Page 13 of Trained

Chapter 5

“This is Shepard One,” I say. “Status report.”

“This is Shepard Two,” Eyal replies. “We’re in position. Four targets acquired.”

He and the rest of his six-person strike team are north of Waterston’s ranch, hidden in the thick forest surrounding the property. According to prior surveillance, we know a stone wall serves as a barrier between the treeline and the ranch, but that’s not going to be a problem. In fact, it’s going to help us all stay hidden, so long as we avoid the main gate.

“Shepard Three in position,” says Henrik, speaking for himself, Stanislaw and their team from the east. “Three targets acquired.”

The west side of the ranch is blocked by a lake. That just leaves me in the south.

“Shepard One. I have a single target acquired. Mission is a go.”

When Eyal and I made our plan to steal Anton’s missiles, we figured it would be easy to buy or build the launching platforms we’d need to shoot them. Having Nasir’s help made it ten times easier. Our launchers are the size of shoeboxes, just long enough to house four of the missiles. Detachable panels from the base allow exhaust to escape. They’re heavy, made from steel and titanium, but they can be carried in a backpack — and they’re reusable.

“Tactical, report,” I say.

“This is Tactical,” replies Baptiste from back at our compound. “Eight targets are locked and in range. Weapons systems are set for impact protocol and ready to fire on your command.”

According to satellite surveillance, both Timo Thor and Lincoln Waterston have taken up residence at the ranch. My guess: they’re staying out of Anton’s way in the hopes he’ll leave them alone. It was never going to work, but it was the best shot they had. Perhaps they thought if they brought along their wives and children that Anton’s soft spot for family would offer some protection. I’m guessing the idea of using family as a shield would piss Anton off even more.

“Commence the attack. Strike teams, move in.”

This is it. After months of hiding, recuperating and gathering strength, it’s time for the wounded dragon to breathe fire. From today onward, Anton is going to know he’s at war. Surviving one strike could be written off as being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But with two members of his organization assassinated only days later… that’s no coincidence.

Anton should know that when you sit on a stolen throne, someone will always challenge your reign.

I lower the visor of my motorcycle helmet and crouch low to the ground a few feet away from the launcher.

“Attack commencing in three… two… one,” says Baptiste.

A solitary missile launches from my location. Seven more launch from the rest of our positions. My visor’s built-in display shows me the eight missiles and their anticipated trajectories, as well as the feed from one missile’s built-in camera. However, they fly so fast there’s barely any time to actually watch.

Eight security guards patrol the ranch’s exterior. Within three seconds, all eight of them die, pierced by the missiles like thrown spears. The impact protocol keeps the missiles from exploding; for now, we don’t want to raise any alarms. Taking the guards out silently means we have time before anyone notices they’re out of commission — and we can always detonate the missiles later if we need a distraction.

I toss my grappling hook over the wall and climb up. Grunting as I land on the other side, I grimace in pain; the bullet in my leg didn’t like that maneuver. I should have used the rope to climb down. Too late now.

“We’re approaching the bodies,” Stanislaw says after a minute. “The missile strikes were clean.”

“That wasn’t fair of us,” Henrik chuckles. “They didn’t stand a chance.”

“Cut the chatter,” I say, though he’s not wrong. “Keep moving in.”

At least they died immediately, and without pain.

I hate to think what Anton would have done with these. It would have been tragic for a lot of people who didn’t deserve it. If I accomplish nothing else with this war, keeping weapons out of Anton’s hands is a victory in itself.

We wear black leather jackets reinforced with hidden armor plating, as well as black jeans and our biker helmets. In the night, we’re invisible — wraiths stalking through the darkness. I watch my step, constantly on the lookout for piles of horse manure; I can’t afford to get any on my shoes. I’d rather not leave a trail on the carpet for the guards to follow, or have them pick up the scent and realize they’re not alone.

Of course, at some point they’re going to know we’re here. We carry combat knives and suppressed Glock sidearms for stealth, but M16 assault rifles for when the situation heats up.

While the other teams prowl the front of the ranch’s two-story mansion, I sneak my way around the rear, where the security office is located. I find the south end’s solitary guard lying on the ground, the missile stuck in his chest. His mouth hangs open in a silent scream. I search his body, finding his keys, phone and pistol.

“Troy, this is Moore. Check in,” the man’s phone chirps. I lean over and touch the body’s finger to the surface.

“All clear,” I mumble through my helmet.

“What? I can’t hear you.”

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