The Assassin's Case (13 page)

* * * * *

With the aid of night vision goggles, his wet suit exchanged for the ghillie, Grant worked his way up the face of the hill bordering the southern end of the kidnapper’s compound. He located a suitable place for a sniper hide. The spot he chose was at the edge of a small ridge in the midst of a tangle of leafy bushes, their drooping leaves allowing him a clear field of fire without the barrel of his weapon protruding past them. Between the ghillie and the thick tangle of jungle behind him, he would be difficult, if not impossible, to see from below. The nearest perimeter fence was about seventy-five yards away, making his furthest shot no more than five-hundred yards. A daunting shot under stress even for a skilled marksman, but the Cheytac should compensate.

              He settled into position behind the Cheytac and snugged the stock to his shoulder. He lay flat, legs spread behind him, his finger caressing the trigger guard, becoming one with the weapon and ground.

              Within minutes the music of the night returned after his brief disturbance. The whine and hum of bugs, the haunting calls of night birds. The breeze wafting off the ocean kept the worst of the bugs at bay, so he was simply being snacked upon instead of devoured. The heat beneath the ghillie merely stifling rather than sweltering. With the Schmidt and Bender 3-12 x 50 scope mounted on the rifle, he probed the compound. Though the perimeter was dark, the guest and main houses were well lighted, and the scope made maximum use of ambient light. Working his way in from the dock he located all of the sentries estimating yardage as he went. The scope’s reticle, or crosshairs, was the P-3 mil-dot variety. The dots spaced along the crosshairs allowed him to judge distances and compensate for them. He moved his sights toward the guest house, and judging by the guards stationed there, Morgan’s family remained inside. Parked at an angle, as if not completely stopped before its occupants tumbled out, the car driven by his friends from the hotel sat in the circular drive.

Every light seemed to be on in the main house. Through the un-curtained full length windows Grant witnessed the kidnappers in heated discussion. The man he identified as the leader spoke into a satellite phone and gestured toward the case on the table. Another of the henchmen fiddled with the locks for a moment and flipped the top up. He turned the case to allow the boss man to view its contents. The man held the phone to his chest, studied the opened attaché, and returned the phone to his ear. After a few brief words he set the phone down and began to issue instructions. It appeared they were packing up.

Two men, machine pistols in hand, left the main house and walked toward the guest quarters.

Grant snapped the talk button on his radio. “Move in, now.” He drew a bead on the lead goon’s head. So much for the plan.

* * * * *

Staring through binoculars, Jaime studied the shore, seeking anything out of the ordinary. Any change in patterns, ears pricked for the sound of gunfire. She had watched Grant swim away, afraid. Not only for his safety but for the loss of that fleeting moment. A moment she may never have again. If he began analyzing his feelings, dwelling on his pain and guilt, he may never again allow himself to let her get close. In two days emotions she had buried long ago erupted to the surface. Jaime didn’t know if she could bury them again. It had been hard enough the first time.

              She lowered the binoculars and turned to her companions. Although Morgan sat in a chair he was anything but relaxed. His fingers drummed, his toes tapped. And when not engaged in either of those activities he was either glancing at his watch or rubbing a hand over his face. His eyes though, just the sight of them almost brought Jaime to tears. They appeared haunted and grief-stricken.

              Jimmy “Boom” Tedesco knelt near the rear of the boat, head bowed in prayer, hands clasped in front of him. She firmly believed his apparent transformation was real, not some concocted story. It wasn’t just what he said, but the way he said it, his once gruff and course tone was no longer there, his words came out soft and measured. And his eyes. She detected Tedesco’s shame in them, the way he wouldn’t meet her gaze for any length of time, and the way he seemed on the verge of tears every time he looked at Dr. Morgan. The most telling though was the way Tedesco regarded Grant. She doubted Grant had noticed, but when Tedesco looked at him shame and guilt literally poured from him.

              The stalwart Evans leaned against the steering wheel, scanning the shore with his own binoculars.

              Empathy for Dr. Morgan’s plight overpowered Jaime and she moved to his side, kneeling in front of him. She placed a hand on his knee. “We’ll get through this. They
are
going to be okay.”

              He covered Jaime’s hand in his own. “Thank you, my dear. I’m just so scared. My grandbabies.” He took a deep breath and shook his head. “It’s just too much. I can’t bear it.” He dropped his head and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

              Tedesco moved to join them. He helped Morgan to his feet and pulled Evans elbow, ushering them all to the center of the boat.

“I think we should pray.”

The man still looked like a block of stone, like the poster boy of mafia hit men, like the killer he, apparently, used to be. But Jaime studied his eyes. She knew the man he used to be very well. She may have even hated him for what he had done to Grant. But the cold and calculating killer no longer lurked there.

Tedesco closed his ham of a hand over Morgan’s and Jaime’s then bowed his head. Evans shrugged his shoulders and grabbed their opposite hands, completing the circle.

“Dear, Lord. Watch over us tonight. We beg you to help us free Alfred’s family. Please protect the children. Give us strength.” He paused, drawing a deep breath. “Lord, please forgive us for doing what we have to do. I made a promise to you. But tonight I have to break it. Please understand. We can’t do this without you. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

As they opened their eyes and released each other’s hands the radio erupted with Grant’s voice. “Move in, now.”

“Looks like we’re going to plan B.” Evans raced to the driver’s seat. “Hold on.” He jammed the throttle forward and the boat’s props bit into the water, rocketing them toward shore.

SEVENTEEN

Grant released a breath and eased his finger from the trigger guard to the trigger. Here he was again. Life and death at the tip of a finger. Killing a man, unless you happened to be a sociopath, wasn’t easy. Though it wasn’t nearly as difficult when they were trying to kill you. But like this, hidden. No, it wasn’t easy.

You
had
to believe you were justified or the demons of guilt would haunt you, erode your resolve. The last thing Grant needed was more apparitions banging through the corridors of his soul. He tracked the guards in the scope and when the one in the front readied his gun and snapped off the safety, any ambiguity Grant had evaporated. The bastards were about to walk in and kill an innocent group of people, two of them children, without mercy.

              The blood boiling in him wasn’t necessary for what he had to do, but the anger didn’t hurt either, as long as he didn’t allow it to cloud his judgment. Grant squeezed the trigger. The beautifully machined weapon’s recoil against his shoulder was like a hug from a long lost friend. As he moved the barrel to the next target, working the bolt to ratchet another round into the chamber, the first man crumpled beneath a spray of red mist before the supersonic crack of the bullet registered.

              Another flex of the finger and the second guard fell next to his companion. Grant switched his aim toward the guest house and removed two more miscreants from the face of the earth. He took his eye away from the scope to scan the compound with a broader view. Guards pointed toward the hills, scrambling for cover, searching for his position. Good. Judging from the lack of return fire they had only a general idea of Grant’s location.

              That’s right fellas. Cower. Zeus is here. Lightning in his fists. And he’s going to rain thunderbolts.

              Grant peered through the scope toward the dock. Two sentries stood near the end, looking toward the main house. Something caused them to turn toward the water. The boat.

              The Cheytac coughed in Grant’s hands, twice. No longer concerned about surprise, he chose the higher percentage shot, the torso. A supersonic projectile hit each guard in turn, ripping them both off their feet and into the water.

              Return fire peppered the hillside around Grant. If he stayed long enough they would eventually pinpoint his position. But he didn’t plan on being here much longer. Just long enough to make sure Evans and Tedesco made it safely to shore.

              Grant continued to fire, working his way in from the beach, clearing the path. Within a couple of minutes the boat was moored and Evans and Tedesco sprinted down the quay. Evans carried an MP-5 along with several other weapons strapped to his body. A second assault rifle hung from a sling on his shoulder. With one hand Tedesco clutched the strap of a backpack, the other a forty-five.

              Checking their progress in his scope, for just a moment, Grant eyed Tedesco’s head through the crosshairs. One pull of the trigger is all it would take. Grant shook off the temptation as his earpiece crackled.

              “What’s the plan?” Evans said.

              “I’m going after the family. You guys keep them off me.”

              “10-4.”

              The original plan had been for Grant to snipe the guards on the beach while Evans and Tedesco sneaked in to place C-4
charges along the eastern perimeter and the main house. They would then detonate them and steal away with Morgan’s family in the confusion while Grant covered them.

              As Robert Burns once said,
the best laid schemes o’ mice and men, gang aft agley.

              Grant re-loaded the rifle to capacity, shoving in seven more of the four-and-a-half inch bullets. He dropped seven more guards as return fire continued to strafe the hillside, some of it very close. A loud
whoomp
was followed by the whistle of a flying projectile. It crashed to the ground about twenty yards to his right. An explosion gouged a hole in the hillside, the burst of flame casting the jungle in a brilliant yellow glare. It appeared to be mortar fire. His recon hadn’t picked up anything but small arms.

              Dirt and debris rained down on Grant’s back. Too close. Yes, things were definitely
agley
-ing to hell.

              He folded the Cheytac’s tripod and used his elbows to scoot backward out of his hide, then crawled to the shelter of a large tree, dragging his equipment bag with him. Gunfire riddled the jungle around him. Another mortar hit near the spot he just vacated. Just when he was beginning to wonder what happened to his help, an explosion erupted below, followed by the distinctive sound of an MP-5 submachine gun firing.

              Although he hated to give up the Cheytac, Grant dropped the weapon to the ground. At twenty-seven pounds it would be far too cumbersome for what he needed to do. He slid out of the ghillie and draped it over the Cheytac, before removing a Smith and Wesson M&P15 assault rifle from his pack. The matte black rifle accepted a thirty shot magazine and only weighed seven pounds. He placed the three extra clips in his pockets and checked to make sure his backup pistols remained secured in their holsters.

              Leaving the bag, the Cheytac, and the ghillie, Grant moved.

* * * * *

With a backpack full of C-4 charges, a belt arrayed with clipped on grenades, and a forty-five automatic
in hand, Tedesco jumped from the boat. Already on the dock, Evans froze and raised his gun. Before he had a chance to fire, and just as Tedesco’s feet thumped onto to the pier, something blasted the two guards off their feet into the ocean. Evans stood and dashed toward shore. Tedesco followed, doing his best to keep up with the much faster man, gunfire from the compound spurring him on.

              Tedesco came abreast of the moored yacht. He stopped just long enough to remove two bricks of C-4, attaching one at the bow and one at the stern.

              Evans waited, kneeling at the end of the dock, searching the beach, the barrel of his gun moved in tandem with his eyes. As Tedesco caught up, Evans waved him forward and they sprinted across the sand. Barrage after barrage of gunfire sprayed into the hillside. Though Tedesco didn’t know exactly where, Grant was up there somewhere. 

              They reached a cobblestone walkway which wound through a manicured yard, terminating at a pool. Past the pool a sidewalk led to the main house, another to the guest house.

              Evans held up a hand and crouched behind a hedge. “We’ve gotta get their attention. Give Grant some time.”

              Tedesco nodded.

              “Over there.” Evans pointed toward a garden featuring man-sized rocks and trees. It stood about halfway between the two houses and offered a sheltered firing position.

              As they ran, three guards near the back of the main house spotted them, and opened fire. “Keep moving.” Evans trained his MP-5 in the guard’s direction and dropped to a knee. He fired and two of them fell. Evans dodged return fire by rolling to the side. He ended the roll on his stomach, elbows propped, gun spitting fire. The last man dropped.

              Tedesco risked a peek over his shoulder as he ran. Something snagged his foot and he tripped. A few staggering steps later he regained his balance and decided to watch where he was going. Before he reached the shelter of the garden Evans caught up to him, jamming a clip into the receiver as he moved. They stumbled into the shelter of a boulder and peered around.

              “Remind me to keep you on my good side,” Tedesco said.

              Evans nodded, the trace of a smile on his lips.

              A contingent of kidnappers clogged the area ahead. Some sheltered behind trees, near cars, but the majority of them were near the fence searching the tree line. A group near the house was firing mortar shells into the jungle, blasts ripped the hillside. “I think Grant has their attention,” Tedesco said.

              Evans leaned around the boulder and blasted a volley into the group firing the mortar. One of them went down and the rest scattered for cover. “Lay down some smoke.”

              Tedesco unclipped a grenade from the left side of his belt, pulled the pin and lobbed it as far as he could. It landed and thick white smoke billowed into the air. He repeated the process three more times, until a thick layer of smoke clouded the area.

              Gunfire pinged off the rocks in front of them.

              “Seems now
we
have their attention,” Evans said. He squinted his eyes, trying to pierce the haze, and returned fire. 

              Tedesco removed his pack, dug out a brick of C-4, and armed the detonator. He pulled a remote from his pocket and powered it up before pressing the talk button on the radio at his belt. “Grant. Can you hear me?”

              “I hear you.”

              “Where are you?”

              “I’m working my way down the hillside.” His words were spoken between huffs of breath.

              “I’m going to give you a distraction. Let us know when you reach Morgan’s family.”

              “I will.”

              Tedesco grabbed the explosive brick and backed up four steps, doing his best to remain in the shelter of the rocks and out of the path of the bullets pelting them. He drew back his arm, exhaled, and ran forward. He heaved the C-4 into the air, tossing it into the midst of the hazy yard.

              He tapped Evans on the shoulder. “You may want to get down.”

* * * * *

Grant ran, ducking from shadow to shadow, angling toward the edge of the jungle nearest the guest house. Automatic gunfire showered the trees around him. Mortars ripped apart the hillside. He didn’t believe they knew his exact position, but all it took was a near miss with the explosive projectiles.

              A shell landed about fifteen feet from him. Grant dove away. The blast wave pitched him through the air like a leaf on the wind. After what seemed an eternity in flight, the ground rushed up to meet him. He stretched out a hand and rolled, using the other to tuck the rifle to his chest. His impetus caused him to tumble forward, end-over-end, until he crashed into a tangle of vines and bushes. Small branches and thorny protrusions ripped into his skin.

              Using his knife he hacked his way through the snarl and sheltered in the bower of a towering palm. He scanned the area around the guest house, hoping its occupants remained unharmed. He could only imagine their fear, especially the children, and the horror of their parents realizing the danger to their babies.

              Grant moved, desperation fueling his legs. He ran, leaping rocks, zig-zagging around knots of brush. He began to chant the names of Morgan’s family as he ran, visualizing their faces, their need giving his feet wings. He thought of Morgan’s wife, son-in-law, daughter, grandson, and granddaughter, all at the mercy of this cold-blooded scum. Patricia, Tim, Robin, Alex, and Tabitha.

I’m coming. Grant sprinted, jumped, stumbled, and hurdled his way down the slope.
Patricia, Tim, Robin, Alex, and Tabitha. Patricia-Tim-Robin-Alex-Tabitha. PatriciaTimRobinAlexTabitha.

Clutching the assault rifle he ignored the bullets strafing the jungle around him. He leaped the trunk of a downed tree. Another explosion slammed him to the ground. He hit on his stomach and face. Grit and grime flew into his mouth and the impact stole his breath. He gathered his legs and pushed with his arms. He ran, spitting out dirt, forcing his shocked diaphragm to suck in air. He. Would. Not. Fail. Them.

              He finally reached the fence at the edge of the compound. Retrieving a set of wire-cutters from a pocket on his pants leg he began to snip. He waited on the bullet. Though some of the attention was no longer on Grant, the kidnapper’s still probed the trees with gunfire.
Come on fellas, a little help.

              As Grant peeled away a section of fence smoke began to billow among the guards. By the time he stepped through the gap in the fence a thick layer of cloud obscured the area between the guest house and main house.

              Before the breeze could whisk away the smoke Grant dashed toward the guest house. He slid to a stop and leaned against the rear of the building, attempting to pull air into his heaving chest. Using a sleeve, he swiped the sweat from his eyes. The rear windows were barred, more than likely a recent addition to the décor. His best bet was the front door.

              Grant edged his way to the corner and peeked around the side. Although the smoke was quickly dissipating it still afforded some cover, and no guards were visible nearby.

              Skirting along the side of the little
hacienda
he approached the front door. After a quick look over his shoulder he tried the doorknob. No good. Locked. A gap in the door revealed that it was also secured by a deadbolt.

              He studied the door and chose a spot between the knob and the deadbolt. Although he knew what he was about to do would draw unwanted attention, there was no other way. He took a few paces back and shot forward, delivering a step-behind side kick to the door. The impact was loud. The door splintered and buckled but remained in place and shut. Chuck Norris would be ashamed.