ON THE other side of the soybean field, the smell of dust in her nostrils, she watched the two monitors that lit up the foul-smelling barn. She watched the silent approach in infrared, soft footsteps up to the doors and windows, the placing of small charges, the 3-2-1 countdown, and then chaos.
Flashes of people, bright lights, shouts, and commands.
Screams.
Women, men.
Shouted commands.
Furniture crashing.
The barrels of those M-4s swinging left, right, up, down.
Then a single shot—crack.
More screaming.
A voice: “That’s a grenade!”
Crack, crack, crack.
Screams. Stairs—up up up …
“Where is he?”
“Gun!”
Crack, crack, crack, crack.
“Down, down, down!”
“It’s him!”
Crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack.
Silence. Distant wailing.
Rachel looked at Commander Gonzales, who was breathing heavily, his finger glued to the communicator in his ear. “What the hell just happened?” she demanded.
But he was only listening to his men. “It’s clear now,” he finally told her. “Two survivors. Benjamin Mittag—he didn’t make it.” His face was so pale. “It’s over.”
“What the fuck was that?” she shouted at Gonzales, who raised his hands, turning away.
Sheriff Donegal, just behind her, said, “They was just following your orders.”
“What?”
“What that old boy told them.”
She turned on Donegal, saw that he’d popped a cigarette in his mouth and was trying without success to get a flame from his lighter; his hand shook too much. “What did Jakes say?”
He eyeballed her a moment, then took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth. “Gave them a pep talk. Reminded everyone that these people had killed congressfolk. Enough of due process, right? Intel said the house was wired for explosives—don’t take no chances.”
Rachel didn’t say another word to the sheriff, and Gonzales had already headed out across the field to join his men. She wasn’t in the mood to look at what they’d done. Not yet. She told Young to take her back to base. She wasn’t going to call ahead, wasn’t going to give him a chance to run or weave some elaborate lie. Which was why, when she burst in and stood over him, she found Jakes sitting in the kitchen, talking on his phone to Paulson.
“Just a sec,” he whispered to her, and raised a finger for patience.
That was when it took her over. The way he raised his index finger, condescending, then turned in the chair so that he could have a little privacy. Everything stopped, yet at the same time it moved too quickly. There, on the table, was the map covered in pencil markings, and the five sturdy laptops. And right in front of her was the soft white bald spot on the back of his head. She picked up the closest computer. She took aim.