Extinction Machine

Chapter One Hundred Thirteen

House of Jack Ledger, three hours ago

Near Robinwood, Maryland

Monday, October 21, three hours ago

Snake Harris ran down through a gulley that was still bathed in shadows. Six men ran behind him, each of them with automatic weapons aimed toward the house. Snake was the only one carrying a handgun. It was boxy and awkward looking, with four prongs instead of a barrel; however, Snake had used that pistol several times. The last time was at Wolf Trap in Virginia while working a job under the name Henckhouser. He and his partner had painted the walls using those guns. Snake loved the effect.

He ran with the pistol in a two-hand grip, his eyes focused on the back porch door. The telemetry from the satellite told him that the four heat signatures inside were stationary. Probably asleep.

That was okay. If they wanted to take it lying down, then that was just fine.

As his team reached the end of the gulley he looked across the lawn and saw the second team move into position beside the front porch. Another six men. And a third six-man team was in the attached garage, ready to kick the door that led into the cellar. Eighteen men and himself, ready to close around this place like a fist.

The primary mission objective was simple. Secure Junie Flynn. If she was there. Everyone else dies.

There was a burst of very faint squelch in his earbud, the signal that the garage team was in place.

Snake whispered a single word.

“Go.”

The teams rushed their objectives. Snake’s sergeant, a hulking man, passed him and kicked the door. Almost in the same second Snake heard the front door bang in. And then they were pouring into the house, rushing from darkness into lighted rooms, weapons up and out, searching out the four lives whose time on earth had come to an end.

The closest heat signature was the den and Snake burst inside, his gun already firing.

Tok!

The curled form under a blanket on the couch exploded as the microwave pulse burned into it. There was a flash of colored blanket shreds and then the air was filled with feathers. In the confusion, his men opened up and tore the form, the couch, and the whole side of the room apart. Splinters flew from the floor, plaster leaped from the walls, glass disintegrated out into the side yard.

There were shouts upstairs, more gunfire.

“Hold your fire!” Snake yelled. “Hold your fire.”

The chatter of automatic gunfire dwindled down to silence, the last of the brass tinkled onto the ground.

Feathers floated on the smoke and mingled with plaster dust.

The couch was torn apart. So were the two thick pillows that had been positioned under the blanket.

“Where’s the target?” growled Snake.

“Thermals are saying it’s here,” insisted his sergeant.

Snake whipped left and right, his team kicked over chairs, tore open closets.

They found the heat source.

It was under the couch. A device about the size of a TV remote.

“It’s a signal relay,” said the sergeant. “These f*ckers are getting cute. They’ve forwarded a thermal signature here to draw us away from where they are. Christ, boss, they could be anywhere.”

Which is when the house blew up.

* * *

IN THE BARN, seated on a folding chair next to stacked boxes of Jack Ledger’s personal possessions, Gunnery Sergeant Brick Anderson tossed the detonator onto the floor.

“That’s for Baltimore,” he said.

Outside he heard a few sporadic shots. Birddog, cleaning up the leavings.

Brick switched off the jammer that hid the true thermal signatures. He stood up and walked to the barn door. The house was a burning pile of sticks.

“Joe’s not going to be happy about that,” he said.

A man moved out of the shadows.

“He’ll get over it,” said Mr. Church.