Blaze of Glory (13 page)

De Luca sighed. “Polo. You Americans like your code names.”

“You don’t like Polo? Marco Polo was a great man. He brought spaghetti from China to Italy.”

Moyer heard another sigh. He checked his watch. The luminous hands showed him it was 0233. A solid hour of watching and waiting had yielded nothing. It was time to do something. “Data, give me one more sweep.”

“Roger.”

Through the goggles Moyer watched Zinsser remove a small electronic device from his vest. He had kept it in hand through the duration of their hike. Designed to pick up radio transmissions across a wide spectrum, it was invaluable in locating wireless sensors that might detect their presence and send a signal to an alarm in the house.

Thirty seconds later. “Nothing, Boss. We’re clear for at least a mile around.”

“Everyone get that?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Roger.”

“Okay,” Moyer said, “on my mark, we move. No one enters until they hear from me.” He took a deep breath. “Three, two, one, mark.”

Moyer was on his feet moving forward in a crouch, his M4A1 held close to his chest. He glanced to his right. Zinsser was matching him step for step. To his left he saw Le Duca with his Beretta AR70 at the ready. He looked like a man who had done this a dozen times. Moyer was glad to see it.

EATING DINNER AT THE Red Lobster in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania, just outside Carlisle was a weekly treat for Tess. It was close enough that she could drive to it without trouble, but far away enough to make the destination seem special. Tess had no problems dining alone. Usually she brought a novel to read. So much of her life was spent reading reports and technical manuals that a novel brought a mental break while still providing intellectually stimulating material.

In front of her rested a plate of broiled sole, rice, and shrimp scampi. To the side was a metal basket with one and a half garlic biscuits, what remained of the three the waitress had brought.

Next to the plate, open to page 104, sat a Dean Koontz novel. She had stopped reading when her meal arrived. Tess shifted her gaze to the traffic motoring along the road in front of the restaurant. The food was good as always, but her appetite had fled a few moments before, and she didn’t know why.

Tess forced herself to face the plate and eat, but her mind drifted to a distant land and to J. J. Every bite of food turned her stomach. No, it wasn’t the food; it was something else. What? Fear. She recognized the emotion. Her stomach tightened into a fist.

“More Boston tea?”

Tess looked up at the waitress, a young brunette with three earrings in her left ear.

“Um, no thanks.”

“Is something wrong with the food?”

“No. I’m just a little off today. Everything is fine.”

“Okay.” The young woman slipped away, apparently happy over not having to return a plate to the kitchen.

Tess inhaled deeply. She had no reason to believe she was in danger, but she still glanced around the room. Elderly couples took up a third of the tables and booths; business men in dress shirts and ties talked and laughed. Several young families with children rounded out the clientele. No terrorists, no robbers, no gang members.

An Army major sat with a young blonde Tess took to be his wife. The man’s uniform triggered a new wave of apprehension. Her fear had nothing to do with her but with J. J.

Something seemed wrong. She didn’t believe in intuition or psychic powers, but she couldn’t shake the acidic taste of fear.

Just after 0230 in Italy.
Tess closed her eyes and began to pray.

ZINSSER SMELLED THE SEA. He heard the cry of gulls. He felt an ocean breeze. Despite the screaming of his subconscious, it all seemed right to him. He forced himself to focus. Before him waited the mansion the Somali pirates used to imprison their . . . captives.

Mansion?
That’s right—a mansion. I think.

Something didn’t seem right.

Gulls? Sea breezes? He glanced to his left. Two men dressed in black and wearing masks ran alongside him.
Pirates?
No. They were running
with
him not
at
him. Zinsser felt grass and soft ground beneath his boots, not macadam or concrete.

The sound of sea birds faded, the salty scent of ocean departed, replaced by the aroma of manicured lawn and nearby forest. He wasn’t in Somalia; he was in stealth mode and approaching a villa in the countryside of Italy. Why did he think he was half a world away?

Get with it, Zinsser. Bear down. Focus, before you make yourself and the others dead.
He blinked hard, and the real world crashed on his mind like a wave on the shore.

The present plan rose to the forefront of his mind. He was not alone. He had two men with him on this side of the house—Moyer and the Italian De Luca. Two teams of two were approaching the building from the back and side. That was reality. That was what he had to focus on. Seven good guys; unknown bad guys.
If it comes to shooting, don’t shoot the good guys.

Hunched and silent, they moved to the north wall. Three windows broke the solid stucco surface. Zinsser stepped to the side of the easternmost window. Moyer took the middle window and De Luca the third. Zinsser strained his ears to hear any sounds of occupants or guard dogs. They had surveilled the house with the best electronics and saw no indication of inhabitants, but, despite his love of technology, he trusted his human senses more.

Moyer raised two fingers to his eyes then pointed at Zinsser’s window. Zinsser glanced right then left then rose from his crouch, his back against the wall. He pulled a small electronic device from his vest and unwound a coil of fiber-optic cable. With one thumb he flicked the power switch, and a small monitor on the transistor radio-sized device began to glow. Pointing the end of the cable at the window pane, he scanned the room. A light had been left on, so he could see without trouble. The monitor showed a desk, a leather sofa, a long and overstuffed bookshelf. The den was empty.

Zinsser signaled “clear,” then moved to Moyer’s position. He used the camera to peer in. The room was dark, and Zinsser compensated by thumbing a switch for infrared. The monitor showed boxy structures and a long table. Laundry room, Zinnser assumed. Again, he signaled clear.

Zinsser didn’t waste time going to De Luca’s window. It was translucent textured glass, making the spy camera useless. When they first scanned the house from a distance, they determined that window served a bathroom.

Crouching again, Zinsser put his head close to Moyers. “Laundry and a den on this side.”

“Roger.” Moyer keyed his mike. “Clear on this side.”

J. J.’s voice came over the headset. “South side clear.”

Pete followed. “East side clear.”

Moyer looked at Zinsser. “Time to go.”

Zinsser’s heart kicked into fifth gear. “Ready when you are, Boss.”

“On my mark,” Moyer said into his radio, then started for the front of the house. Zinsser followed with De Luca in his wake. Passive surveillance was about to turn into forced entry. They had planned the next step hours before they arrived, and Zinsser had rehearsed every detail in his mind more times than he could count. The south side of the building had a large deck, outdoor kitchen, an entertainment area larger than Zinsser’s apartment, and—more importantly—a large array of French doors. Shaq would lead the assault from that end of the house. With him would be J. J., Pete, and Jose. Zinsser, Moyer, and De Luca would come through the front entrance.

The front door looked to be handcrafted mahogany. On either side of the door were tall, three-foot-wide panes of stained glass.
Someone paid a lot of money for those.
Zinsser forced the thought from his mind. Focus. Focus. Focus.

Zinsser watched Moyer step in front of one of the stained-glass panels, look at his watch, then pull a small explosive charge from his vest. Before Moyer could place it, Zinsser raised a hand stopping him, stepped forward, and slowly turned the doorknob.

It was unlocked.

CHAPTER 16

MOYER COULDN’T BELIEVE HIS eyes. He activated the radio and said one word: “Go.”

Zinsser pushed the door open and Moyer stepped into the dark foyer. The house smelled of many things: leather, new carpet, lingering food orders, and a few things Moyer didn’t recognize. A rail light attached to Moyer’s M4 split the darkness. Zinsser’s and De Luca’s light did the same.

Moyer led his team through the entrance and room by room, the muzzle of his weapon pointed ahead of him, his finger just to the side of the trigger.

The foyer was clear. The living room was clear, as was a sitting room, a powder room, and a large dining room. The room held a long table littered with dirty dishes.

A sound came from the kitchen. Moyer raised his weapon so did Zinsser and De Luca. The door between the kitchen and dining room opened slowly. A second later Moyer was looking down the barrel of an automatic weapon.

Countless hours of training and experience prevented Moyer from shooting Rich Harbison in the forehead.

“Kitchen and rec room are clear,” Rich whispered. “Colt noticed the coffee pot was still plugged in and warm.”

“Understood, Shaq. We’ll take upstairs. You take the basement.”

“We’re on it.”

Rich motioned for his team to follow. Moyer started for a wide set of stairs. The best he could tell in the limited light, the treads of the stairs were made of the same mahogany as the door. He was no woodworker, but he knew high grade mahogany was expensive—well beyond a soldier’s pay.

A thick carpet ran up the middle of the stairs, protecting the treads from damaging shoes and those who use the stairs from slipping on polished wood. Moyer appreciated the carpet for a different reason: it muffled the sound of his steps.

Upstairs was a wide hall of white plaster. Paintings hung along the wall. Moyer and his team took turns leading the group into bedrooms. Moyer counted eight in all. Each room had several beds, most of which didn’t fit the décor. Clearly extra beds had been brought in. All of the bed sheets were mussed, twisted, or lying on the floor.

“Look at this.” De Luca shone his light at the base of one of the windows. “The slider portion of the window has been screwed shut, and the screw head stripped. The only way out would be to break the glass and jump.”

“Hard to do quietly,” Zinsser said.

“It appears we have the right place, but where is everyone?”

“No idea,” Zinsser said.

After they checked the last room, Moyer radioed. “Second floor clear.”

Rich’s response wasn’t what Moyer expected. “No rush, Boss, but you may want to see this.”

MOYER FOUND HIS TEAM gathered at the landing of the stairs that led from the main floor. The way they held their weapons revealed a relaxed state, but Moyer could sense tension. He expected it since he felt the same sense of inner conflict. Warriors were like other men. They felt fear and excitement. Their training equipped them to manage both. Seven men had just forced their way into a structure they had been told might be heavily guarded and found it empty. In the hours leading up to the mission they sharpened their minds and emotions like a butcher sharpens knives. They came in ready to kill or be killed. Instead of armed and well-trained enemies, they got nothing. It took time to get rid of energy like that and near superhuman strength to contain it.