Sheriff’s Office had coordinated the operation without consulting the Middleburg Police. Middleburg’s entire department consisted of only five men. But according to Bledsoe, the lieutenant in charge was belligerent, feeling that his territory had been trampled. He insisted his own officers be part of the action and threw a fit, claiming jurisdictional issues would be pursued with Loudoun’s police chief.
Bledsoe put the guy on hold, no doubt concerned he would lose his temper and say something that would delay the entire operation for hours. He told Vail what the problem was.
She shook her head, once again amazed at how law enforcement professionals could act so petty, losing sight of the primary goal: catching the bad guy. “Men are like dogs, Bledsoe. They like to piss all over to stake out their territory. That’s what this guy is doing. You’ve seen it a million times.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it. All it does is waste my time.”
“I doubt the Loudoun chief gives a shit about turf wars. All he wants is to be able to say his people captured the Dead Eyes killer. He doesn’t care whether the police or sheriff brings him in, right?”
“Right.”
“Then tell your Middleburg buddy, Lieutenant
Bledsoe issued the challenge and waited while the lieutenant was supposedly making the call. Ten minutes later, the receptionist handed Bledsoe the phone. After listening a moment, Bledsoe thanked the caller, then hung up. “‘Lieutenant Doberman’ said that all his investigators are busy on cases, so it’d take a while to call them in, and he didn’t want to delay our op.” Bledsoe grunted. “Truth is, if they pulled any of their guys in, half their district would go unpatrolled. Middleburg would use the Loudoun SERT unit anyway.”
“Pissing matches and big egos,” Vail said. “Next thing you’ll tell me is that you guys sit around bars comparing the size of your penises.”
“Give us some credit, Karen. We leave that talk in the locker room.”
Kilgore took the Virtual Earth images and topographical map with him in the Full Assault Vehicle and headed toward Middleburg’s Red Fox Inn. The task force followed in one of the SERT team member’s cars, which was equipped with two black tactical outfits, radios, helmets, shields, infrared goggles, and masks, since the officers often reported directly to an incident site in their own vehicles.
With Bledsoe driving and Del Monaco riding with Kilgore in the assault vehicle, Vail watched as the Red Fox Inn, a four-story field-stone Bed and Breakfast, came into view. “I’ve always wanted to stay here,” she said.
Robby craned his neck to get a look at the building. “It’s just a big old house.”
“That’s like saying the White House is ‘just a big old house.’ The Red Fox Inn has roots going back to the early 1700s. I think Washington slept here. It even played a role in the Revolutionary and Civil Wars.”
“And how do you know this?” Manette asked.
“You’re always challenging me, you know that?”
“Somebody’s got to. You think you know everything about everything.”
“I was going to book a room here about six months ago. The Belmont Suite, very romantic. You have the Blue Ridge and Bull Run mountains surrounding you, lush greenery, and the rooms are furnished like they were two hundred years ago.” She gazed out the window at the passing undeveloped countryside. “Then I realized that no matter how romantic a place is, if you’ve got no one to share it with, it’s very lonely. I threw away the brochure.”
She could feel Robby’s gaze burning the back of her head. He would take her there, she had a feeling, during her self-proclaimed vacation. With Dead Eyes almost in the bag, her time off was suddenly within reach. She allowed herself a brief moment to daydream.
“In case you’re interested,” Manette said, “your romantic get-away was around when Franklin Farwell bought his ranch.”
Vail cocked her head. Manette was right. She shuddered to think how close it was, how close the young women who had gone to the inn for a special night of pampering had come to getting something they were not expecting.
A MOMENT LATER, Bledsoe followed the assault vehicle into the front lot and parked. Kilgore hopped out of the truck’s cab and led the way to the inn’s entrance.
As they entered the Jeb Room, the task force members took in the dark wood paneling, fireplace, and ceiling beams.
“I run all my tactical sessions out of here whenever we’ve got a maneuver in the area. Manager’s my aunt’s friend.” He placed the Virtual Earth images on a long table by the far wall.
“So who was Jeb?” Manette asked.
“General Jeb Stuart, Confederate Army. In fact,” Kilgore said, “General Stuart met with the Gray Ghost, Colonel John Mosby, right here in this very room, planning their strategy for the Civil War.”
Manette frowned. “That don’t make me feel at home.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Robby said.
“Political views aside,” Bledsoe said, “I hope our strategy session is more successful than theirs was.”
Kilgore stood the topographical map against the wall. “It will be, Bledsoe. It will be.”
The seven tactical team members arrived during the course of the next hour. Kilgore reviewed the map and Virtual Earth images and formulated a plan. Coffee was brought up by management, who met one of the officers at the door. With a sensitive operation being planned, no outsiders were permitted into the room.
An hour later, Kilgore began packing away the maps while the tactical team and task force members headed down to the truck to suit up.
Bledsoe stood in front of his seat, hands on his hips.
“What’s wrong?” Vail asked.
“My chair. I left it there,” he said, pointing to a spot, “and now it’s here.” He indicated a location several feet away.
“I think you need some sleep. We all do.” Vail pat him on the back, then headed out the door.
“I’m serious.”
“That’d be Monte,” Kilgore said. “Ghost from the 1700s. He moves things around, makes noises.” Kilgore craned his neck and spoke to the ceiling: “Cut it out, Monte, you’re scaring this guy.” Kilgore chuckled, then headed out the door, maps in hand.
“Ghost?” Bledsoe asked. He looked around the room, suddenly realized he was alone, and warded off a chill. Then he rushed out the closing door.
A LITTLE OVER THREE HOURS from the moment they had arrived at the Loudoun Special Ops building, the tactical assault vehicle and accompanying car pulled to a stop amongst a stand of mature oaks a half mile down the road from the perimeter of the Farwell ranch. The SERT team of eight men jumped out the rear, black-vested jackets covering their torsos and sniper rifles gripped in both hands as if they were an organic extension of their arms.
The task force members were outfitted in similar garb, most of them using vests for the first time in years. Fortunately, it was a cold afternoon, and the added weight and insulation provided warmth. They did not know how long they would be outside, exposed to the elements, without supplies from the truck to tide them over.
Several of the men tossed a tan-and-brown camouflage canvas over the truck while others collected brush from the surrounding trees and gathered it around the tires. Large branches were thrown atop the team member’s black car to prevent any reflection from the mirror or windows.
“Okay, listen up,” Kilgore said. He positioned his headset so the mouthpiece of his two-way radio was squarely in front of his mouth. “Radio communication or hand signals only from this point forward. We fan out and establish a perimeter fifty yards off the house. When all looks secure, we’ll move in and breach the place. You’ve all got your marks. Check in as each of you hit them. Remember, this guy is dangerous. Word is he used to hunt fox, so he’s obviously a good shot. Be careful, treat the situation as if he’s got an arsenal in there. We don’t know what to expect. Questions?” He waited a beat, surveyed his team, then said, “Move out.”
“Which team you want us with?” Vail asked.
Kilgore stiffened. “That’s the problem with having you here. I’ve got nowhere to put you.”
“We’ll form our own team,” Bledsoe said.
