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“What do we know about the place?” Rapp said before Hurley could formulate an expletive-laced response.
“The estate itself is about a hundred acres, and beyond that is a whole lot of rugged, heavily forested public land,” Coleman said. “I have Wick over there watching the place, and I can tell you that we’d be better off trying to break into Fort Knox.”
“Does the public use the area for recreation?”
The former SEAL shook his head. “No trail system. What you see on the model are just game trails or natural features.”
“The good news,” Hurley said, “is that Obrecht is no different than all the other royalty wannabes. He doesn’t want to mix with the unwashed masses. It’s miles before you get to his first neighbor.”
Coleman agreed. “There’s just the one road. It’s twenty-one miles long from where it turns off a two-lane rural highway. Obrecht’s at the end. The nearest house is nine miles south, and the owners aren’t using it right now. One caretaker. Guy’s older than Stan and just as deaf.”
“Fuck you,” Hurley said.
Rapp returned his attention to the model of the banker’s property. It was a common mistake made by men like Obrecht. The best security was to be packed in with a hundred neighbors who knew the rhythms of the area and would notice any change. Those kinds of densely populated subdivisions also tended to have solid police coverage with short response times.
“What’s the story with the fence?” Rapp said.
“It’s more of a wall,” Coleman replied. “A little less than a foot thick, constructed of cinder blocks covered with adobe. We talked to the contractor who built it and he said the whole thing is reinforced with concrete.”
“Height?”
“About twelve feet. One main gate about fifteen feet wide and one small delivery door. Both look like they could stop a tank. Add to that floodlights, cameras, hardened positions along the wall, and you’ve got the makings of quite a party.”
“What about the men?”
“We’re out of luck. The former special ops people Obrecht originally had in there are all gone. The guys he replaced them with look to be Middle Eastern and Eastern European.”
The personnel change was bad news. Their best bet had been to get to the Western contractors protecting Obrecht through their military contacts. Most were former special forces and that was a very small and very interconnected fraternity.
Coleman seemed to read his mind. “So, we can’t get them to hand Obrecht their resignation and open the gate for us, but I knew one of the GSG 9 guys he canned. He gave me good intel on stuff in the house that didn’t make it to the architectural plans. The highlights are that all the glass is bulletproof and Obrecht has a safe room in the basement.”
“How many men does he have now?”
“Twelve that we can individually identify. It’s possible that there are more inside who never come out, but I doubt it. Also five civilians. A butler, a cook, and three maids.”
“Dogs?”
Coleman shook his head. “We hav—”
The door to the bar opened and Louis Gould stepped through, followed by Mike Nash. The assassin had been cleaned up and was wearing a donated pair of slacks and a blue dress shirt. No shoes, though, in case he was stupid enough to try to run.
Coleman started to stretch out a hand but stopped under the force of Rapp’s glare. Gould had saved his life in Afghanistan and while he knew it was just because the assassin couldn’t afford to lose a good gun, there was no denying that he owed the man. There was also no denying that he wouldn’t live long if Rapp ever had reason to question his loyalty.
“I don’t think introductions are necessary,” Nash said, trying to cut through the tension. He had a gift for such things, but this time it didn’t work. Rapp remained silent, tracking Gould as he approached the model on the pool table.
“Wow,” he said, leaning over it. “They always said you guys had the best toys. Now I believe it.”
No one dared respond as Rapp continued to stare at the man. Gould was the only person he had ever felt conflicted about in his life. Sometimes he found himself wanting to trade places with him—-living out a quiet retirement surrounded by his family. Other times he wanted to make Gould’s wife a widow and leave his daughter fatherless.
For now, though, they needed him.
“Welcome aboard,” Rapp said, finally.
The other men in the room relaxed and Gould nodded respectfully. “Thanks, Mitch.”
“Now start earning your keep,” Hurley growled.
“Okay,” Gould said, folding his arms across his chest. “The wall is a lot stronger than you think it is. It goes down three feet and Obrecht had the cinder blocks filled with cement. The windows are bulletproof, and he’s got a safe room in the basement.”
