Swanson kept the pressure on until he was sure that Hamid was gone, then crabbed away from the debris. Luke knew something like this was going to happen. He threw the boy to me as a sacrifice to buy time because he really wants the one-on-one stalk and kill. This was just to tire his prey. Swanson banished the thought as fast as it had appeared, because there was no use dwelling on the past, even if was only a minute ago.
The razor had remained in his sleeve during the attack, so he slid it out, spread it open and cut through the tape that still bound him to the chair with easy strokes. The chair fell away with a clatter, allowing him to peel off the sticky strips one by one.
When it was all off, he stretched his muscles luxuriously. Truly free, and still alive.
He dug the AK-47 from the debris and gave it quick check. The banana clip was fully loaded. Then he recovered the Excalibur, which had been severely damaged. Gibson had taken the time to waste the weapon so that it couldn’t be used against him from a distance.
Sand spilled from the barrel, the trigger housing had been battered with a hard object, and the magazine was gone. The front scope lens was cracked. No .50-cal ammo anywhere to be seen. Swanson would take it along all the same to keep the technology secret, and also because the Big E wasn’t yet out of the game.
After a drink of water and answering the call of nature from having sat tied up for so long, Swanson moved to his next task, which had come to him while he was bound to the chair. Somewhere high above, a drone was circling with a load of high explosives, but he had no direct control over it. The reverse was true, because electronic beacons had been sewn into the clothing of both members of the sniper team before they had departed, which meant that a missile might be coming down the chimney if Gibson decided to rain down some hellfire.
Swanson cut the small tracking device from beneath his collar and tossed the gizmo into a bucket of water to drown it. Gibson had probably already gotten rid of his, too, leaving the drone as blind as a really big bat. Step two was to get the heavy drag bag that protected Excalibur on an active mission. The weapon itself was what caught the eye of someone curious, not its cloth container. A strong zipper ran the length of the case, with an inch-round fob for opening and closing the metal teeth. Swanson pried the metal fob open and extracted another round object that rested inside like a Russian nesting doll. Carrying it over to the damaged rifle, he plugged the button into a tiny slot beneath the battery pack normally used to power the scope. It activated with a soft beep and began sending signals to the blind drone. Swanson was back on the grid.
With the AK in hand, he toured the little house, memorizing directions and moving about slowly, aware that Gibson’s hint that he would return at dawn was worthless; he might be standing outside right now. The man-to-man stuff was a crock, too, and Swanson didn’t want a trip-wire booby trap to ruin his day.
But he needed to gather supplies, and he had to have some food. In a quick sweep, he gathered up carbohydrates, sugar, liquid, a spoon, some cord, plastic wrapping, and anything else that might prove useful, including the needle and thread he found in the bedroom. The half-used roll of duct tape spoke for itself. Some first-aid stuff. A cloth bag to carry it all. On the kitchen counter was a half-eaten plate of stew. On the stove was a covered pot of the same. Somebody had had a meal, so odds were it was probably safe to eat, and he wolfed it down cold.
The one thing that was guaranteed to be in a safe house was weaponry, stored somewhere out of sight. Swanson looked around. It had to be under the rugs, but if Gibson was going to plant an improvised explosive device anywhere, it would be where Swanson was sure to look for some armament. Forget it. With the AK at the ready in his right hand, the bag of goodies in his left, and Excalibur across his back, he went out through a window.
24
“This makes no sense.” Ryan Winters grabbed a yellow no. 2 pencil, scratched his scalp with the eraser, then stuck the pencil behind his ear. The streams of data on the screen didn’t lie, but neither did it add up. Things just didn’t work that way. He sighed and headed in to see Marguerite del Coda again.
“Boss?” It was more of a sorrowful plea than a question.
Del Coda had the look of a pit viper after giving up any hope of a quiet evening. “What?”
“It’s that thing in the Wakham Corridor again.”
“Is the new drone in place?”
“Getting there.”
“And the backup team? Brandt and Thompson?”
“Also still getting there. Not about any of that.”
She fingered the small, spiky necklace of orange coral at her throat. Clapped her hands once and stared over the rim of her glasses. “I have no time for riddles, Ryan. What is it?”
Winters said, “Watch this.” He activated a large screen on the wall. “Before Gibson and Swanson left, we attached tracking beacons on their clothing, remember?”
“Of course.”
“Here’s the imagery after they dropped into Girdiwal.” Two bright green dots appeared on the magnified screen in the middle of a grid map. “Both beacons going strong and being read by both the gun drone and the cargo plane that delivered them. Signals are loud and clear.”
“I see them.” She was impatient, but Ryan Winters was a supremely logical person and would spell it all out at his own pace.
Winters made a fluttering motion with his fingers and the screen clock spun faster. “Time passing. Time passing.” The clock slowed, as did the finger dance, and he said, “Watch.”
One of the tracking signals disappeared. “That was Luke Gibson. No communication was made to explain why.”
“Whoa!” Marguerite said. “We got a distress call from him that Swanson was chasing him. Did Swanson bring him down, you think? Kyle killed Luke?”
“Swanson’s beam is still strong in that frame. But according to the beacon he hadn’t moved. Neither had Gibson, at the time his signal was lost. They were still together at the target safe house.”
“So Gibson was not on the run. He is alive? He lied?”
Winters fluttered his fingers again. “Time passing.” The clock rolled ahead. Suddenly the second tracking beacon pipped off the screen, leaving it blank. “That was Swanson.”
Del Coda almost wilted. “All contact has been lost with both of them?”
“That’s what I thought. That’s exactly what happened. Had to be.”
“Gotta call Langley.”
“Not yet. Watch.” He had let the screen unroll its mystery in actual time. In the blank grid, another dot suddenly appeared, blinking at odd intervals. “That is neither of the original devices.”
“So what the hell is it?”
“According to the databases, the serial number is listed as being part of a special-weapons development unit belonging to Excalibur Enterprises in the U.K. and is currently in the possession of Kyle Swanson.”
“Swanson is alive, then?”
“We don’t know. All we have is that the new beacon has been activated and the signal, while strong enough, is coming through intermittent microburst transmissions being read by the drone’s standard frequencies. My guess is that it’s battery-powered and whoever’s using it wants to conserve the energy source.”