Charles Davis, former Navy SEAL and operator, stared at his boss and knew the man could’ve killed him, probably wanted to, but didn’t. While his head was still buzzing from the knockout, he was thankful he was still breathing, but more importantly, that Zack and the targets were still alive with no civilian casualties. He remembered the SEAL creed and thought about the legacy of his teammates, the ones who’d fallen in classified missions and locations, and he knew that his actions, while threatening his career with the agency, had honored his brothers. “No. I’m good.”

“Okay, then,” Griffin said, the cloud of dirt still rising into the air in front of them. “Then like you SEALs say, Charles, embrace the suck and move. We still have a job to do, even if Zachary just changed it.”

Part VII Winds of War and Flame

Part VII
Winds of War and Flame

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter
THIRTY-FOUR

present time

From the dark of the woods, Nick and Sam watched the Falling Rock PD impersonator that had turned him away earlier at the gate. They’d been forced to tread carefully into the underbrush since the series of light posts that lined Hidden Refuge Drive illuminated the last twenty feet of the path before it joined the sidewalk on the north side of the road. They’d moved forward, careful with each step not to crush a branch or rustle leaves more than the wind, which masked their movements with each gust.

For Sam, the fifteen feet they’d navigated through the trees toward the road until they’d had a clear line of sight to the guard was the most harrowing two minutes of her life. Her heart had pounded in her chest as if she were sprinting in a race in which the loser would be shot dead at the finish line, and the fear had threatened to incapacitate her until she’d pictured Ben clearly in her mind, encouraging her to move forward. Once they’d reached their vantage point, Nick had stopped in front of her, and she’d followed suit immediately, relieved that the moment of potential compromise had passed.

The guard stood next to a Ford Explorer parked in the middle of the road in front of the sliding gate, facing the inner sanctum of the neighborhood. Stenciled on the side was Falling Rock Police, and had she not known differently, she would’ve believed this was a legitimate police vehicle. In fact, had they not killed poor Mr. Flores, you would’ve believed everything.

The guard’s back was to both of them, and he spoke into a handheld radio, although the words didn’t carry to them through the wind and ambient noise. He paced back and forth in a tight pattern—two steps to the right, two steps to the left—over and over, as if he were penned inside an invisible cage, waiting to be freed.