Page 112 of Ground Truth

But if they were close enough, or their equipment good enough, they’d be able to see him when he left the shelter of the block building to close the distance between them.

Outside, the first thing he noticed was the bone-chillingly wet cold.

Heavy water droplets settled on his hair and eyebrows and eyelashes. Drops trickled down his face.

The dampness settled into his clothes and chilled his skin. His teeth began to chatter. He clamped his jaw shut to reduce the noise.

The wind had died down, allowing more fog to roll in.

Visibility was almost nil.

He could see his shoes but no more than twenty feet ahead when looking in any direction with the naked eye.

The fog had blanketed the countryside as if covering it with cotton.

Fog severely restricted vision, even high-tech vision.

Planes were grounded or prevented from landing by fog every day.

Technology hadn’t been able to conquer fog. It impacted radar, night vision, infrared. Everything.

In short, fog was dangerous. No question.

But the fog didn’t inhibit sound.

Nor did fog change basic ballistics.

Which meant Flint’s ability to hear the shooters and judge their positions and their weapons should not be hindered by the foggy weather.

Still, if he came close enough to see the enemy, they’d definitely see him first. They had equipment and he didn’t. Which gave them the advantage, even in less than perfect conditions.

He had to assume the shooters came prepared. They’d have infrared, night vision, and other tools Flint didn’t bring along.

He could use the dense fog to level the playing field somewhat. Otherwise, he’d have to rely on his experience and instinct.

He crawled close to the exterior masonry wall, crouched behind the bushes, rounding the first corner of the house toward the back yard. He used the same technique to move along the north wall.

When he reached the northeast corner, he visualized the exact location of the shed in the backyard.

It was thirty yards from the back entrance, which meant he couldn’t see it well from his vantage point.

He visualized the shed. It was constructed of the same whitewashed masonry as the house and looked to be about the same vintage. The roof was thatched. There were no windows and only one double door facing in his direction.

He hoped the first shooter was still hiding back there.

The teakettle’s ear-splitting screams traveled through the broken kitchen windows. How long would the water continue to feed steam through the spout?

Flint aimed the Glock and fired toward what he’d guessed to be the shooter’s location.

Quickly, he ducked back for cover and listened for return fire.

His shots should have surprised the two shooters.

They probably hadn’t expected him to leave the house.

Or at least, hadn’t expected him to leave through the front door and meet them on their turf.

Their expectations were more than reasonable. Ithadbeen a risky move to leave the women unguarded.

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