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Kara awoke to a warm, sunny day. She walked the motorcycle out of the barn and fired it up. Two leather saddlebags on the bike had been stuffed with items she thought she might need. She wore a backpack that functioned as a go-bag in case she had to abandon the bike and take off cross-country. Best to be prepared. She recalled again Tyson’s words, words that were imperitive for her to heed: “Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.”
If Kara got punched in the face something would have gone dreadfully wrong. She intended to be a good distance away from the home she would be surveilling today.
Dressed in uni-sex black leathers, Kara drove about ten miles, keeping her speed on the slower end of the posted limit, doing as little as possible to draw attention to herself. As she drove, she did her best to commit every landmark and turn to memory. Up ahead was the paved road. As she turned right and began driving toward Peshawar, the vast expanse of farmland gave way to homes and businesses. The land itself began to dip and climb, and as she drove, the hills became tiny mountains that sprang up from either side of the road.
Calculating she was coming closer to her destination, Kara counted the side roads on her left. On road number five, she turned on a rarely used dirt track that led to a new home construction site. Fortunately for her, it appeared construction had stalled, likely due to insufficient funds. As the road continued to climb, Kara saw the same unfinished concrete foundations she spotted on Google Earth. Piles of boulders and trees cleared for the new homes would provide great cover. Having previously studied the site’s aerials, Kara knew the road came to a dead end just ahead. She also knew the end of the road offered a vantage point that looked directly down upon the side of the banker’s property.
The defunct construction site was isolated, desolate, and best of all, unoccupied. Kara had not seen a single soul along the narrow dirt road. She found two piles of rocks and small boulders that had been pushed to the edge of the road by an excavator. Turning sharply first one way and then the other, she guided the bike in between the rock piles and killed the engine. She fought her helmet’s chinstrap for a few seconds, removed it, and hung it on the bike’s mirror. With her backpack on, she dropped to her knees and crawled toward the cliff’s edge. She poked her head over the edge and took a quick glimpse at the property below. Her view was excellent. The mansion was situated a little less than five hundred yards away.
It was perfect. Perfect location. Perfect access. Perfect everything. It was time to get to work, and work would consist of not moving a muscle.