“His gun is holstered and his radio is on his hip.” Heaney and Kennedy looked at the body for only a second, then turned their attention away from the marshal and the house.
They took the whole landscape in without saying a word, swiveling their heads from side to side, their eyes focusing tightly on the darkness beyond the reach of the floodlights.
Without turning, Heaney asked, “Skip, can you get them to turn these lights off?.”
McMahon said something to one of the agents, and the lights were cut, leaving only the small light over the back door on. The general started walking across the yard for the tree line. McMahon and Kennedy followed several steps behind, and a moment later they disappeared into the woods. Heaney navigated the dark forest with ease, ducking under branches and over fallen limbs that McMahon and Kennedy struggled with.
186
Upon reaching the creek they stopped and turned back toward the house.
Kennedy asked, “What do you think, General?” General Heaney looked at the FBI
agents standing by the back door. “They can’t see us, can they?”
“Not standing under that light they can’t,” responded Kennedy. “And we’re not even wearing camouflage gear.
The light only goes to about the end of the yard and then dies out.”
Heaney looked over to the other side of the creek. “I think it was two or more men. It could have been one, but it would have been really difficult. They were in and out in under a minute, and the marshals never knew what hit them, as is evidenced by the fact that none of them drew their guns. One or two men crept through the woods back here and took out the sentry by the back door with a single rifle shot to the head. The marshal by the front door was taken out next with an assault rifle, and then the man in the car at the end of the driveway was killed.”
“I agree,” said Kennedy. “Why that order?” asked McMahon. “When they killed the guy in the car, they had to shoot him through the window.
If they kill him first, the marshal out front hears the window smash and grabs his gun or radio or both. He grabbed neither because he was already dead when the window was shot out. In any case, the men outside died within seconds of each other.” The general shook his head.
“These marshals never stood a chance. The guys who did this were good.
The head shots are as accurate as you can get, and they’re commando style, three quick bursts to the head.”
“How in the hell did they get so close to the guy in the car? He was shot point-blank.”
“There’s plenty of cover around here. With the right camouflage, a commando would have no trouble sneaking to within ten feet of that car.
After they take care of the three guards outside, all they have to worry about is the last marshal inside. The killers grab one of the marshal’s radios to make sure the guard inside wasn’t alerted… since his gun is still in his holster, it’s pretty obvious he wasn’t.
They shoot him from the window, and then Turnquist comes downstairs to find out what the noise was, or maybe he was on his way down when it happened. They’re in and out in under a minute, a minute and a half tops, and all they leave behind is five dead bodies and a couple dozen shell casings. Very clean, very professional. I’m sorry to sound so heartless, but I’m just giving my professional opinion.”
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“No apologies needed, General. That’s what I brought you out here for.
What do you think, Irene?”
“The general is right. Things can always go wrong when you’re running an operation like this, but in relation to some of the missions we’ve run, this thing would have been a cakewalk. These marshals aren’t trained to deal with this kind of a lethal threat. We train our commandos to be able to defeat the best surveillance systems in the world, get by guard dogs, sneak past trigger-happy terrorists armed to the teeth, and then silently kill and get away without being noticed…. The guys who did this are good, and they’re used to facing a lot tougher obstacles than four U.S. marshals armed with radios and pistols.”
McMahon bit down on his upper lip and thought about the remaining Congressman and
Senators, most of whom had less protection than Turnquist. Kennedy’s point was clear: if these guys weren’t caught, he would be spending more of his nights standing over dead bodies. “I need them to slip up… I need a break,” murmured McMahon.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” replied Heaney.
THE DARK GREEN CHEVY TAHOE ROLLED EASTWARD DOWN HIGHWAY
50. It was just past midnight and traffic was light. Michael kept the speed under sixty-five and stayed in the right lane. His left hand loosely gripped the steering wheel while he leaned on the middle armrest. The stereo was tuned to an ALL news station, but he wasn’t listening. The question of who was behind the murders of Turnquist and Olson was pulsing through his mind. The exit for the cabin was approaching, and O’Rourke hit the blinker.
Veering to the right, the truck started up the exit ramp. As he slowed for the stop sign, he rolled down his window and let the cold night air blow on his face. The cool breeze blowing through the window felt refreshing, but as the car accelerated, the wind rushing through the window grew annoying. Michael pressed a button, closing it. Five minutes later the unmarked road to the cabin came up quickly, and Michael braked hard. Gravel spun from under the tires as he banked into the turn and sped down the narrow road.
Pulling in between two cars, he got out, walked around to the back of the truck, and lowered the tailgate. Duke jumped down and started smelling the ground as he ran in circles.
Walking toward the porch, Michael whistled once, and Duke bounded to his side.
Michael patted Duke on the head and told him to stay.
