Стивен Хантер - Game of Snipers

There was some laughter.

Bob just said, “As Nick has said, I have been in many shooting events and had to put some folks down. This guy scares the hell out of me. I’m supposed to be brave, but I would run like hell until I had twenty guns backing me up. So bear that in mind if you get bitten by the hero bug. Your widow gets a folded flag, your kids get nothing, and you get dead.”

The accoutrements of the wait: cold, stale coffee made slick by degrading Styrofoam, intense cigarette hunger even for those who shook the monkey years ago, finger-drumming jazz variations, playing games on the iPhone with half an ear toward the cop-talk frags that come over the loudspeaker.

“Hector, this is Lima Five, just swept up through and past Greenville on 127, no contact.”

“Continue your route, Lima Five.”

“Hector, Lima Nineteen, am on binocs at Walmart parking lot, looked at a lot of cars, but no ’13 dark blue Impala.”

Nick said to the supervisor, “You know what, another tell might be a bad spray-paint job. And yet another is a different license plate. He might have changed.”

“Also, one of the guys might have gone flat in the backseat, or been dumped, so there won’t be two profiles,” said Chandler.

“Good on that, Chandler.”

The supervisor put that out, said, “They’ll find him.”

“If he’s there.”

Swagger stretched, yawned. Another headquarters day: a room decorated with radio shit and maps, with chalkboards all over the place, the radio people being mostly dowdy civilians, because why tie up a trained State cop sitting at a mic? Pictures of the governor, the president, the vice president, and various officials of meaningless rank. Fluorescent light pouring down, turning everything pale ghost gray even if outside it was a sunny midwestern day and prosperity’s engines were turning smoothly, except where they weren’t. Seemed odd to be hunting a shotgun-armed jihadi in Yourtown, U.S.A., and Swagger worried that if Juba saw what was ongoing, he might divert to the nearest mall and start blasting citizens until someone brought him down. He’d go out the obsessed, mercy-free jihadi way. Whatever you could say about these guys, they were hard men, in it to the end, willing to back it up with guts and fast to offer their own lives in the transaction.

Crackly noise.

“Hector, Lima Seven, have a possible Impala, no matching tag, maybe a ’13, tan, but the tan looked ragged to me.”

“Identify location, Seven.”

“Greenville. I’m north on Oakton, he’s south, just past Miller, inside speed limit. I haven’t turned on him.”

“Nearest unit — ah, let’s see — can you get to Oakton and Biddle, park, hide behind your vehicle, get an eyeball on this guy as he passes, but stay low.”

“This is Lima Nine, Hector, wilco that.”

It was silent except for the gravy train of static, amplified so much that it became especially irritating to those who hadn’t made peace with it.

“Go to chopper?” asked Bob.

“Not yet. Maybe it’s a no-go.”

Then, “Hector, Lima Nine, tan Impala just passed, black woman, three kids in backseat.”

“Got it. Good try, Lima Seven. Everybody stand down and—”

“Hector, Hector, Lima Nineteen, now at Walmart Plaza. There he is, parked near the store entrance. Sorry, can’t see if car is occupied, but it’s still dark blue and it’s got the Michael Charlie plates.”

Nick said to the supervisor, “Get your people on the south side, out of sight. Get ’em to assemble — I don’t know — close by, no sirens, no squealing brakes. We’ll take a look-see from up top and issue procedures at that time.”

“Got it.”

Nick turned to Swagger.

“Let’s go,” he said.

From above, the small city of Greenville was mostly elm canopy, pierced here and there by church spires. At the edges, a few industrial tanks stood out like white mushrooms. Nick had instructed the chopper pilot to orbit from a mile out, never coming directly over the Walmart and its wing of the mall. Nick and Bob worked their binoculars carefully.

“Okay, I got it,” Bob said. “Dark blue sedan, south entrance, in the row up from the main entrance on the east side, no action, no motion.”

Nick found it and focused, and there was the car, a long way away. Given the vibrations of the chopper, it was hard to hold it clearly for more than a few seconds.

“Yeah, I see. Looks empty to me.”

“Sure, they’re probably in the mall, getting a burger. But they could also be hiding on the floor, waiting for something, ready to roll when the time comes.”

Nick went to SEND mode.

“Hector, this is Fed One, you getting me?”

“Yes, I am,” came the voice, now clearly an older man’s, probably the State Police commanding officer, over from Columbus a few minutes ago.

“Sitrep, please,” said Nick. “What assets on the ground?”

“I’ve got my own SWAT in an armored vehicle, I’ve got twenty black-and-whites, we’re about a block away holding in the parking lot of First Methodist. All my people are armored up, cocked and locked. I’ve got an auxiliary SWAT unit from your office in Columbus, but they don’t have any armored assault car. I’ve got Greenville P.D. ready to take over traffic and isolate the mall from civilian ingress quick-time. And we’ve got the vehicle identified and are ready to launch.”

“Real good. Colonel, what’s your thought?”

“You don’t know if they’re in the car or the mall, is that right?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Okay, my call would be to move five black-and-whites in through the five entrances on two streets to the mall. I have my SWAT people in an armored vehicle, ready to hit the site and deploy. I will move Columbus and Dayton SWAT around the back of the mall as primary assaulters in phase two. On my go, the armored SWAT vehicle and the five squad cars hit the pedal and race to the car, establishing a perimeter and firebase if they’re there.”

“And the guys in the squad cars, all in body armor?”

“As per instructions.”

“Good. One call to surrender, then you can shoot,” said Nick.

“Got that. But if they’re not there, those officers fan to the east-side mall entrances and, once deployed, the SWAT mall assaulters hit from the two northernmost entrances and begin to sweep through. Your up-armored FBI team hits from the southern entrance, their job is the Walmart itself. Meanwhile, I’m blocking all mall exits with troopers, who, when signaled, will move in to coordinate with the mall teams. Encountering fire, all will rally to that point. How does that sound?”

Nick turned to Bob, putting his hand over the throat mic.

“You’re supposed to be a consultant. So consult.”

“It’s good,” Bob said. “Two targets, the car, then the mall sweep. He’s got his priorities right, it’s straight-ahead, no fancy timing or tricky feints and bluffs. Plus, these guys will feel better taking instructions from him rather than some out-of-state FBI guy. And these are supposed to be the best guys in the state, so I believe in ’em.”

Nick took his hand away from the mic.

“Real good,” he said to the colonel. “As soon as you hit the vehicle, my pilot will land and drop me off, and I’ll come to you.”

“My Command Center will be with SWAT at the car. I will move in with them if the car is empty. Y’all have raid jackets?”

“We’re in ’em. Ball caps too. Please don’t shoot us.”

“Haven’t shot an FBI agent in years,” said the colonel.

“Okay, give your guys a few more minutes to get settled, then we go. You call it, Hector, you’re on the ground.”