Moderation in war is akin to surrender. That being the case, Slaton’s only decision was in what order to kill the men he was watching.
Based on what he’d seen, the disposition of cars and suitcases, Slaton thought it likely that there were no others inside. “Likely” being the operative word. He was facing four men. The most capable, he was sure, was in back, a highly trained operator who at that moment seemed distracted. The two in front could not be underestimated, and showed evidence of training. It occurred to him that there might be others on the distant hill, but he discounted that for the time being since it was roughly a mile away. Into his calculus Slaton added angles and terrain and known weapons. Vladimir Ovechkin, standing next to the blue-aqua pool with a coffee cup in hand, was the least of his worries.
Slaton closed the gap expertly, keeping to cover and shadows at every chance, and moving in absolute silence. His immediate objective was a massive boulder on the villa’s northern shoulder. From there, he estimated, he would have a good view of all three primary threats at an acceptable range—assuming no one moved. He was ten steps from the boulder, and thirty from the villa, when his tactical plan collapsed.
As a trained sniper, Slaton was practiced at observing targets. Consequently, he had a knack for recognizing when they’d alerted to his presence. It was like seeing a deer going still when it caught a predator’s scent, or a guard dog getting its hackles up. He saw it then in the rangy security man. A subtle rigidity that fired into his limbs. An abrupt straightening of the spine.
Caught in the open, Slaton went to a crouch. He watched the guard pull his phone from his pocket and check it hurriedly. Then, damningly, he half turned and looked directly to the spot where Slaton had taken a knee.
Slaton held his breathing instinctively, knowing he’d missed something. A motion sensor in a tree. A pressure pad beneath the forest floor. He had rushed in, overconfident, and resultingly lost his greatest ally—the element of surprise. That would have allowed him the two kills before any resistance could organize. There was no getting it back now, which meant speed and accuracy were his new best friends.
He rose to height and settled the UMP on the rangy guard. Caught in the open, the man reached for his holstered gun. He got a hand to it, and managed to bark out a warning before Slaton’s first round struck home. The second bullet caught him falling. Slaton shifted to the thickset guard, who was trying to dash behind the car with his weapon in hand. Slaton’s first shot caught him obliquely, and he spun against a fender. The next caught him right between the collarbones, and he dropped once and for all.
Slaton didn’t stand still long enough to even glance at the patio. He lunged toward the boulder, and in the next instant small-caliber fire began shredding the brush around him. The boulder was stout cover, but instead of stopping—the most natural move—he ran straight past it. After a brief hesitation, the operator on the terrace opened up again. In the longest two seconds of his life—the time it took Slaton to get out of sight behind the side of the house—three rounds came singing in. One found its mark, but thankfully on the back of his vest, jerking him off balance as he threw himself behind the wall.
With a moment to breathe, Slaton double-checked the two guards—both looked quite dead. He had shifted the odds in his favor, but the most dangerous adversary remained, along with the wild card that was Ovechkin. He reached behind with his good right arm and felt the tear in his vest where the round had hit. When he brought his hand back in front he was happy to see no blood—adrenaline had a way of masking injuries.
The man on the terrace had fired either nine or ten rounds—an uncertainty Slaton saw as a bit of rust creeping in from his year on the high seas. Either way, the man would be palming in a fresh mag. Slaton still had eighteen in the UMP, and a spare mag in his pocket. As things stood, he had superior firepower. The Barrett was impractical for a close-in fight—like trying to use a howitzer in a closet. He weighed whether the soldier might have anything else, and decided it was unlikely. He’d brought the Barrett with a specific purpose, and the semiautomatic handgun was his insurance. He would never expect to need anything more. What about Ovechkin? Would he be armed? Slaton thought it unlikely, but couldn’t discount the idea.
He realized that the man on the patio held one distinct advantage—he knew the layout inside the house. Slaton ventured a glance ahead, to the southeast corner of the villa. He saw no motion, heard no movement inside. On the far side of the front facade he saw a pine tree close to the house. Its branches laddered upward perfectly. The shooter might know the inside, he thought, but I know the roof as well as he does. When in doubt, claim the high ground.
Keeping below the front windows, he ran in a crouch toward the tree. He tested the lowest branch, and it held his weight easily. More importantly, it did so without a sound. Looking upward, he was sure he could reach the rooftop.
Slaton began to climb.
He planned each step carefully, avoiding one dead limb. When he reached eye level to the roofline, he paused to study things. The roof was complex and angular, ruddy barrel tiles joined at multiple peaks. He heard a noise from the house, like a chair being pushed across a tile floor. At least one of them was inside.
Slaton silently crawled onto the roof. The clay tiles were warm under his hands, the rising sun taking hold of the day. Keeping to his belly, he shifted the UMP behind him once more, not wanting it to clatter against the tiles. He bypassed a secondary peak for the main crest which, if he remembered correctly, would overlook the back terrace. As long as he remained silent, it would be a commanding position.
He neared the peak soundlessly, inching toward the row of semicircular cap tiles that joined the two sloping sections. Slaton edged up and peered over the ridge cautiously. What he saw was a surprise.
Not two feet away, a set of bright blue eyes stared back.