Gant hit the creek-bed and turned toward the farm-house, which was about three hundred meters away. He paused and pulled out his Satphone. The Cellar had given him the number for the State Department security detachment and he quickly punched it in.
“Jorgenson,” a voice answered on the second ring.
“This is Agent Golden with the NSA,” Gant said as he started to move forward again, one hand on his gun, the other holding the phone. “I’m coming toward your location via the creek-bed to the west of the house. We spotted an old mail truck in the southern tree-line and believe it to be hostile.”
“What?” Jorgenson sounded rattled. “Who the hell are you?”
Neeley’s voice came over the FM radio receiver in Gant’s right ear. “The mail truck is moving. Heading toward the main road.”
“The truck is inbound,” Gant said into the Satphone. “You’ve got hostiles inbound,” he added, trying to get some sort of reaction. “Very violent hostiles.”
The Security hit the jam button shutting down the transmissions from the security cameras. He floored the truck, taking the turn onto the hard top road almost too quickly and the clacker he had set on his lap slid off. He desperately grabbed it before it hit the floor, tucking it back in place, his fingers trembling slightly.
He accelerated once more. He was a half-mile from the driveway, picking up speed.
“Truck is on the hard-top,” Neeley reported. “Windshield is tinted so I’ve got no sight picture on the driver or any other passengers.”
“The truck is on the main road heading your way,” Gant relayed to Jorgenson. He had no doubt one of the targets was in the truck: who the hell tinted the windshield of a postal delivery truck?
“Shit, I’ve lost all video,” Jorgenson reported.
“Get out of the van, ASAP,” Gant ordered. “You’re being attacked.”
“There’s something weird about the outside of the truck,” Neeley reported. “Wires routed all over it.”
Gant was now two hundred meters away. He could see the mail truck now, turning into the driveway at a high rate of speed. The walking guard was running toward the dirt road, weapon tight to his shoulder, aiming toward the truck. Gant also saw the door slide open on the van and Jorgenson step out, his weapon also at the ready. And Gant knew they both would be dead within the minute but weren’t aware of it yet.
“Start shooting,” he ordered Neeley over the FM radio.
An unnecessary order he realized as a star-shaped impact appeared on the front windshield of the truck. But the glass remained intact, which meant it wasn’t a normal windshield. And not a normal truck. Gant couldn’t make out the details but he could tell there was something wrong with the exterior of the vehicle as Neeley had reported.
One hundred and fifty meters.
“Move, move,” Neeley whispered as she shifted the rifle from windshield to front right tire and pulled the trigger. Her exhortation wasn’t for Gant, but for the two State Department guards who were standing, somewhat beGanted, in the drive, watching the truck bearing down on them. She could see the mouth on one of them moving, screaming, although the sound couldn’t reach this far and she realized the fool was trying to order whoever was driving the truck to stop.
Stupid.
The round hit the tire, but with no apparent effect and Neeley realized they were solid. Bullet-proof windshield and solid tires. This was going to be bad. She went back to the windshield and fired three rounds as fast as she could pull the trigger, splintering the glass but not punching through. She had put all the rounds within a six inch circle in front of where the driver’s seat should be and had not penetrated, which meant the glass was stronger than normal bullet-proof material or double-layered.
There was something definitely wrong with the exterior of the truck, but before she could check it out further she saw someone open the front door of the farm-house and step onto the porch. Lewis Foley, according to the intelligence packet Bailey had given her. And next to him was his wife.
Foley had a shotgun in his hands and his wife had a pistol.
God-damn idiots, Neeley swore to herself.
She swung back to the truck and realized there were small green objects scattered all over the exterior, connected with fuses. She aimed at one and fired.
Missed.
The Security could see the two guards directly ahead, their sub-machineguns tucked into the shoulders, standing in the school-correct firing stance. The one on the left was yelling something, his mouth moving, but between the sound of the truck and the motorcycle behind him, the Security could hear nothing. Not that the man could have said anything humanly possible to stop the inevitable.
There was ping on the outside of the truck and the Security realized the sniper was now trying to hit one of the Claymores he’d rigged. He laughed out loud, because even if the sniper could hit one of the mines — a damn hard shot — it would only disable that one mine unless a miracle happened and the round hit the small fuse inside the mine.
The Security’s smile grew wider as he saw the target and his wife on the porch. Better than he could have hoped. He jerked the wheel and the truck spun into a skid, stopping less than five feet from the two guards who had fired several ineffectual bursts into the truck, the bulletproof glass and Kevlar blankets draped on the inside absorbing the rounds. He was now less than forty feet from the target and his wife.
“Close enough for government work,” the Security whispered to himself as he reached down and picked up the olive-drab clacker resting on his lap.
“Good-bye.”
He pressed the lever on top of the clacker down.
Gant was just climbing out of the creek bed, less than fifty feet from the farm house when he heard the familiar sound of Claymore mines in sequence going off. He dove backward, landing in six inches of water as hundreds of steel ball bearings screeched by overhead.
Neeley was aware of Doctor Golden crawling up next to her as she continued to fire futilely at the truck, then shifted her aim and put a couple of rounds into the wood railing of the porch in front of Foley and his wife, trying to force them back into the house.
Then the outer sides of the van literally erupted.
“Oh my God!” Golden exclaimed.
The two guards were ripped apart, shredded like so much meat caught in a metal hailstorm. Neeley saw Foley and his wife get slammed back and slump down against the riddled front wall of the house. She didn’t know if they were dead or not. It took a moment to register, but then she realized the outside of the truck had been lined with Claymore mines. At least a dozen, going off almost at once, sending their small balls of death spraying outward in a circle of death.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Neeley muttered.
“What happened?” Golden asked, still shaken at sudden bloody violence.
Neeley slammed a fresh magazine home in the rifle and centered the scope on the truck. “Come out now,” she whispered.
“What is going on?” Golden demanded.
“Shut up,” Neeley snapped as she got her breathing under control.
Gant crawled to the edge of the creek-bed and aimed the sub-machinegun at the truck. He could see the mangled pieces of meat that used to be the two guards. He could see the two bodies slumped on the porch of the house. One was moving, crawling.
He focused on the truck.
The Security could see the body crawling on the porch. It was him. Foley. He was creeping toward his wife who lay bloody and motionless.