“Damn! We’re like the drone master DJs,” said Gupta. “Add some motorcycle launches to the mix. Maybe a WaveRunner. Have drone, will launch, baby!”

“Okay. That’s enough,” said Graves. “Voices carry over water.”

“We’re still like two miles from the southern tip of the conservation area,” said Gupta.

“I don’t want to take any chances,” said Graves. “How does everything look on the laptop?”

Gupta grabbed the open laptop from the rear seat and sat down next to him in the cockpit. He clicked around the dimmed screen for a few seconds before answering.

“She’s climbing high on her way to the first waypoint, north of the conservation area. Everything looks good.”

The drone’s first glide track would take it due south, directly over the primary infiltration site, before turning left to search the dock area referenced by William Barber. If sentries had been posted in that area, they represented a threat to the team’s left flank while approaching the camp. Once that surveillance run was completed, the drone would fly east across the river and climb again, positioning itself for a long east-to-west glide over the suspected camp area. Their first glimpse behind the curtain.

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 43

The western shoreline, a long darkened mass barely discernible from the night sky, passed down their port side, roughly five hundred feet away. They’d kept to the starboard side of the lake on the trip up, blending in with the scattered traffic on the water. Bull Shoal Lake felt more like a river, long and narrow as it wound through the Ozark Mountains, dipping in and out of Arkansas shortly after they departed the staging area. The hour-long trip had been unremarkable so far, the height of excitement coming from the powerboats that had burned past them at ungodly speeds, presumably headed toward the Branson area—and civilization. Devin still couldn’t get over how little existed out here. His earpiece chirped.

“RIFFRAFF. This is OVERWATCH. Primary infiltration site appears clear on IR and visual night vision scan. Dock site shows two heat signatures. Marked as hostile. We’ll check them on every pass to make sure they haven’t moved.”

“This is Rich. Copy your last. River looks clear. We’re headed in.”

The pontoon boat veered sharply to port and pointed directly at the shoreline. He adjusted his position on the couch to face forward, rifle still lying flat on the cushions behind him, next to a night vision–rigged ballistic helmet. Marnie did the same, settling into place within an arm’s reach beyond the aluminum gate that opened to the bow platform. A look behind him at the cockpit revealed Rich’s barely illuminated face, his eyes alternating from the muted map screen on the satellite phone in front of him to the rapidly approaching shoreline.