. The splintered hole he saw on the inside of the door represented a bullet that had passed through the guard's head with enough energy to penetrate two inches of thick wood. He hadn't been shot in the head with a pistol. This was the work of a high-powered rifle. Shit. He started to dig for the guard's pistol, but spotted the barrel of a rifle protruding from the evergreen bushes a few feet away. He ripped open a few of the pouches on the dead sentry's vest and looted two spare rifle magazines before he lurched forward and grabbed the rifle. Dashing back inside the house, he didn't stop until he reached the perceived safety of the room next to the two-story entry hall.

He sat back against the wall and tried to process the scene. Nobody had taken the rifle. If Paulson or Brooks had taken down the guard, they would have grabbed the rifle. The guard had either been shot at close range with an assault rifle or hit from a distance with a sniper weapon. Based on the exit wound characteristics, he was leaning toward the high-powered sniper theory, which led him to the worst possible conclusion. They had professional company on the estate. His range of options had just shrunk considerably.

"All units report," he said and waited a moment, but received no response.

He swallowed hard and stood up, planning to work his way back to the Vista Room. Escape was no longer an option…and neither was capture.


**

Melendez fired two rapid shots at a muscular black man that had come barreling around the southwest corner of the house in a full sprint. The 7.62mm rounds caught him by surprise, striking him center mass, but failing to penetrate the hardened ceramic trauma plates inserted into his vest. The kinetic energy of the rounds spread throughout the plates and stopped him cold and knocked him off balance. He stumbled backward, taking his hands off the only thing that could have saved him at this point. Before he could regain his footing or grab the rifle hanging from his three-point sling, Melendez dropped to one knee and fired a single round between his eyes. The massive guard grunted once and landed on his back, his arms and legs no longer receiving any coordinated or recognizable directions from his frontal lobe or cerebellum.

He took a deep breath and ran for the corner of the house, glad the guard hadn't seen him first. He'd have to take the backyard approach a little slower, spending more time searching for concealed targets. Someone had obviously sounded the alarm, and not every guard would run helter-skelter into the open. He reached the corner and surveyed the backyard. Past the tennis courts, he saw the edge of an infinity pool, which was partially obscured by a metal rack filled with several kayaks. Three guards wearing polo shirts and khaki pants sprinted from the wide beach toward the pool. Melendez raised the M1A SOCOM and fired at the lead runner, tumbling him onto the well-manicured grass. Shifting his aim, he watched the other two guards careen forward, losing control and crashing to the ground in lifeless heaps. He hadn't fired those rounds.

"Back patio is clear. High-value targets secure," Fayed said over the radio.

Melendez scanned the area between the house and the waterline, searching for a concealed shooter. It looked clear.

"West side clear. Approaching the pool from the west," he said, making sure Munoz and his crew didn't accidentally fire on him.

"Assault team securing targets. Approach clear."

Melendez took off running.


**

Daniel passed a short hedgerow on the eastern side of the house and searched for the single guard watching the southeastern shoreline. Unlike the sentries stationed between the house and road, this one hadn't moved more than ten feet while they watched from Ledge Point. He located the heavily armed sentry exactly where he expected. The man raised his hand to block the sun as he scanned the lake. Daniel edged forward a little further, completely exposed. He kept an eye on the guard as he approached the corner of the house. He wanted to make sure the sentry's sudden collapse wouldn't attract attention. Their position on Ledge Point didn't provide them with much information regarding the disposition of True America's guard deployment behind the house.

He reached the corner and crouched, taking a careful look beyond. He saw a large deck with stairs leading down to a patio. Three men sat comfortably around a low table, drinking from tumblers. He recognized them immediately from their online research. Mills, Greely and Harding. Beyond a blue slate infinity pool, he counted three additional guards near the foot of the dock on the beach. This might require some timing.

The guard to Daniel's left suddenly turned and started running for the house. They locked eyes, but Daniel had years of experience on the man, which translated into quickness and zero hesitation. A lethal combination on the battlefield. He fired two shots before the man could process the fact that Daniel wasn't part of their guard detail. Both projectiles hit him in the face.

Realizing that someone had sounded the alarm, Daniel leaned around the corner and aimed for the guards past the pool. He saw them drop from sight, leaving thin vapors of red mist above their vanishing heads. He aimed up at the deck, finding it clear of threats. Munoz and his team emerged from one of the sliding doors below the deck on the ground level, aiming at the three high-value targets still holding their drinks, relatively oblivious to what had just transpired. Jackson Greely placed his glass on the table and stood up, searching for the guards near the beach. He stumbled backward, spilling Lee Harding's glass out of his hand and nearly landing in his lap. Mills ran for the house with the drink in his hand, knocking one of the chairs out of the way. He was intercepted by Paracha, who butt-stroked him in the face with his carbine, knocking the CEO of Crystal Source to his knees and breaking his nose. He grabbed the overweight man by the collar of his tailored shirt and yanked him to his feet, pushing him back toward the pool.

Daniel jogged forward to join them, anxious to get this over with. With any luck, he could be headed south with Jessica by nightfall. He heard Melendez report his approach from the west and glanced up at the deck to make sure they hadn't missed anyone. Satisfied for the moment, he turned all of his attention to the three psychopaths being searched by the assault team. He missed the Jamaican's appearance on the deck by less than a second.


**

Brown eased through the Vista Room in a low, tactical stance, scanning with the barrel of his AR-15. So far, he had detected no movement in the house, which led him to believe that the teams had flanked the mansion and converged on his coconspirators. He heard a scuffle outside, followed by the sound of patio furniture screeching against stone. A few harsh voices joined the activity, followed by the sound of Mills crying out in agony. He wondered why agents hadn't flooded the house. Why didn't he hear the sound of helicopters or support vehicles?

The backyard was quiet beyond guttural voices and the occasional protest from Mills or Harding. All of these thoughts and observations floated through his head as he stepped quietly toward the open door. Through the massive wall of picture windows facing the lake, his view of the rippling, dark blue water transitioned into sandy beach and rocks, exposing the three guards sprawled in the grass. Everything had been so quiet. He was impressed. A sudden realization washed over him. This could be the same crew that had abducted Miguel Estrada and stopped the assassination team assigned to kill Benjamin Young in Atlanta. A glimmer of hope flashed in his mind. He might be facing a small team.

He flipped the G33STS Magnifier down, exposing the EOTech sight. He anticipated engaging targets at close range in the backyard and would have no use for the 3X optic attachment. The edge of the infinity pool appeared over the deck, followed by Mills and Harding. A dark-haired, dark-skinned man stood next to Mills. A little further and the whole scene would come into focus. Four men armed with rifles stood around the three founders of True America. Brown thumbed the rifle's selector switch to "auto" and aimed at two of the operatives standing in tandem. Lee Harding's torso was clearly visible behind them, which didn't make an impression on Brown one way or the other.

He depressed the trigger for a sustained burst, shifting the EOTech's red holographic sight image to the next target. A 7.62mm bullet penetrated his right eye and exited his skull before he could aim the next burst. Brown could still see out of his other eye and was vaguely aware that his body had ceased to function. He never felt the fusillade of bullets fired from the pool patio.


**

The smell of scotch floated in the air between the confused men. Daniel leaned over the table to pour the three terrorists another round of drinks. They would need a little something to numb them for what he had planned. The crystal decanter exploded in Daniel's hand, followed by the thunderous explosions, as 5.56mm bullets ripped through the air, shattering everything in their path. He felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder and realized he had been spun ninety degrees to face Munoz and Fayed, who pointed their smoking rifles upward at the deck. Daniel saw a dark figure drop out of sight below the railing, followed by a cascade of glass from one of the immense picture windows high above him. The glass fragments tumbled over the side of the deck, bringing him back to his senses.

He turned back to their three prisoners. Lee Harding's head lolled to the left, his arms and legs lightly twitching. His glassy eyes stared lifelessly forward, drawing Daniel's attention away from the small red hole visible above his right eyebrow. Jackson Greely looked unharmed, staring blankly at Harding's grotesque post mortem display. Mills started to stand, but was pushed back into his chair by Fayed, who stared past Daniel with a look of dismay. As Daniel's hearing recovered and the initial shock of being shot faded, he heard the desperate rasping sounds of the man who had been standing right behind him when the automatic fire started. He didn't need to turn around to know that Tariq Paracha had absorbed most of the steel fired from the deck.

Fayed shoved the table aside as Daniel wheeled around to see Paracha on his back, clawing at his blood-soaked neck. He could see two other entry wounds, one in his upper chest and another high on the front of his left thigh. The vast amount of blood pooling on the stone under his hips signaled to Daniel that the bullet passing through his thigh had likely severed or nicked his femoral artery. Combined with a neck shot, there would be little they could do for Tariq. They hadn't been equipped with a first aid kit, let alone a trauma kit.

"Watch them and keep an eye on the house. We can't afford any more surprises," Daniel said.

Melendez, who had just arrived, joined his counterpart Munoz and aimed toward the house, searching for movement. Daniel placed his rifle next to Paracha and put his hands under the dying man's back, kneeling behind his head. He lifted Paracha's upper torso onto his knees to elevate his chest and head. When he removed his arms from under Paracha, they were slick with dark, red blood. He held them up for a few seconds, before wiping them on the side of his khaki pants. All they could do at this point was make him feel a little more comfortable. He'd be unconscious in less than a minute. Fayed crouched next to Paracha and spoke.

"We'll make sure this was worth it," Fayed said, squeezing Tariq's shoulder.

"F*cking right we will," Daniel added.

Paracha tried to talk, but they heard nothing more than an incoherent rasp.

"Take it easy, buddy. Take it easy," he said soothingly.

The operative's hands started to ease away from his neck, and Daniel felt his body relax. When his arms fell to the stone, Fayed closed his eyes and glared at Mills and Jackson. Daniel tracked his murderous stare, while he eased Paracha's body to the stone and retrieved his rifle.

"Fayed, take Melendez and clear the house. Bring me Mills' family," he said and leaned in to whisper in his ear. "They'll pay for this. Don't worry."

Fayed nodded with a hard look on his face and climbed the deck with Melendez, disappearing into the house.

"You're hit pretty bad," Munoz said.

"I hadn't noticed," Daniel said, walking up to Harding's corpse.

He took hold of Harding's shirt with both hands and lifted him out of the chair, swinging him over the splintered teak table and splashing Jackson Greely with bloody brain matter. The table collapsed under the weight, spilling Harding onto the patio in front of an empty chair. Daniel stepped over Harding and took a seat, resting his feet on the dead man's chest. He stared at the two men, noting that each of them shook slightly. Greely's face had been decorated with clumps of deep scarlet matter, and Mills' nose still streamed blood. Despite the shock of having their world collapse around them, they looked surprisingly composed. He'd quickly change that.

"Gentlemen, I've been at this for nearly forty-eight hours. I'm tired, and I've just been informed that I'm bleeding, so let me save you the bullshit. We don't work for the FBI, CIA or Department of Defense. We work for an independent organization that has no rules or boundaries. This is a point you need to understand before I ask the million-dollar question because there won't be a referee to step in and save you," Daniel said, shifting his rifle from Greely to Mills.

"And there's really no point in trying to resist. True America is finished. We found the facility used to contaminate the bottled water, and we stopped the last convoy at the distribution center. We're tracking four additional convoys, which will be intercepted within the hour."

Greely stole a glance at Mills, who tried to pretend he didn't see it.

"Don't get excited. We know there's one more convoy. We just don't know how to find it. That's the million-dollar question we've been sent to ask, before the federal task force sitting in Scranton descends on Honesdale. By my watch, we have at least another ninety minutes. The president gave us ample time to obtain this information. Even if we have to do this the hard way, I can't imagine needing more than ten. Your friend here makes a nice leg rest," Petrovich said, shifting his feet.

Screaming erupted from the house, causing Mills to stand. Munoz barked at him to sit back down, raising the rifle over his head to ensure his compliance. Daniel turned to see Fayed shove an attractive blond woman and two middle-school-aged girls toward the stairway leading down to the patio. Mills' wife was dressed in black designer jeans and a tight pink blouse. Her daughters were dressed more conservatively in jeans and brightly colored sweaters. Fayed yelled at them as they protested.

"Line them up on the edge of the pool!" Daniel yelled.

"You need to leave them out of this! You son of a bitch!"

Mills tried to launch out of his chair, but Munoz had anticipated his outburst and smashed the butt of his rifle down on his left shoulder, cracking his collarbone. The sound of the bone snapping could be heard over the metallic crash of the rifle. Mills' wife grabbed both of her daughters' hands and tried to run over to her husband, but Fayed snatched the dark-haired daughter out of her grip, stopping Sue Ellen Mills in her tracks. Melendez grabbed the woman by the neck and strong-armed her over to the pool, followed by Fayed with both of the terrified girls.

"How do you want them?" Fayed yelled.

"Line them up side by side, like a firing squad."

Daniel lifted himself up from the chair, careful not to put any pressure on his left arm. He winced and exhaled, despite his efforts to ignore the pain. Munoz came up next to him.

"You all right?" he whispered. "You're losing blood."

"I'm good for now. Small entry and exit wound. Passed right through."

He knew that Munoz was right. Judging by the amount of blood soaked into the light brown chair cushion, he was about ten minutes away from fading into unconsciousness. He felt all right at the moment, a little dizzy from the initial blood loss, but most of his attention was still focused on the pain. The sharp, searing sensation had been joined by a dull, agonizing ache that had spread through his arm and into his chest. The bullet had missed the coracoid process of his scapula, a small hook-like bone connected to the clavicle, likely passing through the ligament connecting the two and causing a cascade of muscle tightening and ligament inflammation throughout his body. Once on his feet, he could barely raise his left arm, but retained the function of his elbow and forearm. His fingers felt tingly, but he could still tightly grip the M1A's hand guard.

"This whole thing is bigger than all of us. You're patriots. I can tell you've served the nation honorably, but your country has lost its way. We're going to change all of that and put America back on its feet. Back on the track to a New Recovery," Jackson Greely said, gesturing grandly to the sky.

"By poisoning the U.N. and detonating a suicide bomb at the National Counterterrorism Center?"

"This is a historical day for our citizens. Deep down inside, I know you agree," he added.

"Have you lost your f*cking mind? True America is gone. Can't you see that? Not only your little nightmare group, but the whole movement. There's no way the mainstreamers will survive the bad press associated with your plot. The Republicans and Democrats will make sure of that. This might be the first time in years that they actually agree on something. It's a real shame, actually. True America was on the path to providing an alternative to the two-party system. I heard they might have fielded a viable presidential candidate next year."

Jackson Greely didn't respond. Daniel looked at Mills, who looked deflated and scared.

"Things were cooking along nicely until you put this plan into action. Something to think about while you're rotting in prison," Daniel said.

"It would have taken forever," Greely stated.

"And you might have missed out on the chance to sit at the big table. Where is the last convoy headed, Jackson? The least you can do is salvage a speck of dignity from this mess you've created."

"You can kiss my—"

A single gunshot erupted from Daniel's rifle, catching Greely under the nose and blasting the back of his head into the bushes behind him. He remained upright in the chair for a moment before toppling sideways. Mills' wife and two daughters screamed uncontrollably as Owen Mills tried to launch himself at Daniel.

"Time to rearrange the furniture. I want him turned to face the ladies," he said.

Daniel slung the rifle over his shoulder and walked behind Mills, grabbing him around the neck with his forearm.

"Swing the chair around," he told Munoz.

Once Mills faced the pool, Daniel released his forearm and leaned close to Mills' right ear.

"I can't kill you because you appear to be the only one left that can identify the convoy. Tell me where it's headed, and my team will leave your family unharmed."

"I can't dishonor the people who sacrificed for our cause. I won't."

"That's a lofty thing to hear from someone living in a 15,000-square-foot lakeside mansion. I think you're full of shit, so I'm going to help you understand the true meaning of the word sacrifice. You get to pick which one of these courageous ladies pays the ultimate price for the cause you're defending."

"You f*cking psychopath! My family has nothing to do with this!"

Daniel slapped him and screamed back. "They have everything to do with this! Your suicide bomb shattered dozens of families!"

"What is he talking about, Owen?" Sue Ellen yelled hysterically.

"They had to be sacrificed for America," Mills said.

"You're pretty big on sacrificing the people dedicated to your cause. Hacker Valley, the laboratory staff, Benjamin Young. Am I missing anyone?"

Daniel turned to the family standing beside the pool. "Stand them up straight!"

"Daniel, maybe we should just focus on Mills," Fayed said quietly.

"I'm done with f*ckers like this. Sitting back sipping scotch while his expendables make history. I need to make sure none of his DNA leaves the estate," Daniel said, pointing his rifle at the two daughters.

The girls screamed, and Sue Ellen Mills nearly fell into the pool trying to escape Munoz's grasp to get between Daniel's rifle and her children. He was starting to feel really lightheaded and could barely raise the rifle with his left arm.

"We need to get you some medical attention," Fayed whispered. "You’re starting to worry me."

Daniel cleared the haziness. He was going to finish this right here, right now. He wasn't sure why this was taking him so long.

"I'm fine. Mills, by the count of three, or I get to choose," he said.

"I can't do that," Mills screeched.

"Do what? Pick which one we shoot, or tell me where the convoy is headed?"

"I can't do either," he sobbed.

"Honey, just tell them what they want to know. Please!" his wife pleaded.

Daniel engaged the safety on his rifle and threw it to the stone patio behind him. He removed his pistol from a concealed belt holster and aimed it to the left of Sue Ellen's head. He had no intention of shooting her, but he was losing control of the situation. He was also starting to feel short of breath, which he knew was a symptom of progressive blood loss. He wouldn't be able to stand for very long. Maybe he wasn't getting enough oxygen to his brain to make these decisions. He didn't know. All he cared about was extracting the information and getting back to his life with Jessica.

For a brief moment, he lined the pistol's sights up on Sue Ellen's face. Maybe shooting her in the face would get Mills to reveal the convoy's destination. He didn't want to do that, but his finger added pressure to the trigger. He became tunnel focused on her and no longer heard the kids screaming and crying. Mills' pleading faded as he moved the trigger closer to its eight-pound pressure release. He could no longer guarantee that he wouldn't shoot her. Munoz's face appeared in the pistol's sight picture.

"Danny, you don't have to do this. Fayed can handle it," Munoz said.

Jeffrey Munoz had placed himself between Mills' wife and the barrel of the gun. Daniel squinted and realized that he needed to let this go. Munoz had stood in formation next to Daniel on their first day at Sanderson's experimental training camp in Colorado. He was one of the few surviving members of the original Black Flag program, and one of the few people that truly understood how Daniel's mind worked. Now he owed Munoz another favor. He lowered the pistol and turned to Fayed.

"He's all yours. Melendez, secure the family comfortably in the house."

"Thank you. Thank you," Mills muttered.

Fayed patted Daniel on the shoulder and approached Mills. Daniel stared out at the lake, shaking from the realization that he had been pulled back from the edge of the darkest hole he had ever seen. If Munoz hadn't intervened, he would have worked his way down the line until Mills started talking. He might not have stopped at that point. Jessica would have never forgiven him for executing children. He wished he could blame what almost happened on the blood loss, but he knew better.

Sanderson had awoken a menacing darkness deep inside of him. He'd drawn on its energy to survive his undercover assignment in Serbia, but it came with a price. It would never go dormant again, and it was always there, faintly whispering to him. Today it had risen up and screamed at him. Fayed stood behind Mills and placed his hands on the man's shoulders, pressing downward. He leaned down and spoke loudly enough to jar Daniel back into the moment.

"Don't thank him yet. Here's how it works. If you don't tell me the convoy's destination right now, I'm going to march you naked into the kitchen and sit you down on the front burner of that beautiful, stainless-steel Viking stove. Then, I'll turn the oven to broil and stuff your legs inside, jamming them in place with the door. We'll spend the next ten minutes testing the front burner settings, while broiling the flesh off your feet. I'm not kidding about this."

Mills looked horrified and gasped for breath.

"What is the convoy's final target?" Daniel said.

Deflated and scared, he blubbered, "The Capitol Building. I…uh…donated several million dollars to the right campaigns and called in the favor. Three semi-trucks with Arrowhead Water logos delivered the bottles fifty minutes ago. Restaurant Associates accepted the shipment. They handle the Capitol Building's dining and concessions. Can I see my family now?"

Daniel nodded to Fayed, who removed his hands from Mills' shoulders. Owen Mills stood on shaky legs, taking a few steps forward. He avoided eye contact, taking a path around Daniel that brought him close to the pool's edge. Daniel raised his pistol and fired two bullets into the CEO of Crystal Source, knocking him into the pool. He landed on his back, with his arms extended sideways. A crimson geyser exploded upward from the pool as his body disappeared underneath the dark water. He didn't wait to see if the body resurfaced. The dark whispering went silent for now.

"He deserved a lot worse," Fayed said.

"I agree, but we don't have the time. The feds will show up at any second, and I had no intention of losing any of these guys to an army of lawyers. Grab Tariq's gear. Berg's guy took a serious risk getting this gear to us. We roll in thirty seconds," Daniel said.

"I'll meet the team out front," he said and started removing Tariq's vest.

"Should we bring him along? I hate to leave him here, scattered among these criminals," Daniel said.

"Tariq's corpse is the last thing we need to be hauling around in a car. Sanderson can straighten this out with the FBI," Fayed said.

"Speak of the devil," Daniel said.

He removed a satellite phone from one of the magazine pouches and answered the call.

"Good timing. We just finished cocktails."

"Don't f*ck with me right now. I can never tell if you're f*cking with me. Did you get the information?"

"Still on the run?"

"Daniel, I need to make a few very important phone calls. Important to you and important to me. Cut the shit for once," Sanderson said.

Daniel could tell from the sound quality that he was on the road. For some reason, the image of Sanderson fleeing in a gypsy caravan made him happy.

"The Capitol Building. Delivered fifty minutes ago by three semi-trailers with Arrowhead logos. Tariq is dead."

"Jesus. I'm really sorry to hear that. Fayed's Middle East group took a beating. All right. You need to stay off the grid until further notice. Escape and evade. We're still on the FBI's shit list," Sanderson said.

"I assume you can fix that?"

"I'm working on a plan."

"You need to work fast because I'm going to require hospitalization within the next fifteen minutes. I've lost too much blood to ride it out."

"Get yourself to an ER. I'll have this squared away soon enough."

"That would sound more encouraging to me if I didn't suspect you were driving at breakneck speed toward some dingy hideout in Neuquén right now."

"Have a little faith. When have I ever let you down?"

Daniel didn't say a word. He waited for Sanderson to speak.

"All right. Don't answer that question. You'll be back in South Carolina with Jessica by…tomorrow," Sanderson said.

"I've heard that before."