Brown stopped at the far end of the Vista Room, at the custom-crafted, arched doorway leading deeper into the house, and wondered if he should have taken the smaller opening on the other side of the fireplace. The house had so many rooms and hallways that he imagined unattended guests could disappear, only to be found hours later. It was truly an outrageous spectacle and, frankly, didn't square well with the workingman focus of True America's manifesto, though he was quite sure that Owen Mills wouldn't hesitate to waste an hour of anyone's time explaining how his success embodied the true potential of America's resurgence to greatness. Somehow, inheriting a multimillion dollar company from your parents was considered an American success story in his world.
Before stepping out of the room in search of the Grand Entry, he couldn't resist looking back at the sweeping panoramic view of the lake through the virtual wall of windows behind him. He estimated the view to span one hundred and twenty degrees from the two-story fieldstone fireplace at the back of the room. He shook his head at the king's view of Lake Wallenpaupack before continuing.
He had chosen hallways wisely, seeing the front door in the distance. He hoped Anne Renee hadn't figured out her fate. She'd be hard to track down if she vanished. The arrival of Paulson and Brooks closed the loop on their involvement with Al Qaeda. The guards brought to the Mills' estate for the "exclusive" VIP-protection detail were all that remained of the teams assigned to steal the virus canisters from Al Qaeda cells in the New York Tri-State area. They couldn't completely erase True America's links to Al Qaeda, but they could take steps to prevent detailed testimony regarding the unsavory relationship.
Paulson had been intimately involved with the plan to fund Al Qaeda's overseas efforts to acquire the virus, which was enough to put her in the ground. Her direct coordination of their plan to steal the canisters from Al Qaeda and "redistribute" the virus ensured her execution. Greely had recruited her through a military contact, but he had never grown fond of her. Brown had detected from the beginning that Greely was simply using her intelligence background to fill a temporary role within the organization.
Mrs. Mills would leave with the kids for their house in St. Kitts early tomorrow. After they departed, Greely, Harding and Brown would host a celebratory picnic on the estate for True America's most loyal and valuable members, none of which would leave the property alive. He didn't look forward to loading over twenty bodies onto a truck.
Brown approached the door and noticed something he hadn't seen before. A hand-sized red splotch adorned the center windowpane on the left side of the double pine door and daylight shined through two small holes in the door. It didn't register with Brown until he drew closer and saw that one of the holes was splintered. He immediately grabbed his radio and sprinted to the wall next to the bloodied window.
He was fucking right about those two, but he didn't think they'd have the nerve to take on his entire security detail. He wondered if they had managed to turn any of the estate's security detail. The New Recovery could end right here at the estate if Paulson managed to recruit any of the guards. He needed to get his hands on a weapon. That stupid Mills bitch had put a moratorium on firearms in the house, and her equally fucking stupid husband had agreed.
"All patrols, this is Brown. Shoot Paulson and Brooks on sight. They've gone rogue. Secure the VIPs in the guest house."
His radio wasn't squawking as many replies as he had expected. Either most of the security team were already dead, or they had turned and were converging on the pool. He thought about warning the men near the beach. They would rush to protect the men sipping scotch by the pool, but would never expect the other guards to fire on them. This whole situation was about to explode, which made him think briefly about his other option. Get the fuck out of here. He thought about it for a second, but decided to do some reconnaissance first. If Paulson and Brooks were acting alone, he would be running away for no reason.
Brown opened the heavy front door and crawled through the opening, scrambling to the crumpled guard located at the foot of the covered porch. The guard lay face down in a contorted position, with his head hung over the top step. He saw no blood on the porch. The guard's AR-15 was nowhere in sight, which really worried him. He stayed low, continuing to the top of the stairs, hoping to find a pistol in the man's thigh holster. He reached the man and started to turn him on his side. What he saw on the stairs stopped him cold.
The granite stairs leading to the driveway were soaked bright red, in a fan-shaped pattern starting where the man's head touched the top stair. The back of the man's head was completely missing, which struck him as odd. He glanced behind him at the door and saw the remnants of the sentry's brains and skull fragments on the door. The splintered hole he saw on the inside of the door represented a bullet that had passed through the guard's head with enough energy to penetrate two inches of thick wood. He hadn't been shot in the head with a pistol. This was the work of a high-powered rifle. Shit. He started to dig for the guard's pistol, but spotted the barrel of a rifle protruding from the evergreen bushes a few feet away. He ripped open a few of the pouches on the dead sentry's vest and looted two spare rifle magazines before he lurched forward and grabbed the rifle. Dashing back inside the house, he didn't stop until he reached the perceived safety of the room next to the two-story entry hall.
He sat back against the wall and tried to process the scene. Nobody had taken the rifle. If Paulson or Brooks had taken down the guard, they would have grabbed the rifle. The guard had either been shot at close range with an assault rifle or hit from a distance with a sniper weapon. Based on the exit wound characteristics, he was leaning toward the high-powered sniper theory, which led him to the worst possible conclusion. They had professional company on the estate. His range of options had just shrunk considerably.
"All units report," he said and waited a moment, but received no response.
He swallowed hard and stood up, planning to work his way back to the Vista Room. Escape was no longer an option…and neither was capture.
Melendez fired two rapid shots at a muscular black man that had come barreling around the southwest corner of the house in a full sprint. The 7.62mm rounds caught him by surprise, striking him center mass, but failing to penetrate the hardened ceramic trauma plates inserted into his vest. The kinetic energy of the rounds spread throughout the plates and stopped him cold and knocked him off balance. He stumbled backward, taking his hands off the only thing that could have saved him at this point. Before he could regain his footing or grab the rifle hanging from his three-point sling, Melendez dropped to one knee and fired a single round between his eyes. The massive guard grunted once and landed on his back, his arms and legs no longer receiving any coordinated or recognizable directions from his frontal lobe or cerebellum.
He took a deep breath and ran for the corner of the house, glad the guard hadn't seen him first. He'd have to take the backyard approach a little slower, spending more time searching for concealed targets. Someone had obviously sounded the alarm, and not every guard would run helter-skelter into the open. He reached the corner and surveyed the backyard. Past the tennis courts, he saw the edge of an infinity pool, which was partially obscured by a metal rack filled with several kayaks. Three guards wearing polo shirts and khaki pants sprinted from the wide beach toward the pool. Melendez raised the M1A SOCOM and fired at the lead runner, tumbling him onto the well-manicured grass. Shifting his aim, he watched the other two guards careen forward, losing control and crashing to the ground in lifeless heaps. He hadn't fired those rounds.