The Rescue(65)
The terrain provided plenty of opportunity for preplanned, static concealment, but little in the way of cover on the move. Without the long guns, a skilled operator like Pierce could pin him down quickly and move in for the kill—or wait for him to make a mistake. Actually, Pierce could nail him down even if he brought the rifles. Nothing was guaranteed out there. Not on Pierce’s home turf. The thought of Pierce gaining the upper hand on unfamiliar ground gave him pause. Maybe he should consider using the helicopter team more proactively.
Decker wanted to take Pierce alive, which would require either catching him in the open and forcing his surrender or completely surprising him at the house. The likelihood of approaching the house unseen was nonexistent, leaving him with one option: drawing Pierce out, on Decker’s terms. If he could sneak undetected into a well-concealed position on one of the ridges surrounding the house, he could direct the helicopter to land beyond the ridge. The sound of the helicopter would tempt Pierce to investigate—the most logical observation point being the ridge where Decker waited.
The plan wasn’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but it was about as good as it would get without dropping a SEAL platoon down on Pierce’s head. He leaned back in the flimsy desk chair and shook his head. It was hard to believe he was on the verge of hunting down and interrogating the man who had been his best friend for over twenty years.
A big part of him didn’t want to believe that Pierce had sold him out, but the evidence, though indirectly circumstantial, told a different story. He wanted to give the friend he’d known since their Annapolis days a chance to explain how he had managed to emerge unscathed from the bloodbath unleashed on the rest of World Recovery Group.
If it turned out to be a simple matter of testifying against Decker in exchange for a deal, he’d leave Pierce alone, terminating their friendship. If it turned out to be more than that, he’d terminate Pierce for the suffering and misery he’d inflicted on everyone—after extracting every detail about the betrayal. He owed it to the men and women who’d lost everything in the wake of the Hemet disaster to take this all the way to the source. There would be no mercy.
Decker suddenly felt tired, almost light-headed. He needed to eat. In a hurry to get set up in Albuquerque, he had driven straight through, only stopping for gas. He still wasn’t used to thinking about his basic needs. In prison, a strict schedule kept you fed, exercised, showered, and rested. Routine was the only thing he sort of missed about prison. Once you navigated the acute perils of prison life, the days spent locked up became somewhat meditative.
He’d felt the same way driving off the Naval Academy yard for the last time, after four years of military school life. Like he wasn’t exactly sure what to do. His stomach growled, helping him with the decision. He searched the internet for pizza places, finding one that would also deliver cold beer. Decker hadn’t known that was a thing. Pizza and beer delivered to your hotel room. Life on the outside had significantly improved over the past two years.
After ordering a large “kitchen-sink” pizza and a six-pack of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, he checked the secure email Harlow had set up through a private web-hosting group used by one of the rescue organizations she trusted. A new message had been delivered less than five minutes ago. He clicked on the message, a thin smile forming as he read its contents. Harlow had found a group based out of Denver that could get a helicopter-borne support team to Aguilar by 10:00 a.m. tomorrow. Looked like he’d have to skip the beers. Or at least most of them.
He typed a reply, outlining the simple plan he’d conceived a few minutes earlier. Decker would leave the motel at three thirty in the morning, driving straight to Aguilar. A four-hour trip with a gas stop. Once in Aguilar, he’d take the SUV a mile or so up one of the jeep trails leading west out of town and park about five miles from Pierce’s homestead, where he’d continue on foot.
The helicopter support team should arrive at its staging area several miles east of Aguilar right around the time Decker settled into position on one of the ridges overlooking the target. He’d watch the site and initiate the final stage of the mission based on what he observed.
Harlow replied within seconds.
Sounds good. Call you later to finalize.
He could hardly wait.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Decker approached the outskirts of Aguilar along a two-lane country road, the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains barely peeking over the trees outlining the town. He was ahead of schedule, having involuntarily woken thirty minutes before his alarm, and could really use a proper cup of coffee. He’d left Albuquerque too early to hit a coffee shop on the way out, and the swill passed off on him at a gas station off the interstate was barely distinguishable from prison coffee.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have high hopes of finding anything open in Aguilar. From what he remembered, the one-block downtown strip mostly consisted of shuttered storefronts, a few scattered taxidermy shops, and an abandoned-looking café. Maybe he’d get lucky. The road curved gently north, meeting Main Street at a four-way intersection that, peculiarly, didn’t feature any stop signs.
He turned onto Main Street and drove through the downtown area, which turned out to be even smaller and more neglected than he remembered. His hopes rose when he saw the word Bakery written in a floral pattern on a storefront sign ahead but sank just as quickly when he pulled even with the establishment. The OUT OF BUSINESS sign was barely visible through the dust-caked window. So much for a good cup of coffee, or any coffee, for that matter.