Zack put a finger up in Court’s face. “Andie is the objective. Not Kincaid. And not me. If it comes down to it, your job isnotto watch my back. Your job is to gether. Are we clear?”
Court nodded. “Same rules apply for me. You, me. One of these days, we’re gonna get what’s coming. That’s just the way it is. But that girl doesn’t deserve any of this bullshit. The girl is mission critical, end of story.”
Court pulled his neck gaiter up over his nose, essentially masking himself, then picked up the two bags. Zack opened the door to the cabin. Here, in the low light of a single flashlight pointed at the ceiling, he saw a man in his forties wearing a firefighter’s uniform, a black sweater with an emblem, black cargo pants, and black boots sitting nervously on a barstool at a kitchen island.
As a way of introduction, Court said, “Hey, man. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“That’s what I keep hearing,” Delaney said.
Court turned to Zack as he dropped the bags. “I’ve got two subguns, two pistols, three sets of soft body armor, medical equipment, extra mags. A couple of nine-bangers, too.”
Delaney said, “What the hell’s a nine-banger?”
“It’s…it’s a disorientation device. Like a flash-bang grenade.”
Zack said, “I’ve got my piece and a knife.” He looked to Delaney. “Pete’s got a big-ass can of bear spray, fire extinguishers, breaching tools, and a blowtorch.”
Delaney said, “And I’ve got two face masks and two oxygen tanks.”
Court nodded. “I like it.” He thought a moment. “We know anything about the layout of that structure?”
Again, Delaney spoke up. Reaching for his phone on the island, he opened it and then handed it over. “Got about thirty photos of the inside of the cabin.” Court took the phone, utterly confused, until Delaney said, “It’s for rent online. You can see every room of the place, the area outside, too.”
Zack added, “We think they’d be holding her in one of the bedrooms upstairs. We can’t be sure.” He looked to his watch. “Okay, Kincaid is going to call me in forty-five minutes.”
Court nodded slowly. “When he calls, I want to be looking at that property.” He turned to Delaney. “We need your help.”
“She’s my kid. I’ll do anything.”
“Let’s start by getting some useful shit out of your truck.”
—
Scott Kincaid, code name Lancer, looked at the watch on his wrist, saw it was nearly five, then looked outside as the last light of dusk gave way to darkness.
He headed for the stairs to grab the girl before calling Hightower. The man was going to want proof of life, so he’d have to put her on the phone, even for just a moment.
It was wild to Lancer that this fifteen-year-old didn’t even know the man she’d be talking to was her real dad, and he thought about blowing her mind with that information, just to be a dick, but he decided he had enough to worry about without this kid freaking out.
Lancer’s plan was simple, and it was variable. If Hightower said he had Gentry along with him, then Lancer would tell them he’d meet them at the gas station up the road, and then, when Winter drove by in the Bronco and saw them there, Lancer, Bennett, and Maybus would be following along todo a drive-by in the Wagoneer, all three men pouring rounds into the two men right there.
They’d have the girl in the Jeep and they’d shoot her at the scene, kick her body out into the street. Lancer didn’t particularly love that part of the operation, but it didn’t bother him, either. He’d killed kids before in war, and some of them had been unarmed. He’d even gotten court-martialed for it, though he eventually received a pardon.
What was one more dead body?
But if Hightower said that Gentry was not with him butwason the way, Lancer would just direct Hightower up here to the cabin, wait with him at gunpoint for Gentry to arrive, then kill them both and shoot the daughter right there in the bedroom.
Maybus had gotten two more local nationalists to join them, so there were five other armed men on the property, and Kincaid felt very comfortable in his plan.
Maybus sat on the front porch of the cabin; he had Todd Voorhies’s hunting rifle, a Savage 110 Switchback in 7-millimeter, and a .357 Magnum pistol on his hip. Bennett was in the room with the girl, but it was also his job to keep looking out the window. There was a sliver of the road visible from there, many hundreds of yards down the hill and to the east, so any cars approaching from Boulder with their lights on could be seen well in advance.
Bennett had a Glock and a hunting knife, same as Lancer himself.
The two new guys had been introduced to Lancer as Dog and Rausch; each had an AR-15, and they sat in a Chevy Silverado behind the cabin, watching the trees and waiting for orders.
The last man, Ron Winter, sat in the living room on the couch, trading time outside with Bennett. He had a pistol-grip 12-gauge shotgun in his lap, loaded with five shells of double-ought buckshot, along with a Smith and Wesson semiautomatic pistol under his coat.
Lancer had been moving from room to room, looking out the kitchen window at the trees in the back, then out the open garage back to the west, but now, as he walked along the mezzanine that looked over the living room, he told himself it was time to get down to business.
