enough training to be dangerous but not enough to know when to give up. They’re also weekend warriors. They’ll need to get psyched up before they put any rounds down range. They won’t put up a real fight if we hit them hard and fast.”
“Hard and fast,” Bastion said approvingly. “Just how I like my sex.”
“Yeah,” said another one, “that’s what the captain told us.”
Locker room talk. Cops doing an entry. Soldiers psyching themselves up for battle. It was all the same.
Three chirps in his ear. It was seven minutes after three and Charlie unit was ready. Jack moved his right leg quietly until it touched the leg of the agent next to him. He knew that man would do the same to the man beside him, all the way down the short line of cops. He waited until he was sure they were all prepared. None of them moved, but something changed— something electric in the darkness. Bauer thumbed a small transmitter in his hand, sending out an urgent five-burst signal.
Then he was on his feet, sprinting toward the soft glow of the sensors on the walls. He was vaguely aware of footsteps around him, but his mind was focused on the distance to the wall. Fifteen yards away the sensors kicked in and lights flared on so brightly they seemed to make sound. Anyone wearing night vision would have been blinded, but Jack had done his prep work and none of his people was surprised. Ten yards to the wall. Jack picked up his pace — inside the compound, alarms would be sounding, paranoid militia men would be trying to remember the drills they had learned, and someone somewhere would be chambering rounds into an automatic weapon purchased at a gun show in Orange County. Five yards to the wall. Jack gathered himself and jumped. He kicked off the wall with his left foot and went up, and for a moment he might as well have been in Kosovo again, or in Delta training, or even back in basic. Get your chest over the wall, but keep your head low. Hug the top like you want to hump it. Drop down with your feet under you and your muzzle down range.
His boots hit the ground under bright lights but nearly complete silence. There were four buildings — a two story main house and three one story ranch-style structures. One of them was a supply depot — Baker would secure it. Two were bunkhouses, but neither one should be full; Charlie would lock them down. Jack kept his eyes on the main house as his team came over the wall beside him, and together they charged ahead.
Lights were coming on now, upstairs and downstairs, and Jack knew that the next few moments would decide if someone had to die. He flew up the steps of the main house and flattened himself against the wall by the front door. The man behind him— Bastion — pressed himself against the other side. The third in line didn’t even hesitate. Barely slowing, he lifted his knee and stomped his boot against the door. It boomed like a war drum, but didn’t give.
“Reinforced,” Jack said.
The SEB unit was ready. The fourth man in line slid a heavy metal rod from the third man’s back. It had handles on either side and a blunt head like a medieval mace. The two agents gripped the handles, swung back, then slammed the rod forward. The battering ram smashed into the door. Wood and metal screamed in protest. The door frame shook. Two more blows sent splinters flying and the door swung open.
The SEB unit flowed into the house like an angry black tide. They were in a bare hallway with hardwood floors and small recessed lights in the ceiling. A room opened up on the left, and on the right broad stairs climbed up to the second story. Blueprints downloaded from the city planners had given them the floor plan, but it was Jack’s six months under cover that really paid off. Half of Able team flowed left, where they knew six members of the Greater Nation would be sleeping in the living room converted to a bunkhouse. The other half rose up the stairs with Jack. At the top they broke left, down a hallway toward a heavy door that slammed shut as it came into view. The door was steel, as was the frame around it. Jack didn’t bother with the battering ram.
“Charges,” he ordered, stepping back. One of the black-armored SEB agents ripped open a Velcro pocket on his chest and produced a brick of pale, claylike C-4. He massaged it quickly, a sculptor on a deadline, into four thin ropes. Three he pressed along the steel door hinges, the fourth he wrapped around the handle. In seconds, all four were fitted with blasting caps connected by wires. By this time the rest of the team had backed down the stairs. In theory, the C-4 should blow inward, but no one cared about theory and everyone cared about keeping his parts attached to his body, so they’d all backed off.
“Three, two, one.” BOOM!
Jack and the SEB team launched themselves forward again, hurtling through the smoke, trampling on the steel door that had been blown off its hinges and onto the hallway floor, and into the room beyond.
Jack scanned the room in an instant. It was a private study with a mahogany desk and shelves lined with books. Through an archway he caught a glimpse of an unmade bed in a room behind. In the next instant, Jack’s eyes and gun sights settled immediately on the figure sitting calmly, with his feet up, behind a big mahogany desk. He was grinning. It wasn’t the cocky grin of a bluffer who’d been called; it was more like the grin of a chess player who’d been outmaneuvered and was mildly amused that he hadn’t seen the trap. The man’s face was sharp-edged and handsome, with the squared-off angles of a disciplined youth overlaid with the crow’s feet and laugh lines of an energetic middle life. His salt-and-pepper hair was short but annoyingly thick for someone in his fifties, and when he stood his back was straighter than a flagpole. He was wearing his pajamas and slippers, his arms behind his head. Jack’s eyes soaked in details of the room — a zipped-up bag by the window; a pair of pants dropped on the floor beside the bag, shoes half-pulled from beneath the bed. Bauer had the distinct impression that, as soon as the alarms had sounded, the man had initiated an escape plan, then abandoned it as panicky and useless, choosing instead to weather the assault with serene indifference. That was more Brett Marks’s style.
“Brett Marks, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to commit murder with a weapon of mass destruction, and conspiracy to commit treason against the United States,” Jack said, moving forward behind the steady aim of his SigSauer 9mm.
The other man nodded and lifted his hands from behind his head to show that they were empty. “Jack Miles. Or what is it really? Agent, or Special Agent?”
Bauer let the rest of his teams swarm past him and pull Marks from his chair. They put him facedown on the ground and searched him, pulling a handgun out of a pancake holster inside his pajamas. Jack let them tag it as evidence, but he knew Marks well enough by now to know that the weapon would be completely legal. Though his goal was the overthrow of the United States government, the Greater Nation leader took care to stay just inside the law whenever possible. Jack studied Marks, looking for signs of annoyance or anger while they searched him roughly. These were clues he could use during interrogation. Brute force and sleep deprivation were sometimes unnecessary if you could find the key that opened someone’s mouth. Often that key was something simple, a word or phrase that set him off, a certain posture that reminded him of someone he loved or hated. Jack had witnessed an interrogation in Bosnia where a tough Serbian assassin had resisted two days of beatings and headfirst baths in cold water, only to crack at the mention of his sister’s name.
Jack had instructed his team to bang Marks around once the handcuffs were on. He was curious to see how the militia man would handle being knocked off his pedestal. The SEB team snapped cuffs on Marks’s wrists. He grunted when they went on tight. Bastion used that as an excuse to slap his ear. “Stop resisting,” he warned. Bastion grabbed Marks by his thick hair and pulled him up straight. Bauer studied his face. Marks looked uncomfortable. Jack would have been disappointed if he hadn’t shown at least a hint of pain. But there was something missing, a sense of indignation that Jack would have liked to see. It would have told him that Marks didn’t see himself as a prisoner; it would have indicated that he wasn’t prepared for that abuse. Instead, Jack found Brett Marks staring back at him with a look of mild amusement.
“Good soldier, Jack,” the militia leader smirked.
Jack clicked the radio mike at his throat, “Baker, status.”
There was a moment of white noise, then a clipped voice broke back: “Baker here. Depot secure, over.”
“Copy,” Jack said. “Charlie, status.”
There was another moment of white noise. “Charlie, status.”
A burst of static chopped through the white noise, and someone cut in. “Able, Charlie. Be advised there’s —”
“Freeze!” “Down!” “Down!”
A cacophony of commands around Jack overwhelmed the radio call. Four men had burst into the room, guns drawn. They looked half asleep and shocked. Most of them were clearly terrified.
“Drop your weapons!” one of them ordered. “You’re trespassing!”
“Federal agent!” Jack said, holding up his badge and his gun. “Drop your fucking weapons now!” The speaker was the one to target, Jack thought. The others were shaking so badly they’d probably drop their weapons with or
