Page 116 of Ground Truth

“I do. I don’t like it. But okay,” Greta whispered.

“And if I don’t come back, call the police.” Flint turned to go.

“I can’t call the police. You know why,” Greta replied.

“Lock the door,” he said on his way out.

He stood in the hallway listening until he heard the dead bolt move into place.

Flint double-checked the dead bolt on the front door and headed toward the acrid smoke from the teakettle.

He flipped all the lights on in the kitchen, illuminating the room brighter than a football field at a night game.

The second shooter should have noticed the lights come on. He’d be able to pinpoint Flint’s body and know at least one person was inside the house.

It wasn’t a foolproof plan.

The shooter could try shooting into the house again instead of coming inside. But he’d need to change his location first.

By the time he repositioned and had a clear shot, his target wouldn’t be in the kitchen anymore.

Flint refilled the kettle and set it on the burner. The scorched kettle could never be used for making tea again, but the whistle should still function.

He moved about the kitchen opening cabinets and pulling food from the fridge as if he were setting up for a meal.

While waiting for the kettle to boil, he walked into the front room, leaving the kitchen empty and, he hoped, inviting. He turned all the lights on as he passed through.

“Level the playing field,” he murmured. “Now I can see you, too. Your night vision and thermal imaging are useless.”

The enemy would probably figure out Flint’s ploy to lure him into the house. But Flint hoped the chance to kill all three of them was an offer too good for the enemy to refuse.

The alternative was for the shooter to spend hours in the miserable weather waiting for Flint to leave again, which might not happen for days.

“Or he could blow up the house,” Flint murmured, because he couldn’t help himself.

A well lobbed grenade or strategically placed C-4 would level the house and probably kill everyone in it. Not quietly but effectively enough.

It was theprobablyFlint was counting on.

The enemy had to be sure he’d killed Greta and Flint, too.

Which meant he’d have to hang around to find out.

And he’d have to try again later if he failed.

Not to mention that an explosion would bring down the full force of the UK government on Hedinger’s head. Flint was betting that was not something Hedinger was all that keen to experience. Hedinger was an obscenely wealthy man, but corrupting the entire UK government was surely a goal well beyond his means.

Flint found a good position to wait inside the front room and made himself as comfortable as possible.

The shooter would come through the kitchen. He’d bring sufficient firepower and he’d have his worthless detection equipment.

Flint’s position and the house lights were his strategic advantages. He was determined to make the most of them.

Half a minute later, the shooter cut the electric power to the house.

Everything went dark. The lights, the night lights, the digital clocks.

The teakettle began its incessant scream.

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