Barnes was sweating as he hoisted the second container out of the ground. It had only been buried two feet beneath the ground’s surface, and the box weighed no more than 150 pounds, but it felt to him like twice that much. Barnes thought to himself that maybe he really was getting too old for this shit. Given how radically his life was about to change, he found the notion reassuring. He had made this choice because it was his only choice. In a universe of one option, you take it.
Barnes dragged the container to the rear of his car, and paused to take a breath. That was when he saw it: a single, partial boot print in the driveway dirt, which had never been paved for exactly this reason. He had visitors. Barnes’s tactical neural computer instantly cranked up to an uncountable number of calculations per second, and went something like this: The print was the right heel of a combat boot made by Altama or Belleville, both of which were military approved, AR 670 compliant. The size was approximately twelve, which meant the size of his enemy was approximately 6’1” and 190 pounds. The adversary most certainly had training similar to his own, which meant he wouldn’t have come alone. He had at least one associate with him, and possibly more. Barnes was outnumbered.
These were elite hired professionals working in a clandestine service few knew existed. And at least one of them could see him at this very second. The only piece of the equation that didn’t add up was why he was still alive. It was a matter that would be resolved in the next three seconds.
The target looked like a greenish apparition through the Leupold Mark 6 tactical night-vision scopes trained on him from opposite sides of the property. The National League East fans had arrived shortly after the home’s owner had returned, but it had taken them longer than expected to get into desirable firing positions. The property was a ramshackle obstacle course: storage bins, stacks of tires, a dilapidated greenhouse, rusting lawn furniture, and a broken-down canned-ham trailer that looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades. There were old strings of Christmas lights strung up around the property, some sagging so badly they almost touched the ground. It was all so haphazardly scattered about that there was no way they could possibly know that everything had been placed for very specific reasons known only to the maze’s designer.
The baseball fans, however, would find out soon enough.
Thirty yards from his partner, Murphy whispered into his bone-induction tactical headset, gently applying consistent tension in preparation for squeezing the trigger of his SR-25. “One.”
Giles pulsed his trigger finger on his identical weapon. “Two.” As the two men fired in perfect unison exactly one second later, something unexpected happened. Barnes ducked. He dropped to the ground as if his legs had suddenly given out, collapsing right behind the storage container, which was bulletproof. Barnes’s instincts had saved his life, but hadn’t saved him from being wounded. Murphy’s .22-caliber bullet clipped Barnes’s right ear, removing the upper portion of it, which fell to the ground like an undercooked piece of chicken sausage. Giles’s hollow point ripped through Barnes’s left shoulder, causing enough structural damage that replacement would be his only option for returning to full function. That was, if he survived the night. But it was his nonshooting shoulder, so at least he had a fighting chance.
The National League East fans watched him hide behind the storage case, which was large enough to conceal his body. Murphy said quietly, “Son of a bitch got lucky.”
Giles never blinked. “Not for long.”
Murphy carefully scanned for a glimpse of the target. “We have that same case.”
Giles recognized it, too, remembering that the reason they had selected it was the reason it was being used now. “No point trying to shoot through it, then.”
Neither took any action. In this game of chess, it was their opponent’s move.
Barnes was in excruciating pain. But the searing sensation only seemed to further sharpen his senses. The game was on, and it was being played on a field of his design. He had a true advantage. He knew exactly where on the property grid the two shots had been fired from. He also knew exactly how best to approach them.
Barnes’s first order of business was to neutralize their night vision, which he assumed they were using, because it was what he would do. Employing the storage container as a shield, he pulled it with him as he crawled backward, deeper into the shed. Reaching the rear wall, he grabbed a section of pipe from a stack of them, and used it to reach up and flick an old light switch. With the click of the mechanism, the entire property lit up like a Christmas tree, quite literally. The old, sagging strings all worked perfectly. They might not have been stadium lights, but they were enough to temporarily blind anyone not expecting them. Barnes took out his handgun.
By the time the National League East fans had adjusted their eyes, Barnes could no longer be seen. “Target’s on the move,” said Giles. He scanned his half of the property, knowing his partner would be doing the same on his side.
“Copy.” Murphy scoured the rear of the property. There was no sign of Barnes. So he closed his eyes and listened. There was no indication of movement. Crickets were chirping, but that was about it. The air was still. Tense. “He’s good.”
“We’re better.” Giles continued scanning around him, methodically looking from left to right, then back again. He was a machine. Patience was the key. And they could wait all night. Sooner or later, the target would reveal himself. And if he could see them, they could see him. It was their advantage, two-to-one.
What the National League East fans hadn’t counted on was how well Barnes knew his property, which had more in common with a paintball combat zone than a traditional backyard. He literally knew every angle. Which meant he was playing chess and his hostiles were playing checkers. If either one of the shooters had moved, Barnes would have heard it.
The shooter on the west side was closest to him. The hostile had taken his shot from behind the canned-ham trailer, which was located twenty yards from Barnes through poorly tended hedges. This shooter’s bullet was the one that had removed part of Barnes’s ear. That meant the shooter had probably been standing. Barnes guessed the assassin was still within six inches of the trailer corner he had used to steady his sniper rifle.
The trailer walls were a combination of clapboard and aluminum siding. A bullet’s trajectory would deviate less than one degree if fired through it. The hedges wouldn’t affect the projectile’s trajectory at all. Barnes decided to fire three shots in quick succession. Each would be six inches apart horizontally and twelve inches apart vertically, because it was possible the target had decided to kneel. Barnes rehearsed the quick three-shot several times, and then fired without pause. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Giles, whose position was between a stack of tires and a swing set, could see the muzzle flashes in the distance, and immediately returned fire. He would soon learn none of his shots had found the mark.
Murphy, however, never saw the gunfire, because the trailer blocked his view. The three shots ripped through the wood and metal siding like it was Swiss cheese. The first bullet missed him, but the second and third did not. The second shot punctured Murphy’s abdomen, perforating his descending colon and shattering his pelvis. The third shot hit him in the leg, obliterating his right femur, along with his quadriceps and adductor muscles. He collapsed instantly. He grimaced, clenching his teeth. “I’m hit.”
“How bad?” his partner asked urgently.
“Doc’s gonna earn his pay.” He was referring to the emergency-room doctor they had on retainer. First, they needed to reach him, but there was no way Murphy would be able to move on his own. All he could do was lie there, writhing.
Giles needed to help his partner, but couldn’t until Barnes was neutralized. He knew this was no time to get emotional. He needed to think clearly and strategically. His enemy would expect him to give his partner aid. That was why he couldn’t. But what wouldn’t Barnes expect? Giles quickly considered his options. Then dialed 911.
Barnes had no way of knowing the severity of his opponent’s injuries. He heard the body collapse behind the trailer, so he knew at least one of his shots had found its mark. He got into position in case the second shooter attempted to help his partner, and then waited for his enemy’s next move.