As we waited for Scott’s guys, we checked the news updates on the situation. Though law enforcement’s presence had increased on site, no more action had taken place. It was a fragile situation, and no one wanted Lynch’s rage-filled words regarding another Waco to come to fruition. One officer was already dead, and more would surely be killed if they raided the farm.
I blinked away from the screen of my smartphone, looked out over the flat, dark landscape, then checked the time. It was ten after midnight.
“Where are these guys?” I asked, shaking my head.
I was anxious to get going. As far as I was concerned, the sooner we could deal with Lynch and his crew, the better.
I tried Scott on my cell, but he didn’t answer.
“That’s strange,” Ange said.
She was right. My old friend rarely didn’t answer, especially if it was me calling.
I tried a second time but got the same result. Just a metronomic hum over and over, then a woman’s robotic voice asking if I wanted to leave a voicemail.
Growing frustrated, I was just about to call a cab when a black Range Rover drove into the airport. The SUV pulled into the rows of parked planes, heading straight for us.
It braked to a stop right in front of us and idled. Through the tinted windows, we couldn’t see its occupants. Ange and I took two steps toward the vehicle, then the passenger-side window rolled down.
“You didn’t think we were going to let you two have all the fun, did you?” Scott said.
My old friend pushed his door open and climbed out of the passenger seat. At just over six feet tall, lean, and strong, Scott had short dark hair and a clean-cut face with a ready smile.
Ange I grinned at each other.
“I should know better by now,” I said, closing the distance between us. We shook hands and patted each other on the back.
Then the driver’s-side door opened, and another familiar face stepped out.
“We just happened to be in the area,” Jason Wake said. The wide-shouldered young man shrugged, then added, “Figured we’d stop by and see what all of the fuss was about.”
I’d only met Jason once before. We’d all been surprised when we’d learned that he was nothing like his father, the corrupt billionaire businessman Richard Wake. After losing his fiancée in a tragic act of terrorism, Jason had flipped the script and spent a year being trained at a secret covert training facility known by most as Tenth Circle, as in Dante’s Tenth Circle of Hell. When the terrorists tried to pull off another attack, he’d relentlessly stepped in their way, and we’d done our part to help.
Since then, Jason had been working closely with Scott on their new covert organization. Jason had an imposing but lean build. An inch taller than me, he had medium-length dark hair and piercing blue eyes.
Given both of their abilities, I was more than happy to have them on board.
Wanting to get down to business as soon as possible, we loaded into the Range Rover, and Jason drove us to the alligator farm where Lynch and his men were hiding out. It wasn’t far, just seven miles. We drove down a dark one-lane road with thick trees on both sides. Up ahead, we spotted a long hive of police vehicles alongside the road. They congregated beside a chain-link gate and had barricades set up. Armed and ready SWAT members were keeping watch over the compound.
Jason pulled into a narrow opening between a police cruiser and two SWAT trucks. An officer held up a hand and approached the driver window.
“This area is off-limits,” the officer said when Jason rolled down his window. “I’m gonna have to ask you to turn around and—”
The man froze as he got close enough to see Scott’s face as the senator leaned over the center console.
“Senator Cooper?”
Jason killed the engine, then Scott pushed open his door and stepped out.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the officer added. “I didn’t recognize you.”
“It’s no problem, Officer,” Scott said. “We’re here to help. Who’s the officer in charge?”
We all stepped out and the cop led us toward the gate. A middle-aged officer with a short stocky build stepped out of a group when he saw us approach.
“It’s good to see you, Senator,” he said, shaking Scott’s hand.
After brief introductions, Chief Barton led us into the back of a police surveillance truck, then asked the two technicians seated at monitors to step outside.
“We have the place completely surrounded,” he said, motioning toward a GPS image of the compound on one of the screens. “There’s been no indication of possible hostages, so our initial strategy has been attrition for the time being, which we hope will soon lead to a surrender.”
“Very good, Chief,” Scott said. “You and your men have done an excellent job. And I was sorry to hear about Officer Tate’s death.” He paused, then added, “Have you come up with any possible infiltration strategies?”
“None that I like,” he replied. “It’s not an easy nut to crack. Lynch made a lucky decision to hide his crew out here.”
“It’s not luck,” I said, speaking up for the first time. Scott and Chief Barton’s eyes gravitated to me. “Deacon Lynch is smarter than the public’s been led to believe. And if he’s here, it’s because he systematically chose this location.”
“Logan’s dealt with Lynch before,” Scott said, backing me up. “And he’s the one who figured out that Lynch was here in the first place.”
The police chief nodded to me, then continued his former train of thought.
“We’ve drawn up a few ideas, but there’s no surefire way here. Old maps show a service road cutting back and coming to within about a quarter mile of the
