Rising Tiger: A Thriller (79)

Davis was a badass, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t love animals. He did and he felt for Nicholas’s dogs. They were, first and foremost, employees—protection tools, but even cops and military members came to see their canine counterparts as family.

He knew that owners of these kinds of dogs were taught to launch them at bad guys and use the time and distance that was created as an opportunity to escape, but he couldn’t imagine abandoning them in a fight, using them and their commitment to you, as cannon fodder. Nevertheless, that was what they were bred and trained to do.

Grabbing the tablet from the dock in the kitchen, Davis focused on getting back to work.

Nicholas had issued everyone temporary access to his home security system. He had perimeter cameras around the house, but had never thought to wire the woods until now.

He had reassured his detail agents that there weren’t any unexploded antipersonnel devices anywhere that they might accidentally trip over. Those were all locked safely away. He was, after all, a responsible father-to-be and had baby-proofed the entire estate.

Tapping on the different camera feeds, Davis cycled through the various surveillance sight lines.

With each camera he selected, his anxiety began to build. When he got to the last one, he instinctively reached for his radio, but stopped himself and instead reached for his weapon.

Pulling his pistol from its holster, he moved away from the kitchen windows. Picking the radio back up, he hailed Hauptmann.

Expecting that someone who shouldn’t be listening had a radio and was listening, he said the only word that summed up the situation and would warn him, “Contact.”





CHAPTER 50


Upon being tasked, the first thing Carbon did was to anonymously scour the internet for any mention of the missing agent, the weapon, or the target of the attack.

Via a neighborhood Facebook page, he saw a discussion about a series of “explosions” in the vicinity of the property that he knew belonged to the little man called the “Troll.”

Authorities had reassured residents, stating that improperly stored propane cannisters had been the source. They said they had spoken with the property owner, whose name and address were not given, and that no further action would be undertaken.

While the members of the Facebook group seemed to accept the explanation, Carbon didn’t. A series of explosions? The night the agent went missing? In the same locus where she was to carry out her assignment? That was too many coincidences. Carbon knew better than to believe in coincidences.

Quietly, he reached out to his law enforcement contacts, but they had come up empty. No one knew anything. He decided to prepare his gear and visit the scene himself.

Driving to the property, he pulled off the road, parked his vehicle in a remote area, and then hiked in. As soon as he saw the damage, he knew what had happened.

Walking over to one of the shredded trees, he took out his knife and removed a piece of shrapnel.

A claymore mine contained seven hundred steel balls, one-eighth of an inch in diameter. It was effective out to one hundred meters and was like being shot with a sawed-off shotgun.

Judging by the destruction, multiple mines had been used. The agent never stood a chance.

Most probably, she had made the mistake of returning to the same position she had used for the first attack. Whether it was out of carelessness or necessity didn’t matter. Someone had been ready for her and she had walked right into their trap.

There was blood, but no body. There was also no sign of the weapon. The powers-that-be in Beijing would be very upset.

They would want answers. More importantly, they would want proof that their agent was in fact dead. They would also, no matter what the cost, want him to recover the weapon.

Standing among the trees, mindful of tripwires or other sensors, he stared at the large, stone house. That’s where he would get his answers. And the sooner he got answers, the sooner he would be able to complete his assignment.

He moved quietly through the woods, a predator, pausing now and again to identify a sound or to sniff the crisp autumn air. He was hunting.

All of his senses were keen and on alert. From off in the distance, he could smell the pungent odor of cigar smoke. Near the driveway, he heard two men speaking as they walked and made their rounds. They would be his first kills.

After a quick reconnaissance, he had identified two additional men. One was in the kitchen off the garage and the other, the source of the cigar smoke, was up on the roof. The man he had come looking for—the Troll—wasn’t visible.

The killer carried a suppressed Ruger Mark IV pistol loaded with 42-grain, Gemtech subsonic ammunition. He had added wire-pulling gel to the baffles of the suppressor and was firing it “wet,” dampening the sound to a point where it was barely audible.

The only drawback to the weapon was that for it to be truly lethal, he had to get in close. That meant exposing himself to the cameras. He chose the best spot available for an ambush.

Based on their bearing, the men were all private security. And even though he couldn’t see their weapons, he had to assume that they were armed.

Those weapons, however, were under their jackets, not in their hands. His weapon was in his hand, and action beat reaction every time.

Adding to his advantage, he could choose when to strike. There were no rules governing the kind of work that he did. All that mattered was the outcome.

He secreted himself where they wouldn’t see him until it was too late. Taking a deep breath, he steadied his heart rate and visualized what was about to happen. The man in the blue jacket would die first. Then, the man in the gray.