Page 89 of Rising Tiger

“Are you kidding me?”

“Nope. I’m as serious as a leaky septic tank.”

“Nice,” Davis stated. “What you are, however, is an asshole. Do you think he would have let you have one of his expensive cigars if he knew you were going to lock his dogs in the garage?”

“For crying out loud, Air Force. My God, you’re sensitive. Try downloading a meditation app or something. I’ll be back in fifteen.”

Davis watched as his colleague left the kitchen, got into the elevator, and headed upstairs. He was tempted to let the dogs out, just to fuck with Hauptmann, but figured it wasn’t fair to Argos and Draco.

They were probably stressed enough as it was with Nicholas gone. Not to mention the fact that they might still be experiencing aftereffects from not one, but two Havana Syndrome attacks.

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 andwaslistening, 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.

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