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We reached the crest of the Ravenel Bridge and I could see activity at the Yorktown. A ton of people milling around the parking lot, probably here for some sort of conference. Built in World War II, it was actually the second carrier to bear that name, the first being sunk at the Battle of Midway. It now housed a Medal of Honor museum as well as all sorts of naval aviation artifacts, and was rented out for conferences and other events. Jennifer and I had been to it a couple of times, when we were spending a lazy Saturday looking for something to do.

Jennifer took a right off Coleman Boulevard onto Patriots Point Road and began to wind down toward the end, where the cottages were located. I knew Kurt said not to do anything, but just driving by wasn’t something I’d call “operational.”

We passed the College of Charleston sports fields, then a sign proclaiming helicopter rides, one of the few things I hadn’t done in Charleston.

It was one of those rinky-dink three-seater helicopters that looked like it had been built with toy parts and flew damn near every day, going back and forth giving tours of the harbor for about fifty bucks, and landing literally in a patch of grass next to the parking lot for the Yorktown.

We went through the first traffic circle and ran into a phalanx of security at the lot’s entrance. At first, I thought it was the “high alert” call that Kurt had made, and that they were taking no chances about anyone trying to harm the carrier, but as we drove by I saw it was something else. There were too many people running around with suits and earpieces. Not something I would expect from port security.

They’d created an open lane for folks like us just trying to drive by, and had a uniformed policeman controlling traffic. We went by the mess of security and returned to the quiet, tree-lined drive.

My phone rang, and I saw it was Kurt. I told Jennifer to pull over, then to call Knuckles behind us, telling him the same.

“Hey, sir, give me some good news.”

“Are you on the ground? Right now?”

I lied, “Yes, I’m headed to my office just up the road from the cottages on Coleman Boulevard.”

“Pike, it’s not good news. Not good at all. I just hung up the phone with the president—”

I cut him off, saying, “He didn’t authorize the operation? After everything I’ve done to save his ass?”

“Quit interrupting!”

The comment was sharp, and uncharacteristic of him. I said, “Yes, sir,” and shut up. He said, “Yes, he authorized the operation. What’s not good is that he’s on the campaign trail, and he’s giving a speech on the Yorktown today.”

That’s explains the security.

He continued, “We don’t know if this was just a coincidence with what you discovered in Norfolk, but we found no connections between the Saudi shipping firm and anything coming to the Port of Charleston. It’s too dangerous to ignore. I have to call him back right now, because the secret service is spinning up the counterassault team.”

“You have the location?”

“Yes. Tariq rented it under his true name. It was child’s play for Creed to get into their database. It’s cottage number nine, in the back. Can you hit it?”

“In about five minutes. Don’t let the CAT launch. We have control of the target. The last thing I want is a friendly-fire incident.”

“Will do. I have to get back to the president. He’s on the ground as well and is due to speak in thirty minutes.”

“Got it, sir. Call you in a few.”

I said, “Everyone in Knuckles’s van, now. Jennifer, bring the tablet.”

Jennifer, Veep, and I ran back to Knuckles’s rental van and crammed inside. In as brief a time as I could, I explained the situation, ending with, “We’re hitting it right now. Jennifer, bring up the satellite view of the cottages. Veep, get out a notebook and hand it to Jennifer.”

She did as I asked, then gave me the tablet. I said, “Sketch out the floor plan of the cottage we stayed in.”

I pulled up the satellite image, showing a line of cottages with a view of the harbor, then the rental office, then three more cottages surrounding a small lake with a fountain. Number nine was the farthest away and butted up against woods behind it. To the east was some sort of bike trail or service drive running right up to the side of the target cottage.

I said, “Okay, we park up high, away from the rental office, and use this service road, going in on foot. We’ll breach the back of the house. Jennifer and Carly, you’re squirter control. Take pistols only. Jennifer, you lock down the front, facing the lake. Carly, you lock down the back, just in case someone jumps out a window after we enter.”

Carly said, “What am I supposed to do?”

“Prevent anyone from escaping, using lethal force if you have to. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

She looked confident, so I didn’t press. I said, “Okay, plan’s changed from what we discussed on the plane down. No more explosive breach. We do that, and we’ll get a response immediately from the clusterfuck of security for the president. We go mechanical. Veep, you have the Bam-Bam. Order of march is Knuckles, me, Retro, then Veep.” I paused and said, “Jennifer, you done?”

She handed me her sketch, and I laid it on the seat. “All of the cottages are the same; the only differences are the decorations and trim.” I pointed, “A central den, an open kitchen off of it, and two bedrooms. We go in, clear the den and kitchen, then hit the bedrooms, two men each, first come, first served. No stealth here, boys. I want speed and violence. Remember, it’s a daylight hit, so we don’t spend any time getting set. We get within the sphere of observation of the house, and we assume we’ve been compromised. Any questions?”

Veep said, “Weapons? I don’t really want to do this with a Glock.”

I laughed and said, “Me either. We’ll use the .300 Blackout, but we go in concealed, which means a jacket.”

The .300 was an integrally suppressed short-barreled rifle built on the AR platform that fired subsonic ammunition, making it extremely quiet when used. It had a stock that folded over at the charging handle, making it pretty compact, but not invisible. We had harnesses that would allow it to be concealed in the armpit, but it required something to cover it, which would look mildly strange in the Charleston heat.

The system wasn’t designed to be something that could infiltrate a security force looking for a threat—more like concealing the fact that you had a weapon from someone across the street, at night—but it beat trying to walk down that service road with our rifles at port arms.

I said, “Kit up. I want to be moving in less than five minutes. We’ll travel in a single vehicle.”

Three minutes later, we were rolling. Jennifer went through a traffic circle, then pulled over, bouncing up on the sidewalk. To our left was the service drive, a broken strip of asphalt leading through the trees. I said, “Everyone ready?”

I got a thumbs-up, and we exited the van, quickly getting into the tree line. We moved at a rapid clip, in a wedge formation with Knuckles on point. I knew everyone wanted to bring out their weapons—because I did—but the lake to our right gave an unobstructed view from the other cottages.

We reached the fountain at the head of the lake, and I could see the front porch of the cottage across. Knuckles held up a fist, and we stopped. He said, “This is last covered and concealed.”

I nodded and said, “Carly, Jennifer, get in position. Call when you’re set. Keep the guns out of sight unless you need them.”

They began walking together, but about fifty meters up, I saw them split, Carly going to the left, and Jennifer to the right.

We waited, then heard, “Koko set,” followed by “Carly set.” Off the radio, I said, “We really need to give her a callsign.” On the net, I said, “Roger, here we come.”

We broke out our rifles, snapping the stocks in place, then waited a beat while Veep opened up the handles of the Bam-Bam.

A miniature battering ram, it looked like a twelve-inch section of a wooden six-by-six but was made of steel, with folding handles on top.

He slung his weapon across his chest and got both hands on the handles. I said, “Knuckles, on your command.”