Brett Battles - The Silenced

“Which direction?” Donovan asked.

“From the east. Same car passed by a few minutes ago… still slowing… okay, stopping at the end of the driveway.”

“Everyone hold position,” Donovan said.

“Turning onto the driveway,” the voice said.

“Do you have a visual on who’s inside?” Donovan asked tersely, unable to keep the growing annoyance from his voice.

“Man up front, man and woman in the back.”

“We’re moving,” Quinn whispered to Nate.

His apprentice nodded, then stepped back so Quinn could take the lead. They headed twenty feet deeper into the woods, then west toward the corner of the property. There they hunched down again, this time in a spot with a view of the front yard and the entrance to the house.

The car slowly rolled up the driveway. The driver had turned off the headlights, but the running lights were still on. As it neared the house, it slowed to a crawl.

“They’re stopping,” one of Donovan’s men said.

The car came to rest twenty feet from the house’s front door.

“I’ve got movement inside the building,” another voice said. It had to be Dailey. He was the one set up across the street, monitoring the thermal readings coming from inside the house. “Subject is descending from second floor… holding at bottom of stairs… okay, moving again, toward the front door.”

Just then the two back passenger doors of the sedan opened.

“Subject has stopped again,” Dailey said.

Must have heard his visitors, Quinn thought.

“Okay, he’s moving to the window north of the door. Two bodies out of the car. Driver still inside.”

“Everyone continue to hold,” Donovan instructed. “But be ready to move. If we have to, we take them all. Team four, you guys might have a little more work than planned.”

Quinn keyed his mic on and off, creating an electronic click indicating he understood.

Understood, yes. But he hoped to God that Donovan was wrong. The more people involved, the more chances things would go wrong, and getting caught with several bodies in a small town in Maine was kind of hard to talk your way out of.

The two from the car gathered together near the front of the sedan.

“Binoculars,” Quinn whispered.

Nate pulled a set of binoculars out of his backpack and handed them to Quinn. By touch, Quinn flipped the night vision switch, then raised them to his eyes. As he peered through the lenses, he felt his phone vibrate once in his pocket. A text message. It would have to wait.

He focused in on the car. As reported, the driver had remained behind the wheel. He was young, with short hair. And though Quinn couldn’t really see his face, he could tell the kid was annoyed. Probably doesn’t like being left out.

Quinn moved his attention to the driver’s two friends. The man had broad shoulders and a hard face and looked to be in his late forties. Short for a guy, maybe five-six tops, but with the vibe of someone who could get things done.

Quinn tried to get a look at the woman, but she was turned toward the house.

He followed the duo as they approached the small porch. Then he got what he’d been waiting for. The woman began to turn, unknowingly offering her profile to him. Just as her face came into view, everything went bright white.

Quinn pulled the binoculars from his eyes and blinked rapidly.

“Dammit,” he said.

He tried to look around, but all he could see was the afterimage of the flash.

“Are you okay?” Nate asked.

“Someone turned on a light,” Quinn said.

“On the porch.”

“I can’t see a goddamn thing.” He held the binoculars out in Nate’s direction. “See what’s going on.”

The binoculars were good enough for most pedestrian uses, but as a professional tool they didn’t cut it. Quinn would have gone with a model that automatically adjusted as incoming light sources increased. This was what happened when someone else took care of your equipment needs.

“The door’s still closed,” Nate said. “The two from the car are standing a few feet away, looking at it. The guy has his hand behind his back under his jacket.”

“Armed?”

“Hasn’t pulled anything yet, but I’m guessing he is.”

Quinn continued to blink. “And they’re just standing there?”

“Yeah,” Nate said. “Wait. The woman just took a step toward the door. Looks like she’s saying something.”

The voice of one of Donovan’s men came over the radio again. “They’ve made contact.”

“Continue holding,” Donovan said. “He may turn them away.”

Quinn blinked again, then shut his eyes and concentrated on the split second he saw the woman’s profile before the flash.

The moment he reopened his eyes, he keyed his mic. “Donovan. They’re not friendlies. The woman showed up at the last assignment I had for Wills. They also appear to be armed. I repeat, they’re armed.”

From the corner of her eye, Petra saw Mikhail reach for his gun when the light came on.

“No,” she whispered, not moving her lips. “Not yet.”

Mikhail left his hand behind his back, empty, but ready to grab his weapon if needed.

“Motion sensor?” he asked.

Petra shook her head. If there was a sensor, the light would have come on as they walked up, not after they’d stopped. Someone inside had flipped a switch.

A muffled voice called out from behind the door. “Go away!”

Petra took a step forward. “Mr. Moody?”

“Go away! Leave me alone!”

She arched an eyebrow at Mikhail. Not a denial.

“Mr. Moody, we just want to talk to you.”

“Get the hell out of here or I’m calling the police.”

His accent was not strong, no doubt tempered by years in the States, but there was still a trace of British roots. Just like Moody would have. It had to be him. Moody was alive. For the first time, she could sense a glimmer of hope. They had gotten to him first. Finally, someone would be able to point them to the Ghost.

“We’re here to help you, not hurt you. We just want to talk. Can we come in, please?”

“No.”

“Mr. Moody. Did you know a man named Ryan Winters?”

A slight hesitation. “I don’t know anyone by that name. Now leave.”

“How about Stacy McKitrick? Or David Thomas?”

Nothing for a second, then the latch clicked and the door opened an inch. It was dark inside, but the light from the porch was enough to see the shadowy form of someone standing a few feet back from the gap.

“What do you want?”

Petra focused on where she thought Moody’s eyes were. “They’re dead, Mr. Moody.”

It was as if all the wind had been knocked out of him. “Dead? All of them?”

“Yes. And if you don’t let us help you, you’ll be dead, too.”

“Positions?” Donovan asked over the walkie-talkie.

One by one, each of his men replied “Set” in the same order they had answered earlier. And again, Quinn and Nate remained silent.

“Close in.”

“Leave me alone,” Moody said. “I don’t need your help.” He paused. “Maybe you’re the ones who killed them, and you’ve come to kill me, too!”

“We’re not here to hurt you.” Petra put her hand on the door. “We’re here to help.”

“You’re lying. Get the hell off-”

There was a faint thup followed by the crunch of glass. Mikhail spun back toward the car, but Petra grabbed his arm and pulled him forward just as something whizzed through the air and smashed into the side of the house.

“Inside! Inside!” she said.

Moody tried to shut them out, but Petra jammed her foot into the opening before he could. Half a second later Mikhail drove his shoulder into the door, sending Moody flying back into the house.