“Doing what?” When he didn’t answer I said, “We know about the cell phones, Simon.”
“Yeah . . . I guessed you’d figure it out. I just thought Church would send more people. I . . . I didn’t know it would be just three of you.” My mouth went dry.
“Jesus Christ, Simon, what did you do?”
There was a sound. It might have been a sob, though it sounded strangely like bubbles escaping through mud. “Look . . . I was getting tired of waiting . . . and I knew that you’d be able to handle just about anything. So . . . I started reaching out to . . . ”
“To
“Potential buyers.”
“Oh . . . Christ . . .
“I wanted to draw them in, just like the FBI said they were going to do. Only the Feds were taking way too much time. I was wasting my life away in this crappy little town.”
“Simon . . .”
“I offered to sell my plot. I . . . reached out to several buyers and told them that I had it all written down, and that they had to bring two million in unmarked bills. Don’t worry, I’d have turned over the cash. I just needed it to look and feel real to them. And they bought it, too. They thought I was selling out.”
“Who’s bringing the money, Simon?”
“All of them.”
“What do you mean? Damn it, Simon, how many buyers did you contact?”
“A lot.”
“Simon . . .”
“Six,” he said in a small and broken voice. “There are six teams of buyers. I told them to meet me at the house. I figured they’d get there and started shooting each other. It would be like a movie. I could sell that scenario. I could make a best seller out of it . . . I could make a movie out of it . . . ”
“Simon, when are the shooters expected here?”
“When? Joe . . . that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. That’s why I was sorry it was just the three of you. They’re already here. I . . . I didn’t mean to kill you.”
And the windows exploded in under a hail of high-caliber bullets.
-6-
The Safe House
Pine Deep, Pennsylvania
August 16; 6:41 P.M.
I dove for cover behind the couch. It wasn’t a good dive and it wasn’t pretty, but it got me low and out of the line of fire. Then I tried to melt right into the carpet. High-caliber rounds were chewing the couch to splinters and threads. The air above me was filled with thunder. Plaster and chunks of wall lath rained down on me.
The shots seemed to be continuous, so there had to be multiple shooters. They were firing full auto and even with a high-capacity magazine it only takes a couple of seconds to burn through the entire clip.
I shimmied sideways, trying to put the edge of the stone fireplace between me and the shooters. I had my Beretta out, but the barrage was so intense that I couldn’t risk a shot.
Then the sound changed. There were new sounds. The hollow
Top and Bunny returning fire.
The automatic gunfire swept away from me and split as the shooters focused on these two new targets. That gave me my moment, and I was up and running, pistol out. There was nothing left of the door except a gaping maw of splintered wood and glass through which the fog rolled like a slow-motion tide. I went through it fast, feeling the splinters claw at my sleeves and thighs. I was firing before I set foot outside.
In combat you see more, process more, and all of it happens fast. That’s a skill set you learn quick or you get killed. As I came out of the house I saw five men standing in a loose shooting line in the turnaround. The fog was thick enough to cover them to mid-thigh. They were dark-skinned. Middle Eastern for sure, though from that distance I couldn’t tell from where. All five of them carried AK-47s with banana clips. Three were facing the garage, firing steadily at it; the other two were standing wide-legged as they leaned back to fire at the second floor.
I emptied my magazine into them. I saw blood puff out in little clouds of red mist as two of them staggered backward and fell, vanishing into the fog. Another one took a round through the cheek. Because he was shouting, the bullet went through both cheeks and left the teeth untouched. He was screaming louder as he wheeled around toward me.
I fired my last two rounds into his chest and my slide locked back.
The remaining shooters opened up on me and I dove behind the armored SUV. Their bullets pinged off of the heavy skin and smoked the window before ricocheting high into the sky.
The shooters wanted me so badly they forgot, in that one fatal instant, about Top and Bunny.
Bunny spun out of the side door to the garage and fired three rounds with the shotgun, catching the left-hand shooter in the chest and face. Top leaned out of the second-floor window and put half a magazine into the last shooter.
As the last one fell, I swapped out the magazine in my Beretta and crept to the edge of the car. Simon Burke had said that there were six buyers. Five men lay sprawled on the bloody gravel.
Where was the sixth . . . ?
I tapped my earbud. “We have one more hostile,” I began, but Top cut me off.
“Negative, Cowboy,” he said, using my combat call sign, “we have multiple hostiles inbound.”
I turned and saw the fog swirling around two cars barreling down the long dirt road. Then there was a roar to my right and I saw another pair of vehicles—ATVs with oversized tires—crashing our way through the cornfields.
“Where’s this fog coming from?” demanded Top. “Can’t see worth a damn!”
“I got a team coming in on foot,” called Bunny. “Behind the house, running along a drainage ditch. Can’t make out numbers with that mist out there. No, wait . . . there’s a second team farther back in the corner. Damn! A third at nine o’clock to the front door. Four men in black. Geez . . . Boss . . . we’re under siege here. We need backup.”
We needed an army, but we weren’t likely to get one. The closest help was the naval airbase in Willow Grove. Half an hour at least.
With a sinking heart I understood the enormity of what Simon Burke had done. Not six buyers—six teams of buyers. Conservative estimate—twenty men. Depressing estimate . . . thirty.
Coming straight at us.
-7-
The Safe House
Pine Deep, Pennsylvania
August 16; 6:46 P.M.
We needed five minutes. With five minutes we could have fitted out with Kevlar and ballistic helmets; strapped on vests heavy with fresh magazines, picked optimum shooting positions and turned the whole farm into a killbox.
We needed five damn minutes.
We had thirty seconds.
“Talk to me, Cowboy,” said Top.
“Sergeant Rock and Jolly Green,” I barked. “Converge on me. Living room. Now.”
I spun around, yanked open the door of the SUV, ground the key in the starter, spun the wheel, and stamped down. The big machine took an awkward and ugly lurch, then found footing and rolled heavily away from the house. I went completely around the roundabout and then jerked the wheel over and put the pedal to the floor as I aimed
