Page 13 of Operation: Valiant Angel

“The weather is shit, so I won’t keep you. I need to divert your team to Peoria,” Shepherd said.

“What’s in Peoria?” he asked, to which Tessman raised an eyebrow.

“A new case we just accepted from the Marshals because we had assets closest,” Shepherd replied. “A high-value protectee missed a check-in. He’s set to testify on Monday.”

“If he’s that important, why the fuck didn’t he have a Marshals detail with him?”

“They’d transitioned him as the court case had continuance after continuance. In a surprise action, the defense motioned to begin trial on Monday, as it was originally scheduled.”

“Oh, shit,” Wilson remarked. “Sounds like they knew he’d be an easy target to eliminate before the trial started.”

“Yes, that’s what the Marshals are thinking too.”

Wilson mentally went through the backgrounds and abilities of his team. Tessman and Roth were both combat veterans. They could handle themselves. Michael Cooper had been on several missions, mostly as overwatch or in a limited combat role. Reports from other team leads were favorable. He could be slotted for a more active role this time around. Saxton had just completed her Operator Training and had participated in one mission with risk. He’d also been assigned to that mission and found her performance satisfactory. Hopefully, he could keep her assigned as overwatch, but if she had to take on a more active role, he’d pair her with Tessman.

“Diverting now,” Wilson replied, turning off I-55.

“It would normally be under forty minutes from your location, but with the weather, Ops anticipates it’ll take you nearly double the time. Ops is pushing the file through to your phones. I’ll expect a call from you when you arrive in the area.”

“Roger that, Shep,” Wilson replied. Shepherd disconnected. Wilson immediately dialed Roth, who rode shotgun in the second SUV that Michael Cooper drove. Saxton was in the backseat. “Put me on speaker. We have a new mission that Shepherd is diverting us to.” He filled them in on the mission and was wrapping up just as the text message with the mission details arrived in a text message that pinged their phones. “We’ll continue this conversation in thirty minutes after we’ve had the chance to review the info Ops just pushed through.”

Tessman read Wilson the contents as Wilson drove the vehicle through the raging winter storm. “The protectee is a thirty-seven-year-old former stock broker named Neil Jackowski from New York City. He lost the wrong person’s money in a Ponzi scheme. In exchange for protection from both his client, whose money he’d lost, and the organization running said Ponzi scheme, he was about to give testimony in open court. His client was an alleged drug cartel moneyman. I don’t know if he’s brave or stupid.”

“I think it’s more like stupid and scared,” Wilson said. “He crossed the wrong people. Guess he didn’t get the memo that if you mess with the drug cartel’s money, they make you disappear.”

It was quiet while Tessman scanned the information in the file. “His location is on a rural farm just west of Peoria, like the nearest neighbor is over a mile away, rural. And it’s flat terrain. Good thing it’s snowing like a bitch, otherwise we’d be seen coming up on the house.”

“Yeah, the snow gives us an advantage. Did the Digital Team send schematics of the house and all entrances?”

“Affirmative, and you’re not going to like it any more than I do. Got four doors. Front faces west, back slider to the east, one onthe north side leading into the attached garage, and one on the south side into the basement.”

“You’re right, I don’t like it,” Wilson agreed. “Saxton isn’t ready to go in alone. I’m going to partner her with you at the front door when we make entry.”

“Front door?” Tessman asked.

“This guy just missed a check-in. He very well may be just fine. For all we know, he could be home and answer the door.”

“Yeah, and we just might fly out tomorrow to St. Thomas, too,” Tessman said. “Unlikely.”

“Yea of little faith,” Wilson joked.

It was slow going, and it did take nearly double the amount of time it should have taken to drive just west of Peoria as Ops predicted. The snow was accumulating quickly, and the roads were slick. Visibility was down to about four feet. The two SUVs stopped at the turnoff to the unplowed country road that led to the target farm. They donned their body armor. Wilson conducted the briefing with Shepherd. Madison Miller and Yvette ‘Control’ Donaldson listened in from Ops.

Wilson’s plan was straightforward. He and Roth would park and hike in, taking up positions beside the back door and basement doors, respectively. Tessman would wait for the transmission from Wilson, indicating they were in position. Once received, he would drive right up the snow-covered driveway with Saxton seated beside him. Roth would be crouched down in the backseat, his M-4 held at the ready. The SUV would be parked blocking the garage, so no vehicle could easily emerge, and Roth would jump out and cover the door that led into the garage, breaching it when appropriate.

Once out in the empty field, hiking towards the farmhouse, a chill from the driving wind instantly invaded Wilson. The wind pummeled the two men with frozen snow pellets, stinging the exposed skin on their faces. They pushed forward. They were nearly on top of the house when it came into view. Crouching low, they circled to the south. Wilson left Roth as he descended the stairs that led down to the basement, though upon review, calling it a basement was generous. It was more like a root cellar.

It didn’t take long for Wilson to reach the back sliding glass door. The drapes were closed. He couldn’t make out anything inside. His gaze swept the door, looking for light, movement, or anything that would indicate someone was home. Nothing. And the door was locked. He took up position with his back pressed against the worn wood siding beside the sliding glass door.

“In position,” Wilson broadcast. “All blinds and drapes are closed. We saw nothing on approach.”

“Roger that, Taco. We’re turning into the driveway now. At least I think this is where the driveway is. At least there’s no tracks, so we know no one drove through here in the last hour or so,” Tessman transmitted. He gave a running narrative as they slid to a stop in front of the two-car garage door, effectively blocking any easy egress from it.

The three of them exited the vehicle. Tessman had his Glock 19 held along his leg. Saxton had her new favorite pistol, an MK29 version of the Sig Sauer P226, .9 mm, in her right hand and tucked inside her jacket. Michael Cooper carried the same pistol. It was holstered as he gripped his M-4 in his hands as he ran to the house, pressing his back to the stone facade beside the door into the garage.

“At the front door,” Tessman advised. He motioned to Saxton to take up a position beside the door, out of the direct line of fire.She did and then pulled her weapon into view. He pressed the doorbell. He didn’t hear anything from within. “No answer from the bell.” He raised his left hand to knock.

At the back door, Wilson pressed an ear to the frigid glass door and strained to hear anything from within. Nothing. “Crash, make entry,” he ordered before he pulled the short pry bar from the back of his jeans. Dropping to a knee in front of the door, he inserted the pry bar beneath the track of the slider closest to the handle and lock. While pulling up on the pry bar, he pulled the door, sliding it open and off the track. The noise of the maneuver was minimal and should be mostly hidden under the constant pelting of the sleet against the house. “I’m in,” he whispered into his comms.

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