Chapter Fourteen

  High Peaks Rest Area, New York State

  Eight PM

  Darkness falls quickly in the mountains; doubly so in October, when the sun itself finds reason to slip earlier and earlier away from the fast-chilling air. New York State Route 87 wound northward through the shadows, a ribbon of black asphalt stretched taut across a landscape of fallen leaves. Here, north of Albany, the road is unlit—a welcome relief for stargazers and a boon for wildlife. Some wildlife, that is.

  The deer ambled, hooves clacking on the asphalt, eyes drawn to the moonlit waters in the valley beyond. Thirst drove her on. She stepped daintily, cautiously across the strange-scented surface, its color and hardness like that of her hooves. The loud path. It had always been there, as long as she had lived. A delight, and a danger.

  The doe's ears flicked, once, twice. The doe turned her brown eyes, white tail rising in instinctive warning.

  A reflection blossomed in her vision; the light resolved into two distinct and growing pixels. The whine of tires grew louder.

  She stood transfixed. The vehicle, a van, cut the distance.

  The van changed lanes. Passed the deer. Close.

  Her fur rippled in its wake.

  Belatedly, she darted back, away from the river. Deer do not ruminate on the intricacies of cause and effect, but to the doe, the loud path held much less delight, and much more danger.

  The van roared along, its headlights revealing an iridescent road sign indicating an approaching rest area. The driver, a thin-faced, red-headed man, hands clenching and unclenching on the wheel, flicked upward on the blinker knob and gentled down on the brake.

  The State of New York, well aware of the status clinging to the adjective adirondack had spared no expense to construct this combination rest stop and visitor’s center in the Adirondack style. Shadows draped the alpine-style architecture of the rest area and visitor's center—a darkness bred in the heart of the surrounding peaks, one that stalked down every night, Grendel-like, to lay siege to the building and its oversized parking lot, wrapping umbral fingers around every rustic stick of its exterior.

  A pair of headlights swung in, darting first right then slowly left in a dreamlike stream, driving the hungry shadows from their perch. The lights and their vehicle pulled into an open spot just to the side of an empty handicapped parking space, alongside a curb. Between the van and the building, a happy shrub had grown, its thick evergreen foliage blocking the vehicle from any cameras. It was the sort of dead zone Rigel, the team's current driver, always seemed to find. Locating dead-zones was his specialty, along with driving—and avoiding collisions with deer.

  He parked and turned off the engine. The vehicle sat in silence. It was clean, a panel van, unbranded, painted white. No rattle-can, no primer. A professional job. Professional, clean, anonymous.

  Just what the doctor ordered.

  The van had four doors; the driver and passenger, and a pair of double doors at the back. Had an inquisitive carjacker popped the rear doors open, he wouldn’t have survived. But before the imaginary perp succumbed to a headshot wound, he might have had time to wonder What the hell are these guys doing in here?

  Lukas broke the silence. He unbuckled, wrenched the passenger seat door open, and slid out into the chill of Adirondack night. He started wordlessly toward the rest area. His nerves were jangling, taut as a high tension wire. The tension was the only thing keeping him awake.

  Wired and tired, he thought. The penalty of taking one mission hot on the heels of the first. The contractor yawned, then forced his jaw closed. The men might see it. Couldn't let on. Weariness was weakness. The cold air helped, each bracing breeze reminding him of other nights, other hunts, other times targets eliminated.

  The van's rear door opened cautiously. Even with their concealment, Lukas's men did not want to arouse suspicion, pouring out of the nondescript ride like so many clowns. That would draw attention, even if they were dressed in North Face and Fj?llr?ven fleeces with "Team Germany" hats. Their hope was, if they were noticed, the eight athletic European men would be mistaken for another team of Olympic hopefuls, headed toward Lake Placid to train for the upcoming winter games.

  But their footwear would have given them away. To a man, the Horus ready team all sported Salomon combat boots in a coyote brown shade.

  It was a tactical pit stop, their first chance to stretch legs and empty bladders since the mission began. The men had spent hours flying from the Azores to Albany airport in one of Horus Overwatch's transport planes, flying under a diplomatic clearance that waived their need to deal with customs on the ground. After that, it was a wild ride into the sketchier part of New York's capital, where a schmoozing, sweating goomba in a cheap suit supplied them with their transportation—nothing more.

  The men took their time, entering the restrooms in ones and twos so as not to arouse suspicion on videotape. It was a habit bred by the craft, though one Lukas suspected was no longer necessary. His op in London all but confirmed it. He should have been tracked by hundreds of cameras in the ancient city, should have had his face and name plastered across television and internet. But it wasn't. It never was. Whoever pulled their strings could also make the world look away.

  Too wired to nap during the flight, Lukas had taken time to refresh himself on the gun laws of New York state, in case they met any unexpected resistance. To his surprise, the state was nearly as strict as the UK with firearms regulations. It made him doubly glad that the incomplete target package had forced him to smuggle their own weaponry and ammunition in the plane's hidden compartments. At least one thing had gone according to Horus Overwatch standards.

  Eight Sig Sauer MCX rifles, select fire, chambered in .300 Blackout. The model favored by Horus featured integrated suppression and low-powered variable optic scopes. In the wooded region of upstate New York, the caliber's sacrifice of range for power and silence would be no factor. The caliber's shape also allowed them to use standard capacity 30-round magazines, loading each a couple rounds shy to prevent the unlikely but real possibility of a misfeed during a battlefield reload.

  Two pistol-grip Remington 870s, no frills, carried by Johansen and Cobb, the team's two breachers. Cobb, one of the team's newest members, didn't know it, but his shotgun had once been carried by the Alpha team's former lead—Lukas's brother, Matthias.

  The men of Horus Overwatch were of the common opinion that a pistol was a tool used to fight your way to your rifle. As such, they allowed leeway and personal preference to contribute to each member's choice of sidearm, so long as the caliber was 9mm or higher.

  It had seemed like overkill, but Lukas hated unknowns, hated the ambiguity of a world of grays. So, after staring at the assembled weaponry, armor and NODs, he had Johansen drag the Browning Automatic Rifle out of mothballs, along with a crate of 20-round box magazines.

  With their 9 automatic rifles, 2 shotguns, and at least ten pistols between the men, their rented panel van was likely the most heavily armed part of the state this side of Fort Drum. He hoped the van had clean tags, or barring that, that the Albany Cosa Nostra had greased enough palms on the rental to grant them safe passage.

  He sighed, his breath coming out in a nimbus of illuminated vapor in the glare cast by the rest stop's soffit lighting. The vapor cued his brain, sending dopamine down well-worn paths. He slid a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lit one, cupping his hand around the flame as the stick caught. The nicotine flowed, and he felt his nerves begin to calm.

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  Almost as a litany, Lukas ran through their armament in his mind. Partway through, he stopped. Matthias’s shotgun. Perhaps he would still be here, if he’d had it that night.

  Lukas stared out the window into a city wrapped in fog. His fingers drummed on the still-drafty windowsill, fingernails a millimeter from jack-frosted glass. Behind him lay Matthias, unconscious, his body hooked to half a dozen beeping machines. An IV in his right arm balanced out the cast on his left leg.

  He’d live. But his knee was beyond repair. The doctors had been busy—blood draws, X-rays, Magnetic Imaging, measurements for the replacement hardware.

  Matthias yawned, winced, then opened both eyes. He glanced about the room, orienting himself before deciding on his next action. He saw Lukas at the foot of the bed.

  "Prague?" he asked, his voice still thick from sedatives.

  "Amsterdam," Lukas replied.

  "How long was I out?" Matthias asked in German.

  "Three days? It sort of blurs," Lukas replied in kind. "We had to medevac you after the op. Things went a little sideways."

  "Obviously," Matthias winced. "What about the grandmother?"

  "Grandmother? You mean the hostile’s partner? You killed her, just a pinch too slow."

  "Damn it. She was scared, Lukas. Protecting her grandchildren."

  "She attacked you first. It was a clean kill."

  Matthias sat up in bed and groaned. "Any other casualties?"

  "Just the two."

  "Why are you here, Lukas?"

  Lukas looked at his older brother for a moment before answering. "Are you ok?"

  "Fine,” Matthias replied

  "I mean it."

  "Alright. This hurts like hell, are you happy?" Matthias gestured to his plastered left leg. It hung off the bed, suspended by a series of wires and pulleys, like the diorama of a skyscraper’s construction. "It will be months before I'm back."

  Lukas's face was a mask. Neutral. Unreadable. It told Matthias everything he needed to know.

  "That bad?"

  Lukas tossed a sealed manila packet onto the bed. It landed on the wounded man's chest. Matthias picked it up, feeling the weight of papers inside. He undid the clasp and looked in on a stack of paperwork, and a packet of United States hundred dollar bills, still banded.

  "A million dollar wound. You've earned an out," Lukas replied. "Free passage anywhere in the world, a new identity."

  "They're giving me the severance package?" Matthias quirked an eyebrow.

  "It's the best you could hope for under the circumstances," Lukas replied. "It's your way out of this, and I know you want it."

  "What I want," said Matthias, "is to lead my team again. As soon as I can walk."

  "No," Lukas replied, shaking his head. "You and I both know that's not what you want. Not anymore."

  "You think you can lead them?" asked Matthias.

  "I have no delusions of command. I was not put on earth to steer the blade. Only to be its edge."

  "You always saw everything so black and white, Lukas," said Matthias.

  "Because it is, brother."

  "Except when it isn't," Matthias said, holding up the packet in one hand.

  "What are you saying?" Lukas faced his brother, feet spread, knees bent, hands at his beltline. A defensive posture he'd used since they were boys sparring in the garden.

  "This is too generous. No strings, no enticements. It's not like Horus Overwatch, or its puppetmasters, is it, Lukas?"

  "It's a clean break," Lukas replied defensively. "There's nothing wrong with that."

  "You're right, but Horus Overwatch doesn't think that way. You do."

  Lukas pressed his lips together and remained silent.

  "So eager to see me leave?" Matthias tapped the packet against his chest with his left hand.

  "Think of it as a farewell gift," Lukas clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder.

  Matthias flinched out of his brother's touch and smiled sadly. "So this is goodbye? The brothers Martel part ways."

  "Everyone does, someday, Matt," Lukas replied. "I hope you find it."

  "Find what?"

  "Whatever it is you are looking for, when you wander around with your head stuck in the clouds."

  "Answers," Matthias said. "Just looking for the answers."

  "Those are easy," said Lukas. "It's the questions that get hard." He stood back and nodded a quick salute to his brother and former superior officer. "Auf wiedersehen, commandant," he said, then turned leaving his brother alone to stare out the window at the fog.

  The door behind him opened, and a shadow loomed. Lukas turned, slantwise, and caught the profile of Johansen's face.

  "Johansen," he said tiredly.

  "I don't like it, sir," the Dane said, edging closer to his superior.

  "What are you talking about?" Lukas asked. He blew another stream of smoke into the air and waited for Johansen to continue.

  "The op, sir. I know it's too late, but it stinks."

  Lukas turned, looking the Dane full in the face. He took another drag, and blew it out his nostrils. “It did, ” he said, “but I fixed it, no thanks to you.”

  "You were right, though” Johansen persisted. “I mulled it over, while running my punishment.The whole package was anemic. Even now, we have guns, but recon? Satellite overwatch? What about emergency extract plan."

  Lukas felt his jaw tighten. The Dane had somehow gone from lax to paranoid in the space of a day. He held up his free hand, index finger raised. "One target, at the end of a dead-end road. No police, no security cameras, and no cell service. This will be like shooting fish in a barrel."

  "What if the neighbors see us?"

  Lukas's cigarette flared as he pulled smoke into his mouth. His eyes closed and the tobacco poured out of his nostrils. "Ah yes, the four single retirees? No factor, Johansen. Collateral happens."

  Johansen stepped back, a momentary flash of shock playing across his features. Collateral happened more and more these days. It had ever since Matthias and the SNAFU in Finland. Johansen nodded once and walked back to the van in silence.

  Lukas took another drag and leaned back, resting his weight against one of the riverstone pillars that adorned the rest area's covered patio. Behind his impassive mask, a doubt arose, stepping silently in line behind is growing tiredness. Not a worry about the mission. He could handle that. It was his men. He couldn’t lead them—not like Matthias. Matthias would have had the right combination of steel and reassurance to settle Johansen. But Matthias was gone, leaving Lukas to fill his shoes. In his moments of doubt, he felt like a child, clomping around in boots three sizes too large.

  He checked his watch. The Lange and S?hne timepiece showed eight-fifteen, local. The men had all made it back to the van. Time to go.

  He crossed the empty parking lot, watching his shadow dance across the asphalt, first in front of him, then wheeling alongside, then trailing out behind him like a comet's tail.

  In some ways, the Dane was right.

  Rushed timeline. Shit intel. No contingency plan, beyond turn and run real fast.

  But he didn't worry. Their target didn't know they were coming. All they had to do was take out the trash.

  And if something did go wrong? Then Lukas would open his own target package—except this would be one on someone named H. Caine.

  He hadn't told the men, but in the mission's final message, the figure pulling their strings made a mistake, right at the end of the message, when they signed off. Negligence? Hubris? Both? Either way, the puppet master signed off with "H. Caine."

  Lukas had checked the records, going back through target package orders from half a decade prior. In hundreds of packages, not once before, not ever, had the powers that be signed their name to an order. In a world of solid anonymity, it was a gaping fissure, one that only confirmed what Lukas already suspected.

  The mission was one of questionable authorization. But that wasn't his to worry about.

  He was a soldier. He didn’t order executions—he executed orders. It hadn't steered him wrong yet. And if shit did roll downhill afterward, then his next move was clear. Matthias always said the world was painted in shades of gray, but Lukas preferred a simpler palette—and H. Caine's debt would be paid in crimson.

  Lukas pulled the passenger door open and climbed inside, leaving his shadow self alone in the cooling darkness. He buckled and spared a look back at the men, his men, filling the van's interior. They sat facing each other along the vehicle's walls, four on one bench, three on the other. He and the driver brought the total up to nine contractors.

  Lukas nodded to the man behind the wheel, who responded by twisting the keys in the ignition. The van roared to life, driving through its space and hooking around to re-enter the Northway. A lone parking lot light caught the cyclone of dried leaves whipping behind the vehicle as it accelerated, re-entering the deserted highway.

  Almost time to play, Lukas thought. Nine against one. Not much of a game. He hoped no one was keeping score.

  The vehicle's GPS kept a score of its own. Sanguine Springs, 49 minutes until arrival.

  Above them, the sky was dark, dark as the shadowy hills. No moon, few stars. All shadows.

  A good night for shooting fish in a barrel—except for the fish.