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Kelly was picking the bacon out of her BLT when her cell rang. More bad news?
Pip, Cal, Jo, and Sherlock stopped eating and looked at her when she thumped her fist on the table. “That’s amazing! Yes, by all means. We’ll arrange air transport, be there as fast as we can— you’re in operational control, Chris. If there’s an imminent threat, it’s your call. Otherwise, get your perimeter established and get those snipers in place, and wait for us.”
She gave them a thumbs-up. “The Boston Field Office came through, they found Nasim’s family.” She turned back to her phone and punched in another call.
Pip said, “We’ll get us a chopper in no time, knowing Kelly.”
She punched off. “Yep, right now. Let’s get to the SUV.”
Fifteen minutes later, the five of them were strapped into their seats on an FBI Bell helicopter, and lifting off from the Jameson Mall parking lot. Maybe an hour, the pilot told them, and he’d set them down as close as possible to Lake Pleasant.
Kelly stayed in radio contact with Special Agent Chris Tyson from the Boston Field Office during most of the ride. Her voice was tinny through the headsets when she said, “Even though there wasn’t any trace of the Conklins at Abdul Rahal’s house, the Boston agents followed up with his phone calls, credit cards, bank records. Turns out the Rahal family spends a couple of weeks every summer at a rental house on Lake Pleasant, thirty minutes from Plover, on the Connecticut side. They tracked down the rental home’s owner, learned the house was being rented right now by a James Lockerby and his family. They checked the name, found the address they gave didn’t match. They positioned a drone over the house, eyes and ears, and saw three armed men patrolling the grounds outside the house. They dropped in a surveillance team and actually saw Mrs. Conklin and at least one of her children inside the house through their scopes.
“By now they’ve got a perimeter, but I imagine it’s slow going getting the snipers in place without alerting the terrorists. They’ll wait for us unless they’re seen, or if it’s too dangerous to the Conklins to wait.”
Sherlock felt a surge of hope. She said into her mike, “They’ve got a good chance now, because of Nasim. I hope I can keep my promise to him.”
LAKE PLEASANT, CONNECTICUT
The helicopter set them down a half mile from the lake and the cabin, after flying in low to keep them out of sight. Agent Chris Tyson met them next to a stand of pine trees. He was wearing combat gear, Kevlar, a H&K slung over his shoulder. “We have vests for you at the operations site. As of two minutes ago, we’ve identified three targets, one of them moving in and out of the house, the other two stationed outside, patrolling. The family has been seen inside, eating, and that’s very good news. We’ve got three snipers positioned overlooking the house in the surrounding oak trees. Two of them have eyes on the targets outside. I’ve kept most of the team well back. We’ll be ready when the third one comes out of the house.” And he grinned at Pip Erwin. “Long time no see, Pip. All of you look ready to rock and roll.” He stuck out his hand to Sherlock. “It’s a pleasure, Agent Sherlock. Okay, guys, let’s get this done.”
They jogged after him through the thick pine forest, thinning enough in places so they saw flashes of the lake through the branches. They all quickly broke into a sweat. It had rained earlier, leaving the air pregnant with moisture in the unexpected late spring heat. Tyson stopped, held up his hand, listened to his comm, and moved quietly forward to look through the trees. After a couple minutes, he jogged back to them. “All three targets are outside again, but they’re not clear of the cabin and the Conklins. They’re talking, arguing, in a combination of Arabic and accented English. We’re trying to run facial recognition. Stay down, the command center is up ahead.”
They followed him silently through the trees for several minutes, heard him checking in with the sniper team leader as they grew closer. The command center was well hidden from the cabin, and was nothing more than piles of communication equipment and weapons, and a half-dozen agents in combat gear. Everyone remained silent. The five of them were each handed H&Ks, vests, and binoculars. They checked their weapons and magazines, shrugged on their vests, and covered them with dark blue FBI jackets. The team took them to the best nearby vantage point. Sherlock forgot the heavy humid heat and concentrated on the cabin in front of her in the distance. It was old, the wood weathered nearly black over the decades, but in good repair. It sat thirty feet from the lake and a dock that stretched out about twenty feet from the shore, where a single outboard bobbed easily in the gentle wind. The cabin was long and narrow, with a single window at the front that spanned nearly the entire main room. They’d made no effort to hide what was inside. Through the binoculars, she saw Marie Claire sitting in a faded old armchair, her three children close beside her. Two girls, about five and seven, were reading, and the third child, a small boy, was sleeping on a blanket beside his mother, his cheek cushioned on his hand. She saw the remains of their lunch on a nearby table. Marie Claire looked to be in her mid-thirties, her hair glossy black, twisted in a braid at the back of her head. She wore jeans and a white blouse that looked worse for wear. Sherlock couldn’t see her face clearly from this distance, but she knew she had to be ready to close down, beyond tired from the fear she’d had to live with for four days, fear for herself and for her children.
