to its endless flat fields dotted with shrubs and trees and a few run-down shacks and sheds. “Too many possible traps. We’d be far too exposed.
“So how about a full dynamic entry?” Mason asks rhetorically. “Ripping down the farmhouse doors, roping onto the suspects’ roof by helicopter, guns blazing? Hell, that might very well be the start of World War III.”
In the end, Mason says, he and Taylor decided on a mix of both.
The forty-six assembled agents have been divided into four groups; each will approach a separate side of the rectangular property, slowly and visibly.
Meanwhile, the farm’s power is going to be cut, plunging the place into darkness.
“There are bound to be lookouts,” Mason says. “So it’ll be critical to observe how they react. Using your night vision and thermal imaging cameras, pay close attention to any suspect movement or defensive repositioning. If you glimpse just one bad guy running into just one shed, that’s a piece of tactical intel we’re otherwise sorely lacking.”
But if, as expected, the suspects refuse to cooperate?
“Well, then…we’ll make them. Four-points access, on my order. Full sweep of the property, clearing and moving. Sniper overwatch has the green light. Tac teams are to reassemble and form up outside the farmhouse, then engage the final breach. Any questions?”
A chorus of “No, sir” echoes throughout the high-ceilinged room.
Mason takes a deep breath. Then he goes down the line, looking each of the forty-six agents directly in the eye.
“Stay smart out there. Hear me? Aim to live. Shoot to kill.”
And with that, he dismisses the agents. They begin a final gear and weapons check, then start climbing into the fleet of armored trucks and personnel carriers that will be shuttling them to the farm.
Mason is about to do the same…when he spots trouble.
Agent Britt Baugher, a lanky, pimply-faced twenty-six-year-old barely out of the academy, appears to be scribbling onto his forearm with a black Sharpie.
“Grading your performance ahead of time, agent?”
Baugher can only stutter, embarrassed to be caught. “I, I…I was just…”
Mason grabs the young man’s arm. B+ is written directly on the skin.
“You could tattoo your blood type on your forehead; it won’t speed up a blood transfusion one second.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Now I know this isn’t your first time executing a warrant. And you know all your medical info is on your ID badge. Or did you forget yours at home?”
Baugher looks down at his boots. “It’s just…Have you heard about those ATF agents who stormed Waco? They knew the raid was gonna be rough. So they wrote their blood type on their arms.”
“I did,” Mason says, frowning. “But that was more than twenty years ago. And how’d it turn out for them? Besides,” he continues, looking the agent in the eye, “none of us is gonna need a blood transfusion. ’Cause none of us is going to get shot. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
The young agent nods and hurries into his assigned armored truck.
With nearly the whole team ready to move out, Mason heads over to the giant, metal-plated lead personnel carrier he’ll be riding in with Agent Taylor.
But before he gets in, he slips his hand behind his Kevlar vest. He removes his flip-front wallet, which contains his FBI badge and ID card.
He slides out the roughly three-by-two-inch piece of plastic. On the front is the Bureau’s famous blue-and-yellow shield. Mason’s agent number. His signature. A photo of him taken a few years back, his hair a bit longer, the wrinkles at the edges of his eyes and mouth a little less noticeable.
Then Mason flips it over. On the back is printed a wealth of vital information. His age, height, and weight. His allergy to penicillin. And on the very last line, AB−. His blood type. There just in case.
“No,” Mason says suddenly, angrily.
Then he climbs into the armored personnel carrier beside Agent Taylor. And keys the radio.
“All units, this is Bravo Command. Let’s roll out.”
8 minutes, 10 seconds
They’ll be here soon. I have to move fast.
I can’t let them catch me. Not like this.
I’m curled up on the floor in a heap of tears. A few cardboard boxes are strewn around me. The emotions I’m experiencing are overwhelming—and contradictory. Relief, worry, satisfaction, dread. You name it, I’m feeling it.
I thought I was ready, finally, to sort through some of Alex’s belongings.
I was wrong. Again.
After my failed attempt to enter his room a few weeks ago, interrupted by the local sheriff showing up at my door with Alex’s friend Danny, the last person to see my son