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CHAPTER 12



They got within fifteen feet of the opening and waited there, watching. The room was nearly rectangular, about twenty feet deep by forty feet wide, and had a concrete floor painted gray. How and why someone had gone to the effort to do that was a puzzle, but Kyle chalked it up to the Soviet influence. What had been down here was a matter for speculation, but there were scars on the walls where equipment or possibly shackles had been attached. Perhaps being dragged down under one of Dracula’s castles, shown a pit full of moldy bones and assured that screams could be as loud as one wished and unheard was a good way to break people’s wills.

Actually, he reflected, it had done a good job on his own will, and he’d come here voluntarily. What poor bastards had come into these passageways, and why? Someone who slept with an apparatchik’s wife? Someone who refused to let his wife sleep with an apparatchik? Or drug dealers and black marketeers? And had just enough echoes of screams made it into the courtyard above to maintain the legend and keep people away?

Or was it all in his mind, and this nothing but an ancient hideout like those in thousands of other castles, carved by some nutcase with too much money, and now in use by terrorists?

Movement! His field of view was limited to what was directly across from him, so it was only when people moved into that area that he could discern anything.

Six people came past, carrying crates. All were male, all likely from this area, as they were darkhaired and dressed in local style.

The digital camera Wade had didn’t beep; it had been modified not to. It made no sound as he snapped a photo, then another. Assuming they got out of here without too much harm, they’d have a wealth of intel about the labyrinth and its occupants.

The men within were muttering and talking. Kyle could only half hear it, and recognized some of the vocabulary that was similar to Spanish.

One of them, tall and with long hair, was saying what translated to, “. . . glad . . . load . . . finished . . .”

Behind him, a shorter, burly one replied, “. . . take it . . . again . . . distribute.”

A third, carrying only one crate to the others’ two each, said something along the lines of, “Shut up . . . carry . . . quick.”

Wade crawled down next to Kyle and whispered, “Positive ID on Logadze and Florescu. Do we shoot?”

“Now’s when I wish we had a grenade,” Kyle hissed back. “We’ll wait for a moment.”

It was a tough call. They had a limited window, six targets and it was a lighted room at close quarters. They could come out shooting and trust to speed and surprise to avoid return fire, but the fact was that they didn’t know what else was in the room. There might be nothing to hide behind. From here, they could shoot easily at anything in view and trust to their own skill to nail anyone who tried to get into line of fire to shoot back. Of course, one of the others might lob a grenade of their own down the tunnel. That would end things rather quickly.

We’re snipers, Kyle decided. We shoot calmly and methodically, not toe to toe, like a cop movie. He indicated his intent to Wade with a hand, and snugged the weapon against his cheek. As soon as he got a decent shot with more than one target in the field, he’d take it.

There came the sound of scuffling sacks or crates, probably the crates they’d been carrying. The mutters continued, but more softly, and then the “squad,” as he thought of them, trooped back past, heads down and intent on the job. Kyle shifted slightly and caught the first one in the scope’s reticle.

The Ruger was theoretically almost silent. But in the tight confines of the passageway, the muzzle pop was a healthy crack that echoed.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, knowing what was to happen. “Back!” he hissed over his shoulder to Wade, bumping his head.

They shimmied back as fast as they could, while Kyle’s target crumpled, the bullet having punched into his skull to pulp his brains. But the other five scattered and were obviously reaching for weapons, then shooting, and the passageway was a straight shot with no bends between the opening and the snipers.

Kyle realized that the best option still sucked, because it was to stand and shoot fast, hoping to disrupt their response.

He quickly raised the rifle again and started snapping off shots as fast as he could get targets. Wounds were more important than kills right now. Any hit would hopefully slow a man enough for a second shot to be effective. But any hesitation would leave Kyle and Wade exposed to full-bore military rounds that would go through both of them, or ricochet into them from the walls. They were in a bad position for any kind of defense. He hunkered down as low as he could, hugging the ground for what cover it provided.

“Over my shoulder,” he said to Wade, hoping Wade would understand.

His third shot clipped an arm, and a yelp of pain sounded ahead.

Then an incoming hail of fire erupted from one of the figures, the muzzle flashes bright as he swung into view of the tunnel. The clatter of the bolt and the bangs of the rounds were concentrated by the close quarters into a deafening, echoing boom like that of a nearby thunderclap.

It took a moment for Kyle to react, and that moment was a good thing. There was nothing to do but stay low and return fire. He’d been in this position before. Sometimes, the doctrine of “keep moving” was not the best advice.

He realized that most of the rounds weren’t that close. They were aimed at torso height, and that was a good two to three feet above him. Okay, so that was close, but he wasn’t going to think about it even as he flinched. They hadn’t hit him yet.

Nor, apparently, Wade, who took that moment to lay the barrel of the AK over Kyle’s left shoulder and cap off three rounds.

After the shattering noise of the incoming fire, the suppressed bangs of the 7.62 rounds were inaudible, even though Kyle felt the suppressor dance against his collarbone. He wondered if any of the hearing damage he had was permanent, but only for a moment. That was something he had no control over, and there were more immediate concerns that required his attention.

Like that gunner, who was nicely within his field of view. He adjusted his aim slightly and commenced shooting. Four rounds ripped through throat and face, and with a gurgling scream audible between catastrophic crashes of fire, that man ceased being a threat and became a mere statistic.

The remaining four were not yet statistics. Even surprised and possibly wounded, they were returning more fire. One had what was most likely a Makarov pistol, bouncing easily in his hands as he fired toward the hole. Another was armed with what looked like a Czech Skorpion. Kyle couldn’t be sure, because one of Wade’s rounds shattered the weapon on its way to the shooter, and the following shot blew through his chest, leaving a bright streak and arcs of hot blood and tissue visible on the scope.

Another one turned to run, a mistake in combat and his last, as Kyle and Wade both adjusted their aim and squeezed. He was hit through the back left side of the thorax with 7.62 and right under the ear with .22. Which round was lethal first was academic; both were expertly placed shots with a bit of battle luck, and he dropped like a sack.

That left two who were reaching for weapons as Kyle rose and headed into the room. He didn’t feel that staying in the obvious hole was secure anymore. The floor was slightly sunken, and he pushed off with his feet, took two lumbering, stumbling steps and rolled out, panning to the left, then right to make sure his flanks were safe. That momentarily put his back to his opponents, but dammit, someone had to clear the sides. He swung back as quickly as he could, and he was too late.

Because Wade had dropped both the remaining men with shots neatly above their blank-staring faces as they turned from a weapons rack.

Or maybe not so neatly. One had half his temple blown away by hydrostatic shock.

Kyle heaved a sigh he couldn’t hear. His head was spinning and his ears ringing, his nose choked with dust and his throat itching from propellant, despite the suppressors. He was panting for breath and his heart hammered. But it wasn’t time for the shakes yet. There could still be hostiles here.

Wade said something that didn’t register for several seconds. He had to watch his partner’s lips to grasp, “I’ll cover the other tunnel. You look around.”

Kyle nodded and did so. First things first, he removed the ten-round magazine with its remaining single cartridge and clicked a full twenty-five-rounder in place. Keeping weapons loaded was a good habit for combat. Then he let it hang from the sling and drew his .45, which was a much better weapon for this. It was powerful and suppressed, and didn’t take much room to maneuver.

He slid around the room in a sideways shuffle, looking for threats or exits. There was the entrance they’d used on one wall, the west, he thought, and the one Wade covered on the north, and nothing on the other sides except some indentations of a foot or so that might have held torches or racks at some point. But the remains of metal shackles on the walls and their positions made Kyle sure people had been tortured down here. It might have been under Ceauşescu, or Vlad, or the original owners before him. But it was ugly, and there was an atmosphere here that wasn’t inspired by legend, because he’d felt it when he visited Auschwitz and that mass grave in Bosnia. Call it psychic, empathic, or just superstition, places that had this feel were places of evil that Kyle didn’t like.

The six bodies were the only other occupants, and there were twelve crates, all like the ones that had just come in, as well as maps and documents on a cheap card table. There was a quickly made plywood rack that had held the weapons that were now lying with or near the corpses. There were a dozen chairs stacked in one corner and a small refrigerator, its cord dangling from a light fixture, hastily wired in and taped rather than plugged into an outlet. There was obviously no electrical code enforced here. One corner of the room had a sheet of plywood as a privacy screen and contained a large bucket and a box of sanitary wipes, its purpose being obvious. Which poor bastards had to carry that out when it was full?

Two radios sat next to the fridge. The antenna wire seemed to run up the ceiling. Was there an old wiring conduit? Or a passage to the surface? One unit looked to be 1980s Russian surplus, but likely had the range to reach the sea. The other was shortwave, and there was also a box with a connection for a cell phone, so there might be Web access down here. Kyle made a quick try at using the cell phone hookup, but it didn’t match his Iridium.

The fridge contained detonators and timers for the explosives, stuffed behind stale sandwiches. That was a good way to store them, cool and dry. Several boxes of ammo were behind it.

He circled around again, eyeballing the ceiling of hewn rock and the floor of cracked concrete. Nothing to indicate other openings. Nodding to Wade, he angled over to the stack of boxes and examined the one by itself next to the stack.

The crates were the explosive. At a guess, there were five to six hundred pounds of it here. Unless capped with detonators, it was perfectly safe and stable even if struck by bullets, but Kyle thought about his earlier wishing for a grenade and shuddered. The shock wave would have killed their targets, certainly. It could also have painted Kyle and Wade as red ooze along the walls and likely brought the castle down. He decided he was very glad for the weapons they’d chosen for this mission. And he needed to remember that these freaks used explosives in quantity, and to not get careless.

“What do we do with it?” Wade asked, getting more photos. They’d need plenty of evidence. It was hard to make out the words. Kyle’s ears were still ringing.

“Soak it in water like our fathers did with firecrackers?” Kyle replied, too loudly. He could hardly hear himself. The quip was the only idea he could think of. “Too loud to hear myself think” had always been just a phrase to him. He realized it was accurate at the moment.

Nevertheless, the joke was ironic. Blasting gelatin was stable. There was little to be done to it without chemical action. “I suppose we can toss all the crates down the shaft. They’ll shatter and make it much harder to use. Then we can send someone to get it. Alternatively, we just beat feet now and keep the place under surveillance until Cafferty can get a team here.”

“Assuming he doesn’t want us to deal with it alone,” Wade said.

“Dunno. Do we want to risk that other exit? Or go back the way we came? Our other gear is there,” he said in reminder.

“I don’t think anyone’s going to find that stuff,” Wade said. “As far as we know, no one has been through there in years. And none of it can be traced to us.”

“Yeah, and we don’t want to come out in that park down there while tourists are around. I think we’ve got to take the other way out and hope it’s farther away, then report in ASAP and get backup.”

“Okay. Hey, we got two kills and four supplemental. That should make people happy. Except the terrorists.”

“Well, let’s not waste time. We’ll take all the papers, then out we go. You first, shoot if needed.” They had no idea if a driver waited below for them to return, or if there was another element carrying more crates. Likely not. The operation here didn’t look as if it needed many people, and between bin Laden’s reckless wasting of his own people on missions, the combined work of intelligence agencies, and the precision shooting of men like Kyle and Wade, al Qaeda had to be running short of competent people. But there were always more volunteers, with too much religion and too little compassion and stability.

“Roger that,” Wade said. They stood and walked across the room, bypassing the six cooling corpses and the other crates. The explosives would have to stay where they were for now. They gathered up the maps, charts, printed spreadsheets, and the EUR 50,000 still in the bank bands revealed in the midst of it.

“Damn. Are we going to tell Cafferty about this twenty-five thousand euros?” Wade asked.

“Does he need to know about the ten thousand euros?” Kyle replied. They both knew they were joking. They’d turn it in. That might make them suckers, but it was evidence, contaminated by the scum who’d acquired it, and they wouldn’t touch it.

Under the scattered pile was a fake leather briefcase, the flat, soft-sided kind that doesn’t expand. They carefully folded everything in, eyes still alert for anything else that might come through those dark, staring holes in the walls.

The way out was just another passage carved into the bedrock. Beyond the room was nothing but crude steps, long and shallow, leading up the hill. There were no lights. The passage curved right and the steps got steeper, almost too narrow and steep. Then wide again. Whether it had been dictated of necessity by the geology, was intended as a trap to delay pursuit, or was simply the work of half-mad, half-blind or half-trained masons working in the depths of the mountain, it was hard to say. Along one section, the walls tilted far to the left, causing the men to lean against the side and their boots to brush the edge of stairs and rock. There was a hill east of the castle, so they were heading that way. Compass confirmed it.

This route was definitely much longer than the one that had brought them in. On the other hand, it didn’t entail a climb up a greasy, moldy shaft for a hundred feet or more. It was straightforward enough, and in ten minutes they were out.

The great advantage of the infrared and night vision, Kyle thought, was that no one should suspect them of being there.

The bottom leveled out, and there were shallow puddles here and there, as if rain had leaked in. It was straight for about ten meters, then they were at an exit, the door metal and rusty, perhaps fifty years old. But the hinges had been recently oiled. There was a tiny peephole, perhaps three inches square, through which Wade peered.

Satisfied, he unlatched the door and swung it inward.

The area beyond it was thickly overgrown with weeds as concealment. A sheet of plywood protected the growth from being worn down to an obvious path.

Wade cautiously crawled out, ignoring the wetness for discretion. He was low and slow, weapon behind him but ready to deploy if needed. Kyle kept watch up high and farther back, covering the oblique. “Clear,” Wade said. “There’s a pile of crates here, though.”

“Those stupid bastards,” Kyle said, following Wade out at a crawl just in case. “What do we do about those?” It was graying dawn and would be light soon. “Hold on, first things first.” He grabbed his phone and punched for Cafferty.

“Yeah, what?” was the croaked answer to the third ring. Kyle could barely hear it, but there was ringing in his ears now. They should recover.

“I’d like to report two items accomplished, Numbers Five and Three, and a sizeable amount of contraband needing immediate disposal, plus documents.”

“Holy shit!” Cafferty almost whooped, awake now and happy. “Where?”

“That’s the problem. Under Bran, accessible only by tunnel on foot. And we’ve got gear under the Queen’s elevator that needs recovering. We can stay and observe for now.”

“Um, yeah, you better. I’m not sure what to do about that. How much contraband?”

“Eighteen crates, approximately twenty-five kilos each. The shipment.”

“And these are under the castle?”

“Yes.”

“Damn. That’s bad—in several ways. I can’t get anyone there for several hours, and that place will be crawling with tourists in a couple of hours. Then there was the inquiry about your vehicle, which has been towed.”

“Ah, hell,” Kyle replied, though it wasn’t too surprising.

“Oh, hey, I’ll deal with it. You’ve got two items off the list. I’m all smiles here. Stay and observe as long as you can, and I’ll get back with you. How’s your situation?”

“We’re filthy,” Kyle said. “And hungry and tired. Half deaf from a firefight. We really don’t want to be seen in public. There’s crates outside the door here, visible to backpackers, and looks as if they were brought in by ATV.” There were flattened areas and one depression that showed broad tread marks. He looked around at the forest. It wasn’t as thick as it could be, and there wasn’t a lot of undergrowth. The slight meadow they were in looked to be one to attract picnickers or those craving a view.

“Damn. Amateurs,” Cafferty groused. “Do what you can. I’ll get you covered. Let me make calls.”

“Roger. Out.” He turned to Wade and realized he was still wearing his goggles on his forehead; Wade had removed his, leaving deep creases on his forehead. He pulled his off as he spoke. “Okay, we need one of us at each entrance, keeping an eye on things. It could be several hours, he says. If nothing happens by nightfall, I say we go back in and bring the stuff out.”

“Well, the problems with that are that someone is going to miss these assholes, as unpleasant as they are, and that door takes a key from this side. So if we close it, we can’t get in that way. If we leave it unlocked, anyone snooping around the crates will find it and go inside.”

“Damn,” Kyle replied. “I’m too tired to think straight.”

“That’s why there’s two of us, to poke holes in each other’s theories,” Wade reassured him.

“Right. Well, lock it. We know where the stuff is, the bad guys do, Cafferty and his people do. There’s no reason for anyone else to.”

“Assuming there’s anyone not plugged into those networks.”

“There is that. You want to watch here, I’ll trot around front?” They were both having trouble hearing, and had to face each other and talk slowly.

“I suppose. Contact every fifteen minutes?”

“Sure. Or chatter if no one’s around. We need to stay awake.” It had been a long night, a short day of napping, another long night and no sleep today. They’d dealt with worse, but it was still a hindrance.

Quickly, they hefted and stuffed the remaining crates into the opening, along with the plywood. To a casual observer it should look like construction or landscaping supplies. Even staff finding it might not question it. If they did, the Romanians would seize it.

Wade took the briefcase and slithered off into the sparse woods to find a spot from which he could watch the entrance and the distant road far down the mountain. There was probably a trail through the undergrowth or along one of the paths, but there was no time for that now; the sun was starting to reach fingers through the trees.

Kyle sought shadow and heavy growth to shield him as he made his way around the hill. He reslung the rifle as he did so. This was observation now, not fighting. There were noises above as the staff prepared for their battle with tourists who were interested, curious, smug, arrogant, or a combination thereof.

Kyle just had to hope Cafferty moved quickly. He didn’t want to stay all day. He wasn’t sure he could. Despite the trees, this was a well-traveled area. It was unlikely the terrorists would return during the day.

Still, they might have connections to the staff, and, face it: If Kyle Monroe could sneak up and get into those passages in daylight, and he certainly could, then someone else could. Heck, a Boy Scout could.

In ten minutes, the sun shouldering the trees aside to throw light at the ground, he was where he could keep track of both the entrance they’d used and the area around it.

Ideally, he’d hide near dark undergrowth or leaves in a ghillie suit that would make him all but invisible. He hadn’t brought his ghillie, because he was supposed to be a tourist, and it was bulky to boot.

But he was a U.S. Army sniper, and there was no one better at invisibility. There were enough native materials to hide him and he’d make use of them. Occasional twigs and weeds he plucked as he walked, long stems of grass, a handful of leaves. All this would serve to break up his outline and cover his skin. That done, unless someone got very close or stepped on him, he should be safe.

There was a nice spot, on a slope few would want to walk, near the base of a tree. Its bark was cracked into long hexagonal scales and there were protruding roots. He slid in against it, the ground wet and cold underneath, and wiggled his feet through the weeds around it. A quick shifting of the stalks destroyed his lower silhouette, and creative arranging of a dead branch with several forks in it and some scattered leaves disrupted his upper half, which was already mottled by the British DPM camouflage he wore. Some mud on his face and more leaves on his hat left him invisible, save his eyes. He arranged the phone wires and activated it before he tucked his hands in his sleeves.

“Wade, are you there?” he asked, remembering to speak much more softly than his tortured ears thought was proper.

“Yes, and hid. There’s more activity. Seems to be all backpackers. We were lucky. They come through at all hours.” Kyle adjusted the volume level up enough to hear it adequately.

“Quiet here,” he said. “Let’s hope Cafferty hurries.”

“Roger that.”

“Check back in a few,” he ordered.

“Will do,” was the reply, then it became quiet again. He could just hear birds, and couldn’t hear the breeze soughing through the fluttering leaves overhead.

He knew he napped. He was dozing in and out, waking periodically as his body protested the cold or hunger, then fitfully dozing again, to awaken to some minor noise or touch of the twigs. In this prone position, he didn’t shift much, and was still well-hidden. He didn’t think anyone could sneak past his watch, but he couldn’t be sure. He also couldn’t find enough stimulation to keep him alert. The unpleasant conditions were inadequate; he’d trained in far worse. Poking himself with sharp pebbles didn’t do it. Reciting song lyrics and Kipling poems would get him halfway through the verse before his brain fried out. He gritted his teeth and forced himself as hard as he could. Numb fingers needed massaging so they’d stay useful. And his entire front was wet and shivering cold.

Tourists started wandering by as soon as the sun was well up. They acted as one would expect—laughing, joking, making creepy gestures at one another. It was always fascinating to watch people, or at least it was for Kyle. The differences between people and chimps, he thought, were very few.

They came in gaggles and trickles until 10:00 a.m. with nothing substantial to note. Four times, people examined the tunnel entrance, saw it was barricaded and went away. One of them was a teenager who tried to climb over, but eventually his mother prevailed upon him to not be foolish. At least that’s what he gathered from the few words of German he knew.

It was just after ten when a loose dog came trotting down the slope, tongue and tail wagging in happy doggie fashion. It came straight toward him, nose shifting from air to ground.

Hell, was the only thing Kyle could think. All he could do was hope the damned dog ignored him. But that wasn’t likely. Dogs were smarter than people in many ways, very literal and hard to fool. This one was a mutt, but a handsome mix of shepherd, spaniel, and some kind of hound. It didn’t bark or yip, but was certainly intent on finding the person it smelled. Or maybe it was the propellant or the stench of bodies it was attracted to.

Then the dog was sniffing at him. It didn’t mean any harm, obviously loved people. Like him. He didn’t dare hiss or shoo it away. He just had to hope it left soon. He’d even let it pee on him to maintain his cover, but he wanted that dog to leave.

No good. It was determined to sniff all around him. Naturally, eyes sought the dog. And just as naturally, those seeking eyes saw shape revealed where a casual glance would not have.

The dog belonged to a youth with a family group that included parents, grandparents, and possibly cousins. They were Romanian, neatly dressed and obviously reasonably well-to-do.

Even with an inadequate grasp of the language and ringing ears, Kyle heard the teen’s statement clearly: “Hey, there’s a man down there!” The pointing finger was an exclamation Kyle didn’t need.

In moments, other eyes focused on his face, some shielded by hands to help refine the view. Then there were shouts and comments, mostly sounding curious.

But Kyle didn’t dare be questioned. There was no point in hiding further, so he rose and sprinted, down and away.

It was ironic, he reflected, that tourists and locals by the dozens would now accomplish his task for him, preventing any terrorists from getting into the tunnel at this side. He just wondered if Wade was having any better luck.

The yells and occasional nervous laughs drifted away, as Kyle spoke into his phone’s walkie talkie. “I’m busted,” he said. “Got to find cover.”

There was a vibration, he slapped the button, and said, “Yes?”

Sam said, “I’m pulling in, about ten minutes.”

“Can you make it faster? I’ve just lost my cover and have locals looking for me.”

“Ah, shit. Yes, stand by. Maybe seven minutes.”

“Which direction are you coming from?” he asked. He’d started at the northwest, was now running east and past the hill where Wade was.

“From the east,” Cafferty confirmed.

“Then it’ll be six minutes, because I can run a half mile in that time.” And maybe more. As long as he was fast, most drivers wouldn’t have time to notice him and the pursuit should probably forget him.

He didn’t get much notice. A few passengers in cars pointed, but all in confusion, with insufficient time to decide what exactly they’d seen. Running men were unusual, but not very, so no one paid any real attention.

A half-mile sprint is not like a half-mile run. He bounded over rocks and low walls, tree roots and bushes, through hedgerows and up and down steep slopes where he slipped and scrambled. He was breathing raggedly when a blue Mercedes ahead flashed its lights and drew to the side. Then it stopped.

He piled into the back and slammed the door. “Thanks, what about Wade?” he asked.

“We’ll have him in a few minutes. He’s still covered.”

“Good,” Kyle replied. He panted and gasped, sweat pouring off him as Sam reached down into the footwell and grabbed a bottle of water.

“Here,” Sam said as he passed it back.

“Thanks,” was all he could choke out. Fatigue, the run across mixed terrain, and the gear he was still carrying added up to a hefty drain on his body. He shoved aside two raincoats on the seat and sat up.

“Just rest,” Sam said. “We’ve got time.”

Kyle was still heaving for breath and sipping water in between when Cafferty called on his phone, the car pulled over again and Wade climbed in the other side, clutching the briefcase as if it were the winning game ball.

“Yo,” Wade said. “Good timing.”

“Yeah, just,” Kyle said.

“Call the boss and tell him,” Sam said. Kyle did so.

“We’re in the vehicle,” he reported.

“Glad we got you,” Cafferty said. “Sam will debrief you. And thanks again, that was a kickass discovery, plus two points.” Kyle noted that Cafferty never said “kill” or used any other word that was obvious. It wouldn’t stop professionals from divining his meaning, but it kept casual listeners from triggering.

“Good,” Kyle said. “And thanks.” He disconnected and said to Sam, “You’re supposed to debrief us. Can we get lunch, too?”

“Yes, I can get some takeout. What do you want?”

“Anything dead,” Wade said.

“Anything meat,” Kyle added. The pounding pulse in his ears was dying down, leaving a faint ringing. His hearing was almost back to normal.

“Stew or sandwiches,” Sam said. “They do some good beef sandwiches around here.”

“And clean clothes.”

“Will do. Kyle, I need your room key.”

Kyle fished it out of his pocket and handed it over. Then he took stock of his surroundings.

The car was very quiet and smelled quite new. Sam was obviously familiar with the area and drove smoothly. Kyle was nodding in a doze when they got to a local safe house.

There was a back door, and they went in that way, Wade and Kyle wearing the raincoats. It was a bit warm for them, but less obvious than filthy, greasy, and torn camouflage, canvas pants, and work boots.

Heedless of company, both snipers stripped to underwear once they were in a closed room. As soon as Sam showed up with their bags, Kyle grabbed the shirt and pants he’d worn the day before—no, two days before—and Wade grabbed a pair of sweats. “Wish this place had a shower,” Kyle grumbled. As with the hotel, it had a 1950s-style tub and no shower.

“Keep the drain open and splash the running water with a cup,” Sam suggested.

“Good idea. So what have we got?” Kyle asked as he sat down.

“We found the truck. Abandoned. We’re working on that. Let me see the cameras, Wade, and I’ll run the images.”

“Here,” Wade said, pulling them out of his combat vest pockets. Sam pulled out a laptop and cables, along with spare flash chips.

“I’ll start on these, then go get the food. Guys, you may as well clean up now, then we can get this done and let you rest.”

“Roger that,” the snipers replied.

Thirty minutes later, both were clean and munching on sandwiches. They were good, Kyle decided. The bread was nutty and crusty and fresh, the beef was tasty, if overcooked, and he was ravenous. He tried not to eat too fast, gulping water in between bites. It was easy to dehydrate in the cold and not notice it.

They called Cafferty again and were all connected as a conference call.

“Pictures look good,” Cafferty said, his smile almost audible. “Very good. I’m calling that two targets down. It has to be approved, of course, but I call it good. Looks to be most of this load of explosives, but I don’t see any of the last shipment we think they had, so either they hid more elsewhere or they moved it quickly, which is disturbing.” He paused and there was the sound of sipping coffee. Kyle suspected if Cafferty ever collapsed, they’d need a coffee IV to resuscitate him.

“How are we getting it out of there?” Wade asked. Kyle was wondering about that, too.

“Not sure yet. I might have to send you guys in to secure it better. Could mean bringing it out, blowing the rear tunnel so it stays there, or something else. I’ll have to think on that. We’ll need a surveillance device planted there at once, so we can follow up on anyone who comes along.”

“What type of device?” Kyle asked.

“Little camera, little phone, satellite relay stateside and someone watching it for movement. Actually, movement can be determined by computer.”

“Where do we get something like that?”

Sam said, “I have something like that. Several.”

“We can probably do that tonight,” Wade suggested.

“Yeah, should be able to. But what if the door and the crates get discovered?”

“How many were outside? Six?”

“Yes,” Wade said.

“We’ll have you grab those. As soon as possible. The car should carry them. Sam can come and get them from you.”

“Could be trouble if we get found with that,” Kyle said.

“Yeah, and I want them removed ASAP. If you get caught with weapons, I’m embarrassed. If you get caught with explosives, there’s just no way to put a good spin on it. We really should involve host nation at this point, but we know there’s leaks in SRI, and possibly in DGIPI, too.”

Those were just alphabet soup to Kyle, but he assumed Cafferty knew what he was doing.

“Well, if nothing has happened yet, I’d say we wait until midnight to go up there.”

“Reasonable,” Cafferty said. “That’s as quiet as it’s going to get. Sam, can you show them a place to park and make sure they have something for traction? Two by fours, chicken wire?”

“Can do,” Sam agreed. “I’ll go get some now.” He slipped out, still on the phone.

“If we do this right,” Cafferty said, “you load up, bring the car back and Sam will swap in the morning for an identical model. I’ll have someone come ashore to dispose of the stuff.”

“Okay,” Kyle agreed. “I’ve driven in mud before. I’ll be careful. Worst case, I’ll use Wade for traction.”

“Hey!” Wade objected.

“By sitting on the back for weight,” Kyle said, grinning.

A few minutes later, Sam returned. “Wire and boards,” he said. The call fees on a four-way satellite conference hookup had to be outrageous to anyone except a government.

“Good,” said Cafferty. “I’ve done what I can. The pics are uploaded where they need to go. And you guys need sleep. Call me around eight.”

“Roger that,” Wade said. Kyle just nodded. Sam pulled out the third flash chip of the day and sheared it, then scorched it. He pocketed them for later disposal.

Kyle and Wade stood, grabbed their bagged dirty clothes and followed Sam to the car.

Twenty minutes later, Sam dropped them behind their hotel and they walked inside.

“First a shot-up car, now the boxes . . . What’s next?” Wade said.

“We don’t want to ask that,” Kyle said.

They lay down at 1:00 p.m. and were unconscious immediately.


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Framed