Covert One 5 - The Lazarus Vendetta (31 page)

Terce wondered whether it was mere coincidence that
these two spies appeared so soon after Kit Pierson arrived. Or had she brought
them with her—either knowingly or unknowingly? The big man shrugged away the
thought. He did not believe in coincidences. Nor, for that matter, did his
ultimate employer.

Terce considered his options. For a moment he regretted the Center's
decision to transfer his specialist sniper to the Paris-based security force.
It would have been simpler and far less dangerous to eliminate these two
enemies with a pair of well-aimed long-range rifle shots. Then he quickly
realized wishing would not alter the circumstances. His team was trained and
equipped for close-quarters action —so those were the tactics he would have to
employ.

Terce handed the binoculars to McRae. “Keep an eye on those two,”
he ordered coolly. “Let me know if they make any sudden moves.” Then
he pulled out his cell phone and hit a preset number.

The phone on the other end rang once. “Burke
here.”

“This is Terce,” he said quietly. “Do not react openly in any
way to what I am about to say. Do you understand me?”

There was a short pause. “Yes, I understand you,” Burke said at
last.

“Good. Now then, listen carefully. My security team has detected
hostile activity near your house. You are under close observation. Very close
observation. Within meters, in fact.”

“That's very . . . interesting,” the CIA officer said tightly. He
hesitated briefly. “Can your people handle this situation on their
own?”

“Most definitely,” Terce assured him.

“And do you have a time frame for that?” Burke asked.

The big man's bright green eyes gleamed in the darkness. “Minutes,
Mr. Burke. Only minutes.”

“I see.” Again Burke hesitated. Finally, he asked, “Should I
consider this an interagency matter?”

Terce knew that the other man was asking if Kit Pierson was somehow
responsible for the snoopers now almost literally on his doorstep. He smiled.
At this point, whether that was true or not was immaterial. “I think it
would be wise to do so.”

“That's too bad,” the CIA officer said edgily. “Really
too bad.”

'Yes, it is,“ the big man agreed. ”For now, hold tight where you
are. Out."

Terce flipped the phone shut. Then he retrieved his thermal-imaging
binoculars from McRae. “Go back to the vehicles and bring the others
here,” he said. “But I want them to come quietly.” He grinned
wolfishly. “Tell them they're going hunting.”

■

“Who was that, Hal?” Kit Pierson asked, clearly puzzled.

“The duty officer at Langley,”
Burke told her, speaking slowly and dis-

tinctly. His voice sounded strained and unnatural.
“The NSA just sent over a courier with a few Movement-related intercepts.
. . .”

Jon Smith listened closely. He frowned. Still holding the laser microphone
aimed at the window above him, he glanced at Peter Howell. “Something's
wrong,” he whispered. “Burke just got a phone call and now he's gone
all stiff. He's just bullshitting, not really saying anything.”

“Do you think he's tumbled to us?” Peter asked quietly.

“Maybe. But I don't see how.”

“We may have underestimated this fellow,” Peter said. The corners
of his mouth turned down. “A cardinal sin in this line of work, I'm
afraid. I suspect Mr. Burke of the CIA has more resources available to him here
than we had hoped.”

“Meaning he has backup?”

“Quite possibly.” The Englishman dug the
USGS survey map out of one of the pockets on his vest and studied it, tracing
the contour lines and terrain features with one gloved finger. He tapped the
outline of a wooded ridge not far off to the west. “If I wanted to keep a
good, close eye on this house, that's where I would put my observation
post.”

Smith felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Peter was right. That
ridge offered a clear view of most of the ground around the farmhouse,
including their current position. “What do you suggest?”

“An immediate retreat,” the pale-eyed man said crisply, stuffing
the survey map back into his vest pocket. He pulled the Heckler &Koch MP5
submachine gun over his head and yanked back on the cocking handle, chambering
a 9mm round. “We don't know how strong the opposition is, and I don't see
any point in loitering about to learn the hard way. We've acquired some useful
information, Jon. Let's not push our luck further tonight.”

Smith nodded, already putting the laser microphone and its associated gear
away. “Good point.” He readied his own submachine gun.

“Then follow me.” Peter rolled to his feet and then, bent almost
double, scurried back to the cover offered by the two cars parked close to the

house. Smith followed him, moving as fast as he
could while also staying low to the ground. At any second he expected to hear a
startled shout or feel the sudden impact of a bullet. But he heard and felt
only the silence of the night and the pounding of his own accelerating pulse.

From there, they moved past the ruined barn and on down the slope into the
bramble-choked field below, trying to keep the bulk of the little hill between
them and the higher ridge to the west. Peter led the way, ghosting quietly
through the snarled clumps of thorns and waist-high weeds with a grace born out
of years of training and experience.

They were close to the edge of the stagnant pond when the Englishman
suddenly went prone, hugging the dirt behind a patch of raspberry bushes. Smith
dropped flat behind him and then crawled forward, using his elbows and knees
while cradling the MP5 against his chest. He tried hard not to breathe in too
deeply. They were below the level of the cool breeze whispering across the
field, and the air was thick with the pent-up stench of algae and rotting
fruit.

“Christ,” Peter muttered. “That's torn it! Listen.”

Smith heard the faint noise of a powerful engine, growing steadily louder.
Cautiously he raised his head to peer over the top of the closest bush. About
two hundred yards away a large black 4x4 cruised slowly past on the county
road, traveling east. It was driving without lights.

“You think they'll spot our cars?” he asked softly.

Peter nodded grimly. The small stand of trees in which they had parked would
not hide their vehicles from a determined search. “They're sure to,”
he said. “And when they do, all hell will break loose—if it hasn't
already.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “And it has, alas,”
he murmured. “Take a look behind us, Jon. But do it slowly.”

Smith carefully turned his head and saw a skirmish line of five men wearing
night-vision goggles and dark clothing slowly descending the gentle slope
behind them. Each carried a submachine gun or an assault rifle cradled in both
hands.

Jon felt his mouth go dry. The closest of the armed men hunting them

was already just a little more than one hundred
yards away. He and Peter were trapped.

“Any ideas?” Smith hissed.

“Yes. We drive those five men to ground and then we both run like
rabbits,” Peter answered. “Stay away from the road, though. Not
enough cover in that direction. We'll head north.” He spun around and came
up on one knee with his submachine gun at the ready, followed a second later by
Smith.

For an instant Jon hesitated, pausing with his finger already on the
trigger—wondering if he should shoot to kill or simply to frighten. Were these
some of the same men who had already tried to kill him? Or allied to them? Or
were they regular CIA personnel or private security guards roped in by Burke to
guard his property?

Their sudden movement attracted the attention of one of the gunmen moving
down the hill. He froze. “Contact, front!” he yelled in heavily
accented English. Then he opened fire with his submachine gun, spraying a hail
of 9mm bullets toward the two kneeling men.

Smith's doubts dissolved as the incoming rounds snapped and whined through
the air around him. These guys were mercenaries, and they were not trying to
take prisoners. He and Peter fired back, squeezing off a series of aimed
three-round bursts with their MP5s—walking their fire from opposite ends of the
enemy skirmish line toward the middle. One of the five gunmen screamed suddenly
and folded over, hit in the stomach. The other four dived for cover.

“Let's go!” Peter said sharply, tapping Smith on the shoulder.

Both men jumped to their feet and sprinted off into the darkness, angling
north, well away from the county road. Again, the
Englishman led the way, but this time he did not waste any time trying to find
easier paths through the tangle of brush and brambles. Instead, he crashed
right through even the densest briar patches at full bore. Stealth was out in
favor of speed. They needed to cover as much ground as possible before the
surviving gunmen recovered from their surprise and started shooting again.

Smith ran fast, his heart pounding as he followed right in Peter's wake. He
kept his gloved hands and the submachine gun out in front of him, trying to
keep his face from being lacerated by the welter of splintered branches and
sharp-edged thorns. Brambles tugged and tore at his arms and legs, jabbing and
slashing right through the thick cloth. Sweat trickled down his forearms,
stinging like fire when it mingled with his new puncture wounds, cuts, and
scrapes.

More gunfire erupted behind them. Rounds zipped through the thick
undergrowth on either side—clipping off leaves and twigs and spattering the
fragments in all directions.

The two men threw themselves down and wriggled round to face the way they
had come, seeking cover in a slight depression worn away by runoff from the
hill above them. “Determined bastards,” Peter commented coolly as
rifle bullets and submachine gun rounds ripped past right over their heads.
“I'll give them that.” He listened intently. “That's only two
men firing. We hit one. So where are the other two?”

“Closing in on us,” Smith said grimly. “While
their pals cover them.”

“Quite likely,” Peter agreed. He smiled suddenly. “Let's
teach them that's not such a good idea, shall we?”

Jon nodded.

“Right,” Peter said calmly. “Here we go.”

Ignoring the bullets still tearing up the brush around them, both men reared
up and began firing—again sweeping three-round bursts back and forth across the
field in front of them. Smith had a quick impression of startled yells and
barely glimpsed shapes diving behind clumps of tall weeds and brambles. More
weapons opened up with a stuttering, clattering roar as the gunmen they had
driven prone began shooting back.

Smith and Peter dropped back into the shallow drainage ditch and crawled
rapidly away along its meandering trace. It fell away to the east, following
the slight slope of the long-abandoned field. After moving about fifty yards,
they risked poking their heads up for another quick look. One of their pursuers
was still firing short bursts in their general direction in an

effort to pin them down. The other three gunmen
were in motion again, but they were also heading east—rapidly deploying into a
dispersed firing line across the width of the forty-acre field.

“Damn it,” Peter said under his breath. “What the hell are
they up to now?”

Smith's eyes narrowed. Their enemies no longer seemed interested in closing
with them. Instead, the bad guys were setting up a cordon that would
effectively cut them off from the road and from the vehicles they had left
hidden in among the trees still several hundred yards away. “We're being
herded!” he realized suddenly.

The Englishman stared at him for a second or two. Then his jaw tightened and
he nodded abruptly. “You're right, Jon. I should have seen it sooner.
They're acting as beaters —setting up to flush us out for the rest of the
shooting party.” He shook his head in disgust. “We're being treated
like a covey of bloody grouse or quails.”

Almost against his will, Smith grinned back at him, fighting down the urge
to laugh out loud. His old friend sounded genuinely insulted at being
manipulated so contemptuously by their enemies.

Peter turned his head, speculatively eyeing the rougher, even more overgrown
stretch of old farmland to the north. “They'll have a nasty little ambush
set out somewhere up that way,” he said, stripping out the used magazine
on his submachine gun and inserting a new thirty-round clip. “Getting past
that will be tricky.”

“Sure,” Smith said. “But we do have at least one
advantage.”

Peter raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Oh? Care to enlighten me?”

“Yep.” Smith patted his own MP5.
“The last time I checked, grouse and quails don't shoot back.”

This time it was Peter's turn to suppress a snort of rueful laughter.
“True enough,” he agreed quietly. “Very well, Jon, let's go and
see if we can turn the hunters into the hunted.”

They left the drainage ditch and crawled off to the north. Their path through
the thick undergrowth was a circuitous one. They were following

the rambling narrow trails made by small animals
that made their dens and warrens in the overgrown fields. Both men stayed very
low, hugging the ground and using their feet, knees, and elbows to wriggle
forward as fast as they could without making too much noise or shaking the
tangled tufts of brush and grass above them. The knowledge that an enemy force
lurked unseen somewhere ahead in the darkness again made stealth nearly as
vital as speed.

Smith could feel droplets of sweat rolling down through the dirt streaking
his forehead. He shook them away impatiently, not wanting them to drip into his
eyes under the mask holding his night-vision goggles. Plant stalks and curling
vines loomed up suddenly in his green-tinted vision and then vanished off to
the sides as he squirmed past. Deep in the heart of these jumbled thickets, his
field of view was down to just a few feet. The air was warm and thick with the
smell of dank, mossy earth and fresh animal droppings.