Andrew Peterson: Forced to Kill

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.