the thread, “they’re spending money they’re not supposed to have. They’re criminals. Now…”
He turns back to the projected image of the farm, using a red laser pointer to point out specific sections and features.
“As you can see from this drone surveillance photograph taken around five this morning, the compound has exactly zero unguarded points of entry. Nothing but high fences, long ranges of sight, and little cover. Entry’s not gonna be easy, even if they weren’t armed to the teeth with assault rifles.”
“Nothing my boys can’t handle, Chief.”
That growl of a voice belongs to Agent Lee Taylor, a grizzled and unshakable former Green Beret and current commander of the FBI’s El Paso SWAT team. Given the enormous risks of the upcoming farm raid, he’s made the four-hundred-mile trek to plan the mission and oversee his men personally. And Mason’s damn glad to have him here.
After a grateful nod to Taylor, Mason cues the final slide: an array of photographs of the multiple male suspects, each scarier-looking than the next.
“These are our targets. Memorize their faces better than your spouse’s and children’s. Because I do not want one of these ugly mugs to be the last thing any of y’all see. You’re authorized to use deadly force if and as needed. Understand me?”
This elicits sober nods of understanding from nearly everyone in the room.
The agents and officers understand the orders. The risks. The stakes.
“Because, remember,” Mason continues, echoing his earlier warning, “consider every last one of these sons of bitches trained, prepared, heavily armed…and willing to die. Which is what separates them from us. Whatever happens out there, I’m not willing to lose a single one of you. That’s an order.”
Mason looks out at his colleagues’ brave, stoic faces.
Praying it’s an order his whole team can follow.
50 seconds
Mason was dying—for a frosty glass of iced sweet tea with lemon, that is.
His constant craving for cold sugary drinks may be his one and only vice.
He’s typically a man of conviction, passion, and incredible self-discipline. Yet when it’s a sizzling-hot day in Texas, his mind is like an addict’s: all he can think about is mainlining some sweet tea and lemon.
So after he dismissed the briefing, Mason did just that—to slake his thirst, but also to steal a few moments to gather his thoughts. After the most painstaking preparation he’s ever put into a case, he knows an extremely dangerous raid is just hours away.
A few blocks from the VFW sits the Scurry Skillet, a cramped little greasy spoon that looks like it hasn’t been renovated since the Eisenhower administration. Mason ducked inside and took a seat at a window booth. A stout, sassy, sixty-something waitress named Dina took his order and then raised her eyebrow.
“A whole pitcher?”
“Yes, please. Extra ice, extra sugar, extra lemon. And then,” Mason added with a smile, “in about twenty minutes, directions to the men’s room.”
Once his thirst had been quenched, his sugar craving sated, and his waitress generously tipped, Mason stepped back outside onto Hobart’s quaint little Main Street, intending to hoof it back to the VFW command center.
Agent Taylor and his team should have a preliminary assault plan sketched out by now. A second FBI drone flyover of the farm should have been completed, which will provide more detailed and recent photographs.
Word has even come in that a pair of agents in the next county over is following up on a promising new sighting of the stringy-white-haired man caught on camera purchasing those Halloween masks. But there have been so many false leads on that mystery suspect over the past few weeks, Mason isn’t getting his hopes up.
Mason barely makes it halfway down the block when—This damn summer heat, he thinks—he starts sweating again. And experiencing a familiar beverage craving.
But there’s no time. Not now. Mason has to get back.
Without slowing his pace, Mason removes his mahogany-colored felt cowboy hat, then starts to dab his moist brow with a handkerchief—that old, lacy, threadbare, feminine one embroidered with his initials, a meaningful gift from the love of his life that he always keeps tucked in his breast pocket.
Right near his heart.
The agent is about to round a corner when he hears a voice behind him.
“Mason?! How in the heck are you?”
He turns around to see a jolly woman about his age smiling big. She’s wearing a floppy sun hat and oversize sunglasses, and has two small children in tow.
“Uh…I’m well. Thank you. How about yourself?”
Mason smiles back—but a little uncomfortably. This woman is familiar, her voice, her