“I see.” Again Burke hesitated. Finally, he asked, “Should I consider this an interagency matter?”
Terce knew that the other man was asking if Kit Pierson was somehow responsible for the snoopers now almost literally on his doorstep. He smiled. At this point, whether that was true or not was immaterial. “I think it would be wise to do so.”
“That's too bad,” the CIA officer said edgily. “Really too bad.”
'Yes, it is,“ the big man agreed. ”For now, hold tight where you are. Out.'
Terce flipped the phone shut. Then he retrieved his thermal-imaging binoculars from McRae. “Go back to the vehicles and bring the others here,” he said. “But I want them to come quietly.” He grinned wolfishly. “Tell them they're going hunting.”
“Who was that, Hal?” Kit Pierson asked, clearly puzzled.
“The duty officer at Langley,” Burke told her, speaking slowly and distinctly. His voice sounded strained and unnatural. “The NSA just sent over a courier with a few Movement-related intercepts….”
Jon Smith listened closely. He frowned. Still holding the laser microphone aimed at the window above him, he glanced at Peter Howell. “Something's wrong,” he whispered. “Burke just got a phone call and now he's gone all stiff. He's just bullshitting, not really saying anything.”
“Do you think he's tumbled to us?” Peter asked quietly.
“Maybe. But I don't see how.”
“We may have underestimated this fellow,” Peter said. The corners of his mouth turned down. “A cardinal sin in this line of work, I'm afraid. I suspect Mr. Burke of the CIA has more resources available to him here than we had hoped.”
“Meaning he has backup?”
“Quite possibly.” The Englishman dug the USGS survey map out of one of the pockets on his vest and studied it, tracing the contour lines and terrain features with one gloved finger. He tapped the outline of a wooded ridge not far off to the west. “If I wanted to keep a good, close eye on this house, that's where I would put my observation post.”
Smith felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Peter was right. That ridge offered a clear view of most of the ground around the farmhouse, including their current position. “What do you suggest?”
“An immediate retreat,” the pale-eyed man said crisply, stuffing the survey map back into his vest pocket. He pulled the Heckler &Koch MP5 submachine gun over his head and yanked back on the cocking handle, chambering a 9mm round. “We don't know how strong the opposition is, and I don't see any point in loitering about to learn the hard way. We've acquired some useful information, Jon. Let's not push our luck further tonight.”
Smith nodded, already putting the laser microphone and its associated gear away. “Good point.” He readied his own submachine gun.
“Then follow me.” Peter rolled to his feet and then, bent almost double, scurried back to the cover offered by the two cars parked close to the house. Smith followed him, moving as fast as he could while also staying low to the ground. At any second he expected to hear a startled shout or feel the sudden impact of a bullet. But he heard and felt only the silence of the night and the pounding of his own accelerating pulse.
From there, they moved past the ruined barn and on down the slope into the bramble-choked field below, trying to keep the bulk of the little hill between them and the higher ridge to the west. Peter led the way, ghosting quietly through the snarled clumps of thorns and waist-high weeds with a grace born out of years of training and experience.
They were close to the edge of the stagnant pond when the Englishman suddenly went prone, hugging the dirt behind a patch of raspberry bushes. Smith dropped flat behind him and then crawled forward, using his elbows and knees while cradling the MP5 against his chest. He tried hard not to breathe in too deeply. They were below the level of the cool breeze whispering across the field, and the air was thick with the pent-up stench of algae and rotting fruit.
“Christ,” Peter muttered. “That's torn it! Listen.”
Smith heard the faint noise of a powerful engine, growing steadily louder. Cautiously he raised his head to peer over the top of the closest bush. About two hundred yards away a large black 4x4 cruised slowly past on the county road, traveling east. It was driving without lights.
“You think they'll spot our cars?” he asked softly.
Peter nodded grimly. The small stand of trees in which they had parked would not hide their vehicles from a determined search. “They're sure to,” he said. “And when they do, all hell will break loose — if it hasn't already.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “And it has, alas,” he murmured. “Take a look behind us, Jon. But do it slowly.”
Smith carefully turned his head and saw a skirmish line of five men wearing night-vision goggles and dark clothing slowly descending the gentle slope behind them. Each carried a submachine gun or an assault rifle cradled in both hands.
Jon felt his mouth go dry. The closest of the armed men hunting them was already just a little more than one hundred yards away. He and Peter were trapped.
“Any ideas?” Smith hissed.
“Yes. We drive those five men to ground and then we both run like rabbits,” Peter answered. “Stay away from the road, though. Not enough cover in that direction. We'll head north.” He spun around and came up on one knee with his submachine gun at the ready, followed a second later by Smith.
For an instant Jon hesitated, pausing with his finger already on the trigger — wondering if he should shoot to kill or simply to frighten. Were these some of the same men who had already tried to kill him? Or allied to them? Or were they regular CIA personnel or private security guards roped in by Burke to guard his property?
Their sudden movement attracted the attention of one of the gunmen moving down the hill. He froze. “Contact, front!” he yelled in heavily accented English. Then he opened fire with his submachine gun, spraying a hail of 9mm bullets toward the two kneeling men.
Smith's doubts dissolved as the incoming rounds snapped and whined through the air around him. These guys were mercenaries, and they were not trying to take prisoners. He and Peter fired back, squeezing off a series of aimed three-round bursts with their MP5s — walking their fire from opposite ends of the enemy skirmish line toward the middle. One of the five gunmen screamed suddenly and folded over, hit in the stomach. The other four dived for cover.
“Let's go!” Peter said sharply, tapping Smith on the shoulder.
Both men jumped to their feet and sprinted off into the darkness, angling north, well away from the county road. Again, the Englishman led the way, but this time he did not waste any time trying to find easier paths through the tangle of brush and brambles. Instead, he crashed right through even the densest briar patches at full bore. Stealth was out in favor of speed. They needed to cover as much ground as possible before the surviving gunmen recovered from their surprise and started shooting again.
Smith ran fast, his heart pounding as he followed right in Peter's wake. He kept his gloved hands and the submachine gun out in front of him, trying to keep his face from being lacerated by the welter of splintered branches and sharp-edged thorns. Brambles tugged and tore at his arms and legs, jabbing and slashing right through the thick cloth. Sweat trickled down his forearms, stinging like fire when it mingled with his new puncture wounds, cuts, and scrapes.
More gunfire erupted behind them. Rounds zipped through the thick undergrowth on either side — clipping off leaves and twigs and spattering the fragments in all directions.
The two men threw themselves down and wriggled round to face the way they had come, seeking cover in a slight depression worn away by runoff from the hill above them. “Determined bastards,” Peter commented coolly as rifle bullets and submachine gun rounds ripped past right over their heads. “I'll give them that.” He listened intently. “That's only two men firing. We hit one. So where are the other two?”
“Closing in on us,” Smith said grimly. “While their pals cover them.”
“Quite likely,” Peter agreed. He smiled suddenly. “Let's teach them that's not such a good idea, shall we?”
Jon nodded.
“Right,” Peter said calmly. “Here we go.”
Ignoring the bullets still tearing up the brush around them, both men reared up and began firing — again
