Forced to Kill (2 page)

He looked at his watch: 0134. Less than three hours until extraction. If he failed to make the rendezvous down at Grange Bay at the precise time allocated, the SEAL special boat team would leave without him, no questions asked. He’d have to secure his target and wait twenty-four hours for a second attempt. If he missed the second attempt, his orders were to stay put until contacted. He wasn’t worried. Being African-American, he’d have no trouble blending in with the locals and English was the official language here. His backpack also contained a change of clothes, a fake ID and passport, and 2,000 dollars in cash.

He pulled his suppressed Beretta M9A1 from the waist pack, worked his way into the tree line south of the golf course, and began a slight uphill trek toward his destination. His NV goggles allowed him to avoid obstacles and objects that would make noise. Concealed in a ghillie suit at night, he was all but invisible. He advanced in slow, deliberate steps, looking left, right, and behind. He consulted his GPS and made a slight course correction to the southeast.

He should be able to see the residence. There… the perimeter wall. White stucco. Ten feet high. If his intel remained accurate, cameras would be mounted on opposite corners of its fifty-yard length. He slowed his pace to one step every five seconds. A cleared area followed the contour of the wall, similar to a castle’s moat, but without water. He saw what he needed to the east—a tree with several thick branches overhanging the wall. He worked his way over, focused his NV tight on the trunk, and circled it. Good, no ant columns. The smooth trunk didn’t offer an easy climb and the two Dobermans on the other side of the wall remained a concern. His movements weren’t detectable by humans, but they
were
to dogs.

He used the hollow knob of a broken branch as a foothold and boosted himself up. Hugging the trunk, he held perfectly still. Nothing stirred. The next hold was just out of reach. He needed to jump to his left and grab a branch forking out from the trunk with both hands. If he missed and fell to the ground.…  Again, he wasn’t worried about the bodyguards hearing him, only the dogs. He’d climbed dozens of trees, many of them tougher than this. He trusted his training and decided it was an acceptable risk.

Ramsland made the leap and grabbed the branch, but it shuddered more than he anticipated.

He hung for several seconds, listening for any indication the dogs had heard him. Nothing. He swung his leg over the branch and hauled himself up. The waist pack dug into his stomach, so he slid it to his right hip. Lying perfectly still, he scanned the rear yard and pool area. A lavish place, big money for sure. The house beyond was partially obscured behind a stand of mature trees. Several windows on the west wing glowed brightly, but he detected no movement inside. The rear yard looked deserted. Where were the bodyguards and dogs? No intel was ever perfect, but this development didn’t track. Ramsland used the lack of activity to inch his way forward along the branch until he was directly above the wall. The cameras at the corners of the wall were pointed outward and didn’t appear to have pivoting capability.

The dogs’ absence concerned him. He conducted a thermal scan in case they were obscured by the landscaping. Nothing. Where were they?

His answer arrived with the sound of laughter. He watched two men in shorts, T-shirts, and running shoes appear at the far end of the yard with the dogs on leashes. Both men carried handguns in waist holsters. He sized up their movements as they strolled over to the pool, sat down, and freed their companions. One of them lit a cigarette and waved a hand. He couldn’t make out what was said, but they laughed again. These two were sloppy, rank amateurs.

He looked around and formulated a plan. The interior base of the wall offered an opportunity. A box-trimmed hedge followed its entire length with a concrete sidewalk between the hedge and the wall. The hedge shielded the lower third of the wall from view. Gaps in the hedge allowed access up to the pool via fern-lined, flagstone steps.

Using his Predator knife, he cut a chunk from the branch and watched the Dobermans as he dropped it. It landed with a barely audible sound. Two sets of ears perked up simultaneously, but the dogs didn’t approach. The bodyguards seemed clueless to the alerted status of the animals and Ramsland saw why. They were both drinking, exchanging a small liquor flask. He carved bigger piece and let it drop.

That did the trick.

The dogs padded down the steps toward the wall.

He heard bodyguard one call after the dogs. “Hey, where you guys going?”

The other waved a hand. “Probably to take a dump.”

Watching the dogs approach, Ramsland anchored his knife into the branch and leaned left so he could grab the laser-sighted dart pistol from his waist pack. The ticking of the dogs’ nails on the concrete grew louder. The first dog sniffed the big sliver of wood and issued a low growl. He toggled the laser, lined up on its back, and fired. The second dog jumped as its companion whined. He opened the breech and loaded another dart. The second dog yelped as the projectile delivered its payload. He exchanged the dart gun for his Beretta.

Bodyguard one looked his direction. “What was that? Did you hear something?”

His partner took another swig from the flask and wiped his mouth. “No, and you didn’t either.”

“Sancha. Teva.”

“Leave ’em be, will ya?”

“Sancha. Teva. Come!”

Bodyguard one cursed and got up. “Come on, we’d better see what they’re up to down there.”

“You’re being paranoid.”

“Get off your ass and come with me.”

“Okay, okay. You don’t have to get nasty.”

He watched the guards tread down the steps and turn left at the wall.

The lazy one said, “I can’t see anything. We should’ve brought flashlights.”

“Sancha! Teva!”

Keep coming.
…

Bodyguard one tripped over the lead dog and fell onto the second. “What the hell? What’re you guys doing down here?”

In the green NV image, Ramsland saw everything in perfect clarity. He zeroed the laser on top of the lead man’s head and squeezed the trigger. The subsonic round did its work. His mark went stiff for a split second before slumping against the wall.

“Genaro!” The second man reached for his sidearm, but not in time.

The next bullet tore through the top of his scalp and exited under his jaw.

Gravity did the rest.

Ramsland’s Beretta went into the waist pack before securing his Predator knife into its ankle sheath. He lowered himself to the top of the wall, crouched down, and looked toward the house.

He waited thirty seconds.

No movement. All quiet.

To avoid making scuff marks, he kept his boots away from the wall as he lowered himself to a hanging position. Using his knees to make a whisper-quiet landing, he dropped the last two feet. He knelt behind the hedge and pulled the dead bodyguard off of the first dog. He put a gentle hand on its shoulder, removed the dart, and broke its needle off before securing it into his waist pack. He repeated the procedure for the second dog. Both animals would fully recover in a few hours. The guards weren’t so fortunate.

He picked a guard’s radio, turned the volume to zero, and clipped it to his waist pack under the ghillie suit. Using his NV goggles, he moved in a low crouch along the base of the wall toward the west end, where it turned 90 degrees to the south at the property corner. From there he paralleled the wall through a landscaped area of ferns and small palms. Close to the house, he pivoted his NV goggles up. He no longer needed them. Dozens of small, solar powered landscaping lights lined the walkway.

Without raising any suspicion, he wanted to lure the third bodyguard into the rear yard. There were two exits out to the pool area, the sliding glass doors in the middle of the house and a side door just ahead. He wasn’t sure how much time he had. If the third bodyguard had seen his friends head down to the wall before disappearing out of camera shot, he’d be coming out to investigate why they hadn’t returned.

Doing his best imitation of bodyguard two’s accent, he intermittently hit the transmit button while talking. “Can you bring me out a pack of cigarettes?”

The response came a few seconds later.
“Repeat. You were broken and unreadable.”

He said the same thing again, but added, “Dropped the radio.”

The tone was annoyed.
“Be right there.”

The sliding glass doors or the side door? He waited a few seconds before hustling up to the rear wall of the house. All bets were off if the interior guard hadn’t immediately stepped away from the bank of television screens. His sprint toward the house would’ve been seen.

Ramsland would know soon enough.

If his mark appeared at the sliding glass doors, he’d have a twenty-five-yard shot. Not impossible, but he’d have to shoot center mass. He wouldn’t risk a head shot. It made tactical sense to halve the distance. Ramsland crouched below the windows and moved along the wall toward the sliding glass doors.

His answer arrived.

The side door opened and closed behind him.

He pivoted 180 degrees and steadied his Beretta at the corner of the house.

A 350-pound man in flip-flops, Bermuda shorts, and a white tank top stepped around the corner, made eye contact, and froze.

He painted the laser on the man’s forehead and pulled the trigger. A red hole replaced the red dot. Like an expertly cut tree, the big man fell. He twitched on the ground for several seconds before lying still.

Three shots. Three kills.

He abandoned the radio he’d taken from the first guard and eased past the downed man.

At the side door he shucked off his ghillie suit and backpack and visualized the interior layout. This door led into a den connected to a library with a large central living room and kitchen beyond. Five bedrooms, each with its own private bathroom, occupied the west wing, served by a wide hall. The security room with the bank of cameras was in the first bedroom on the right side of the hall. A guest bathroom occupied the same wall. And the door to the basement was hidden in a small coat closet off the central hall leading into the living room.

Time became critical. Ramsland didn’t know how long it would take for his target to notice the absence of his men, or if he was even home. All bets were off in that case. Too many questions with no answers. Only one way to find out.

He reached for the handle.

***

Montez entered the living room and turned toward the hall leading to the bedrooms. “Raul. I need your help. Now.”

No answer.

“Raul? Are you in there?”

Silence.

He walked over to the security room. Empty. So was the guest bathroom. Montez looked at the bank of monitors and saw no sign of his men. He knew Raul smoked. Maybe he’d gone out to the pool with the others. The cameras couldn’t see the area immediately next to the house where they usually lit up. Looking back and forth, he strode through the living room and peered out the sliding glass doors. Nothing.

Uneasy at finding himself alone, he grabbed a small device that looked like a TV remote from the coffee table. He returned to the sliding glass doors and scanned the rear yard.

Where were they?
Probably walking the Dobermans. He’d trained them to vary their routes to avoid establishing a pattern. And they definitely
weren’t
supposed to walk both dogs at the same time. He sighed. Good help was hard to find—at least help he trusted.

***

The study, dimly lit from a banker’s light on the desk, made Ramsland edgy. He didn’t like interior work. It was well outside his comfort zone. Sharp lines, smooth surfaces, and square forms were everywhere. He’d considered cutting the power, but that would immediately alert his target to danger. Normal citizens considered a power outage a pain in the rear, but a trained spook had a completely different reaction.

He eased to the double doors leading into the living room and heard a male voice say something he couldn’t hear clearly.

A few seconds later, he heard the same voice again. “Raul. I need your help. Now.”

Ramsland flattened himself against the jamb and froze. Was this his target and was he coming in here? The voice held a command tone, but that didn’t prove anything. He needed visual confirmation.

Just outside the study’s door, an indoor palm occupied a large ceramic pot. The base of the palm was surrounded by peat moss material, but the pot was too low to use for cover. He sidestepped toward the open side of the double doors and, inch by inch, peered around the corner. At the same instant he confirmed this man was his target, the man turned from the sliding glass windows and looked in his direction.

He pulled back. Had he been fast enough?

***

Montez pivoted away from the window.

As he did, he saw movement in the study.

He drew his pistol and, using his best lighthearted voice, said, “Raul, come out of there. I’m in no mood for a drill tonight.”

Raul didn’t come out.

A U.S. Marine did, wearing tactical gear and body armor. He recognized the combat utility uniform.

Montez crouched down, closed his eyes, and simultaneously pressed two buttons on the remote.

Six interior palm trees exploded, including one by the study door.

The flash-bang grenades detonated with thunderous concussions and blinding light.

The soldier dropped to one knee and fired his weapon.

  The sliding glass door behind Montez shattered.

Knowing his opponent couldn’t see or hear his movements, Montez leapt over the leather couch, flattened himself into a prone position, and pulled the trigger. A forty-caliber armor-piercing bullet plowed into the soldier’s shoulder.

The soldier grunted and gained his feet. Still blinded by the flash-bangs, he ran head-on into the closed library door and bounced back. He whipped around and emptied the remainder of his magazine from one side of the room to the other.

All shots missed high.