Logan was parked and waiting. His was the only vehicle in sight. He’d pulled off at the end of a service road just inside the community entrance. There was a guardhouse, but it wasn’t staffed during the day. All residents owned electronic key cards that provided twenty-four-hour access.
He exited the vehicle and forced himself to stand still as he waited for Mike. Now that the initial hangover was finally subsiding, withdrawal symptoms had begun. He’d started trembling approximately twenty minutes ago.
Out of desperation and necessity, he’d grabbed a bottle of Maker’s Mark as he ran out of his house. As he waited, he swallowed a few gulps of the smooth brown liquid.
He felt the immediate warm rush as the alcohol hit his stomach. After a painful moment of nausea, the familiar sensation he was physically addicted to became the dominant feeling. His thirst temporarily satisfied, he concentrated on his breathing as the alcohol coursed through his system.
Within a few minutes, the shakes diminished in intensity. He was ashamed that it had come to this, that he’d used whiskey to avoid severe withdrawal. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the luxury or time to suffer through the various stages of sobering up. He had to be as clear-minded as possible for what was coming, his aim true and without hesitation.
If someone did have Sarah, Logan knew she’d be counting on him. No matter what he’d done to her in the past, he wasn’t about to let her down again. If that meant using the same thing to save her life that had wrecked their marriage, so be it. Sometimes you do have to make a deal with the devil.
The isolation of the gated community was an advantage for Logan and Mike. There was no traffic at this time of day. It was still a few hours before the evening rush.
The fact that there were only twelve homes in the entire community also played in their favor. With approximately a half mile between each home, the chances of a neighbor’s seeing anything was remote.
A dog barked from across a field behind him. Must be from one of the other homes. No strays out here. He didn’t know which neighbors owned dogs, since neither Sarah nor Logan had made an effort to meet any of them. Seclusion had been a main attraction of the location for both of them.
He thought of Daly. He hoped his loyal retriever was okay. Other than his wife, the dog had been the only other thing he’d truly loved in his life in recent years. Daly had helped preserve his sanity, even when he’d been trying to self-destruct in an alcoholic rage. No matter what he said or did when drunk, he’d never hurt his dog. On more than one occasion, Daly had brought him back from the brink of some very dark places.
He looked up to see Mike’s dark-green Toyota Land Cruiser pass through the gate. Logan had given Mike a key card for emergencies. Now was definitely one of those times.
Logan moved to the back of Mike’s Toyota as it stopped behind his own Land Cruiser. Mike cut the engine and stepped out to join him at the rear of the vehicle, where Logan had already opened the hatch to pull out the assault gear Mike had brought with him.
Mike looked hard at Logan without speaking, anger and concern mixed on his face. He noticed the fresh wound on Logan’s left cheek.
“Jesus, Logan, you okay? That looks like hell. You need anything for it? I have my med kit.”
Logan shook his head, gestured to the trunk of Mike’s SUV, and said, “Mike, I’m fine. The only thing that’s going to make me feel better is what’s in here and what I’m going to do with it.”
Mike nodded. He knew it was pointless to argue or ask questions, at least right now.
“Fair enough. As for Sarah, first we need to get eyes-on. Then we can figure out how to handle it. Until we get an idea as to who’s inside—if there is anyone—we can’t just go in guns blazing. We have to figure out who the fuck they are and what they really want.” He touched Logan’s shoulder to get his attention. Logan snapped his head around and glared at him, an impatient intensity on his face, green eyes blazing.
“Logan, depending on how many men there are, we have to take at least one of them alive. We’ll need him for information, especially on this Juan character or whatever the hell his name is. The more information we get, the better this whole thing goes. I can contact my uncle to find a secure location where we can sort this out with the appropriate security and methods.” His words hung in the cool air. He prayed that Logan saw the logic in his reasoning. He was relieved when his friend finally spoke.
“We do it right, Mike. If we can, take at least one—if not more—alive, but if I think for one second that Sarah might be in danger, I’m shooting to kill, and you know I don’t miss—even if I am hungover as all hell.” The whiskey was working its magic. He was starting to feel somewhat normal. Normal for a bingeing alcoholic who just woke up from a two-day blackout, he thought.
“One last thing,” Logan went on. “We approach the house from the back and conduct a solid recon from a distance. And then we wait until just after the end of dusk before we make our move. It’ll provide us with the most cover and the best chance of success.”
“Good plan.” Mike grabbed his own bag from the back of the SUV. “You know, Logan, you’re going to have to figure out how to stay sober once and for all. You had what? Seven? Eight months? I don’t know what happened.” He paused, redirecting his thoughts. “You can tell me later. First, let’s make sure your wife is safe.”
Having established the ground rules, Logan relaxed a little bit as he looked across the surrounding environment. Even though there was no one in sight and the only sound he’d heard was the call of one lonely dog, he still felt exposed in the middle of his rural neighborhood.
“Deal . . . when this is over.” His voice hardened. “But now, down to business. What toys did you bring?”
Mike smiled. Jokes were good. It meant Logan was in that focused state of mind all trained killers possessed for this kind of work.
“Weapons first,” he said, as he opened the first of two black bags. “I brought you a suppressed HK MP7—we upgraded from the MP5—with a reflex sight I mounted myself. It’s zeroed out to three hundred meters, but for close quarters, someone as trained as you could probably put a grouping on a quarter at anything out to fifty yards. You also have your Kimber Tactical II forty-five, also with a suppressor.” He handed the weapons to Logan.
“No suppressor. Won’t need it. Neighbors might hear shots, but they’ll assume it’s someone hunting.” Logan detached the narrow tube from the end of the weapon. “If I have to shoot, I want it loud. The noise might give me a slight tactical advantage in such a confined space, although I doubt it. If these guys are trained like the asshole at my house, it won’t make a difference, but you never know.”
Mike continued with the inventory. “You also have two flash-bangs. I didn’t know what your plan was, so I brought them just in case you didn’t want to kill everyone.” Logan smiled at the remark.
Mike ignored him. “And for the final touch, your Force Recon Mark II fighting knife. I remembered the one you had in Ramadi.” He paused at the graphic memory of an insurgent with his throat cut and bleeding to death inside a stairwell. He blinked his eyes as if to remove it from his mind.
“But first, put this on so you can carry all this shit.” Mike handed Logan a black tactical vest with several pockets and loops for the various weapons. Logan slid his arms into the vest and zipped it up. Underneath, he wore the neoprene short-sleeved fitted black undershirt he’d put on at home.
“It’s perfect. Matches my tee shirt. And Sarah tells me I have no fashion sense. Can you believe that?” he said, deadpan, while he secured the grenades and knife to his vest.
There was a nylon holster for the pistol on the left side of the vest, positioned low and at an angle for fast access. Logan holstered the Kimber.
“You’re killing me, Logan.”
“Not you, Mike. Whoever’s inside my house,” he said seriously. Then, to emphasize the point, he looked at Mike and added like a chided child, “Only if I have no choice. I know.”
Mike glanced at Logan as he handed him the last item in his bag—a tactical communications secure personal radio. “Here’s the throat mic and earpiece. The radio is one-hundred-twenty-eight-bit encrypted. No one will hear us, even if they’re trying to.”
Logan secured the throat microphone around his neck. “Feels similar to the ones we used in Force.”
“I know. That’s why we’re using it now.”
“You know the way to a man’s heart, Mike. What did you bring for yourself?”
Mike smiled and grabbed a large, black canvas rifle bag. “My personal weapon for accuracy—the Israeli Tavor STAR-21, complete with a bipod and Trijicon four-times magnification ACOG scope. Bottom line—if you need me to make a precision shot, this is the baby to do it with. I may be a fed, but I’m still one of the best shots in the FBI. Satisfied?”
Logan looked from the weapon back to Mike and saw the quiet confidence exuding from him. “Absolutely. Let’s go. Like I said, we’ll approach from the back where the woods can provide some cover. Once we’re in position, we’ll wait. Unless they’re using night-vision goggles, they’ll never see us coming. We should be there in approximately fifteen minutes, and we’ll have about another two hours before sunset.”
Mike closed the hatch on the Land Cruiser and locked the vehicle. Logan turned back to him. “One more thing. I don’t have the time to express my full gratitude to you right now. I know what you’re risking. I appreciate it more than I can say.” He smiled wickedly. “Let’s just make sure it’s worth it.”
Both men checked their weapons and gear and then quickly jogged across the road into the woods beyond.