Chapter 6 - The Lake Geneva Compound
The black water of Lake Geneva felt like liquid needles against our neoprene tactical suits.
We didn't use engines. We used a four-man combat rubber reconnaissance craft, paddling through the thick morning fog with silent, synchronized strokes. The only sound was the soft hiss of our paddles dipping into the freezing chop and the distant, low rumble of Victor Cole’s diesel generators.
Fifty yards ahead, the stone sea wall of the Cole estate emerged from the mist like the prow of an ancient fortress.
"Rooftop sniper at two o'clock," Ramirez whispered through the throat mic, his thermal optics locked onto the estate's slate roof. "He’s pacing the terrace with a scoped bolt-action."
"Jenkins," I commanded softly.
David Jenkins raised his suppressed designated marksman rifle, resting the carbon-fiber barrel on the rubber pontoon of the boat. He didn't fire a lethal round; he loaded a high-pressure pneumatic dart filled with concentrated tranquilizer—the same non-lethal loadout we used for domestic high-risk extractions.
Pfft.
A dull hiss of compressed air.
On the roof fifty yards away, the guard stumbled, slapped the side of his neck as if stung by a hornet, took three unsteady steps, and slumped forward over the stone balustrade, fast asleep.
"Clear," Jenkins whispered.
We hit the stone steps beneath the private boathouse.
We moved with the terrifying, silent speed of a combat unit that had executed five hundred breaches together. Miller secured the rear garden path; Ramirez covered the high ground; Jenkins watched the tree line.
Suddenly, the front of the estate erupted into absolute chaos.
FLASH! BANG!
Two concussion grenades detonated at the main security gate half a mile down the driveway. The wail of federal sirens shattered the night, accompanied by the blinding glare of high-intensity spotlights and the booming megaphone of the state police: “FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND HIT THE GROUND!”
Gunfire erupted near the front gate—erratic, panicked bursts from Cole's hired street thugs trading rounds with armored federal vehicles.
"The distraction worked," I said. "Move."
We bypassed the French doors on the patio, knowing they were wired with magnetic trip sensors. Instead, I took a heavy tactical glass-breaker from my vest, pressed it against the corner of the reinforced utility window beneath the terrace, and tapped it with my palm.
The tempered glass fractured into ten thousand spiderwebs without a sound.
I pushed the frame inward and vaulted through into the utility corridor of the mansion’s lower level.
The interior of the house smelled of expensive cedar, imported cigars, and the frantic, acrid sweat of a cornered criminal.
We moved up the spiral service stairs, sweeping our muzzles across every doorway. The first floor was deserted; the remaining security guards had sprinted toward the front courtyard to reinforce the gate against the FBI.
On the second floor, the double mahogany doors of the master study stood slightly ajar.
Through the crack, yellow light spilled into the carpeted hallway.
"Faster, damn it!" a harsh, gravelly voice barked from inside the room. "Leave the gold! Just pack the flash drives and the offshore bearer bonds! The chopper is diverted to the private strip in Kenosha!"
I signaled to Ramirez and Miller.
Three. Two. One.
I kicked the double doors open with enough force to shatter the brass latch.
The wood slammed back against the interior bookcases. We spilled into the study, three suppressed barrels locking onto the center of the room before the men inside could even draw breath.
"DOWN ON THE FLOOR!" Ramirez roared, his voice carrying the terrifying thunder of a combat Marine. "HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD! NOW!"
Two bodyguards in cheap suits, caught halfway through stuffing stacks of hundred-dollar bills into leather duffel bags, froze in horror. One reached for a Glock on the desk; Miller closed the distance in two steps, drove his rifle butt into the man's collarbone, and pinned him to the Persian rug with a combat boot across his neck. The second guard immediately threw his hands into the air and dropped to his knees, trembling.
At the far end of the room, standing beside a massive open wall safe, was Victor Cole.
The kingpin of the county was fifty-five years old, overweight, with thinning slicked-back hair, wearing an expensive silk robe over a pair of tailored slacks. His face was gray with terror, but his piggish eyes burned with the vicious, cornered arrogance of a predator who had never faced a real wolf.
In his right hand, Victor held a compact chrome .45 semi-automatic, pointed with shaking fingers toward the doorway.
"You don't know who I am!" Victor shrieked, spit flying from his lips. "I have senators in my pocket! I have judges on my payroll! You shoot me, and you’ll rot in a black site for the rest of your pathetic lives!"
I lowered my weapon, handed it to Ramirez, and stepped out from behind the tactical line.
I walked toward the desk, slowly unbuttoning my tactical vest, letting the heavy Kevlar drop to the floor with a dull thud.
Victor’s eyes widened as he saw my face.
He didn't see an FBI badge. He didn't see a state trooper's uniform. He saw the gray beard, the cold blue eyes, and the bloodied knuckles of the man he had ordered his thugs to murder in a hospital stairwell.
"You..." Victor gasped, his finger tightening on the trigger. "You're the father."
"I am," I said, stopping five feet from the barrel of his gun.
May you like
"Stay back, you old bastard!" Victor screamed. "I’ll blow your brains across this wall!"
"No, Victor," I said, my voice softer than a whisper, colder than the ice on the lake outside. "You won't."
