If all went as planned, they would be able to halt their descent somewhere on the rock face above the house. From there, they would anchor climbing gear and make their final approach by means of a rappeling line. It was exactly the type of high-risk, high-reward endeavor that Payne and Jones had come to miss as civilians.
The light in the cargo hold flashed green, and Payne looked at Jones. It was now or never. They only had a small window of opportunity to make their jump before the C-17 had to reroute back to Aviano Air Base. They wouldn’t get a second chance. Their current heading could be explained as a training exercise. A second pass would draw the attention of the Italian air force.
They stepped off the ramp and plummeted into the void.
Adrenalin surged through their systems as they fell faster and faster. By the time they reached terminal velocity, the muscle memory they had honed during their countless previous jumps kicked in. They tucked and rolled as needed, correcting their course to stay on target.
At five thousand feet they released their chutes. There was a sudden jerk as their parachutes filled with air, followed by a graceful glide to the rocky cliffs below. This was the part that Jones had been waiting for.
They skimmed the rock face below as they descended, searching for anything that would serve as a foothold or any place they could anchor a clip. After several hundred feet, they finally managed to land on the vertical wall.
As they secured their climbing rigs a few hundred feet above the property, Jones could only grin. He hadn’t been entirely sure that they would be able to cling to the smooth slope of the mountain, even after their fall had been dramatically slowed by their chutes. For a split second, he found himself wondering if the hard part of the assault was already over.
‘What are you smiling about?’ Payne asked.
Jones laughed. ‘I honestly didn’t know if we’d be able to stop up here. I was afraid the wind off the rock face would take us out over the house.’
Payne could only shake his head. ‘Now you tell me.’
‘I didn’t want to scare you.’
Both men knew that gliding down to the villa under a parachute would have led to a slaughter — their slaughter.
‘Next time, I’m planning the mission.’
‘Next time?’ Jones said as he set an anchor in the rock. He tested it to make sure it was secure. ‘Let’s hope there is a next time.’
‘There will be,’ Payne assured him, suddenly all business.
Jones nodded in reply. He grabbed a small infrared flashlight and aimed it at the hillside on the other side of the lake, where the third member of their team lay in wait.
Rappeling down the sheer face of the mountain would require Payne and Jones to use both hands on the line. While in motion, their rifles would be slung over their shoulders and their pistols would be holstered. If they were spotted, they would be defenseless — save the possibility of swinging wildly to dodge the gunfire from below. To counter this disadvantage, they needed a sniper on the opposite side of the ravine to cover their approach.
Though they would have preferred Hulk or Rhino watching their backs, neither man had the long-range shooting ability of Masseri, who had willingly volunteered his services. They didn’t trust him, but they ultimately decided to accept his offer, knowing full well that he was highly motivated to kill Cole and as many of Zidane’s men as possible. After all, if Tomas Berglund didn’t walk out alive, Masseri wouldn’t see a payday of any kind.
Masseri was watching the slope above Zidane’s house through his night-vision scope. Jones’s flashlight wasn’t visible to the naked eye, but the optics on Masseri’s sniper rifle picked up the flash as if it were a standard bulb. He watched Payne and Jones begin their descent before he fixed his crosshairs on a guard at the front of the property.
He waited. And waited.
Until the time was right.
Then he squeezed the trigger.
The guard’s head exploded like a water balloon, spraying those around him with a colorful burst of blood. The other guards scrambled for cover as they fired wildly toward the lake, unsure where the shot had come from. Two seconds later, Masseri added to their confusion by killing another, this time with a shot to the neck.
The men were well trained and well armed, but they were unprepared for this type of assault. One by one Masseri took them down, smiling as he did. Even firing from the opposite bank across the windswept lake, his accuracy was flawless.
By the time Payne and Jones had landed on the roof, Masseri had eliminated five of Cole’s men. As reinforcements poured from the house, Payne and Jones shot at them from above while Masseri continued to pick them off from a distance. Caught in the kill zone between three experienced shooters, Cole’s guards were hopelessly outmatched.
Payne watched as one overwhelmed henchman literally spun in circles, aimlessly shooting in all directions. Like a well-armed Tasmanian devil, the soldier tried to inflict as much damage to the surrounding area as he could. Unfortunately for those around him, he managed to shoot not one, but two of his fellow guards. In the end, a member of his own team took out the spastic shooter. It was friendly fire that had become defensive fire, a necessity of the moment.
When the carnage ended, fourteen men lay dead on the patio.
‘I think someone made it back inside,’ Jones pointed out.
‘I saw him too,’ Payne replied.
They dropped to the patio below and surveyed the damage. If the satellite images and the NCB patrols were correct, the security force was comprised of fifteen men. That left one still unaccounted for. One guard and Cole, along with Zidane and Berglund. Even if Cole could fire a weapon in his condition, Payne liked their odds much better now than he had done a few minutes before.
63
Payne and Jones stepped inside the house cautiously, one scanning high and to the right, the other covering low and to the left.
The house was warm and inviting. In the main sitting room, two massive, overstuffed leather couches were arranged around a driftwood coffee table. A mahogany bar stood in the corner. Row after row of top-shelf liquor was displayed in glass cabinets on either side. Above the fireplace was a projection screen that spanned the width of the chimney. Beyond that, tall bay windows looked out across the length of the lake.
‘Here,’ Jones said as he aimed his rifle at the floor.
Behind the farthest couch lay the final guard. He was struggling for breath, a gaping hole in his back where Masseri’s bullet had torn through him.
Jones crouched low and pressed a finger to the man’s neck, checking his pulse. A moment later he shook his head.
Payne nodded and stepped deeper into the house.
They made their way down a long hallway lined with photos. The story of Harrison Zidane, told in pictures. School graduations. Big game fishing. Posing with politicians and celebrities at various awards ceremonies. All the best moments of his life were represented.
They passed offices and bedrooms, each furnished with the trappings of opulence. Fifteen-hundred-dollar Aeron desk chairs. Four-thousand-dollar Charlotte Thomas bedding. Priceless works of art on every wall. No expense had been spared.
They continued toward the farthest door, checking each room as they passed. When they reached the end, they found a spacious library that had been transformed into a makeshift treatment center. Payne had seen intensive care units that were less equipped.
The first person they spotted was Tomas Berglund. He was standing in the back half of the room in front of two large canisters of oxygen and a third filled with an unknown gas. He had a terrified look on his face, a reaction to the chaos he had heard unfolding outside.