One Rule - No Surrender, page 27
part #2 of One Rule Series
You want me to eliminate him? she typed.
My preference would be the fine art of persuasion. Since he's seen fit to cut our communications, I believe your appearance at his home would underscore our determination and resources and what happens when you slam the door in our face.
And if he won't listen to reason?
I trust your judgment. Your life is even more at stake than mine.
Then I guess I should schedule a flight to NYC.
I'll send a private plane and my best crew to your airport. ETA three hours. You can consult with my people and formulate a plan en route. I'll be in touch, keep you posted on any current developments.
Okay. I'll be at the airport in three hours.
Thalma slid the laptop back to Maggie, her face set. Louis leaned across the table and covered her right hand with his.
"What is it, babe?" he asked.
"Nothing bad. Murphy's come to the same conclusion I came to: it's time to go after the snake's head."
"The CEO of World Security Group International," said Maggie.
Thalma nodded.
"Do you plan to kill him?" her mother asked.
"I plan to do what's necessary to protect my family. If that requires killing him, then yes, I will kill him. But I'm going to try to reach an understanding with him first."
"What kind of understanding?" asked Laura, a puzzled knot between her eyes.
Thalma regarded her, a hard smile gradually forming that sent chills into her younger sister.
"The kind where he'll understand that if he doesn't leave us alone, I will destroy him and his world."
THALMA GAZED out the window at the galaxies of lights representing Chicago as they passed over the Great Lakes.
She'd turned off the lights over her seat, sitting in her own dark corner away from the five other men, ignoring their curious glances and the significant looks they silently traded just as she'd mostly ignored their attempts at conversation. They obviously didn't know what to make of her, seeming torn between respecting Murphy's assessment and her legendary exploits and their own eyes, which perceived a young, attractive woman with exceptional muscle tone but not as large and tough-looking as some of them. They didn't understand why she was uninterested in their analysis of various ground infiltration scenarios or why she seemed unfazed upon learning that Charles Boehner slept on the fourth floor of his mansion within a gated property abounding with sensors, dogs, and armed patrols which persisted all the way up to his fourth-floor bedroom.
To her, they seemed typical ex-military. Nothing to distinguish them from the WSGI operators she'd encountered – nothing to indicate whether they were good men or just following orders. Maybe Murphy had used some ethical filters in his hiring process, but she doubted it. There wasn't an endless supply of first-rate operators, particularly of the former Special Forces, SEALs, or Rangers category, so to some extent he was probably stuck with whatever morality they brought with them.
But that wasn't her concern now. All she needed from them was to drop her off and pick her up at a designated place. They weren't happy about her refusal to elaborate on her plans. Perhaps they believed she didn't trust them or rated them as errand boys rather than skilled operators. Or maybe they had grand ambitions of taking Boehner's mansion by storm?
An older guy with a George Clooney face and a sly, roguish grin kept glancing at her with twinkling eyes that verged on a knowing wink, as if to say: "You and I are battle-hardened veterans who know the score, unlike these wet-nosed kids. And yes, we should jump in the sack after this is over." But now he wore a half-scowl at her lack of acknowledgment and her dismissal of his offer of an après-mission drink. Men like this guy believed they were every woman's secret wet dream.
They set down at a private airport near New York White Plains. The older Clooney look-alike, Fred Thompson, drove her out to the gated community that encompassed normal wealthy homes and a few mansions surrounded by taller, far more formidable fences – gated residences within the gated community. Fred dropped her off by some trees near the front gate with a grumbled "good luck," and Thalma was on her way, wearing a small backpack and her usual handguns.
She made her way on foot to Boehner's property without encountering anyone. Other than a single private cop car cruising down a street, Thalma saw no evidence of any special security.
The twelve foot concrete wall topped with concertina wire promised a vastly more secure environment. There was no clear view of the house – not even at the front gate, which consisted of two solid metal doors the height of the walls. This was less a mansion than a military installation. In fact, the fences surrounding most military bases were far easier to breach. To make matters trickier, towering lamps spaced every sixty feet illuminated a thirty-foot strip around the wall to near-daylight brightness. She knew that wall cameras mounted all along the wall's perimeter provided excellent video of anyone approaching or passing by within the illuminated area.
Thalma huddled within a thin stand of trees on a down-slope a good hundred yards from the mansion. She climbed the tallest one but still couldn't see over the wall. It galled her that her only clear view of the house would be when she flew up to it. She knew, hypothetically, which room Boehner slept in, but there was no guarantee he didn't switch rooms on occasion, and since the lights would likely be out at 1:45 A.M. in all the candidate rooms, she could only hope that he was sleeping in the room he was supposed to sleep in. If not, it could get messy.
Seeing no point to further delay, Thalma strapped her backpack onto her chest, slipped on her night goggles, and popped two LSD-35 pills. She mentally rehearsed the possible scenarios while waiting for the drug to take effect. Murphy didn't know if the windows were ballistic glass, but that seemed a safe assumption. She had a TEC torch and several five-second cartridges to quickly cut through the window. She'd experimented using a TEC torch on glass before, and found that a few quick passes weakened even 32 mm ballistic glass enough to kick in the burned section. There'd be some light and noise, but unless someone outside happened to be staring at the window it shouldn't alert anyone other than whoever was in the room. With any luck, Boehner would be in a deep sleep, but even if he wasn't she doubted he'd have time to react in the few seconds it should take her to get inside.
The night flowed around her like liquid velvet. The air was alive, undulating, a warm hug that reached under arms and wanted to lift her. Thalma smiled, grateful for the eerie confidence that swelled in her under the hallucinogen's influence. Suddenly she had not a shred of doubt that she would accomplish what she'd wished to accomplish. It was destiny.
She lifted off without an internal command – just raised her arms and caught an upward draft. She rose high enough to finally see the mansion. The first floor was well-lit, but only a sprinkling of lights glistened through the second and third floor windows, and except for a tiny glow that might've been a night light the fourth floor was dark. Thalma flew toward the glow, since it was coming from his hypothetical bedroom.
A man with an assault rifle slung over one shoulder was walking a Doberman fifty feet below. The dog caught her movement overhead and barked up at her, lunging on his leash. The man shone his flashlight around the yard, but then, taking the dog's hint, pointed it toward the sky. Thalma accelerated in a burst of speed and the flashlight beam stabbed the night ten yards behind her. She gave silent thanks for the darkness provided by the thin sliver of the waning crescent moon.
Thalma broke out the TEC torch as she approached the target window. Hovering a foot in front of the glass she made out two night lights – one on the opposite wall, the other inside an open bathroom door. She couldn't see the bed, but guessed it was just out of sight to her right.
She ignited the torch and drew it straight across the middle of a four-foot window panel, completing the first line just as the fuel cartridge expired. So far so good. Another cartridge along the bottom frame and a final one for the sides. Now the acid – or in this case, thermite - test. She dropped the torch into her pack and drew her Maxim 9 sound-suppressed pistol.
Thalma kicked the burned square of glass – with more force than necessary as it blew free of its steel frame and landed several feet inside the room. She ducked inside, landing softly on plush carpet. The man stretched out on the king-size bed snorted awake and lay blinking in the darkness for several moments before twisting his head to view the dark figure looming at his bedside.
"What...?"
Thalma covered his mouth with one hand. He started struggling. She leaned down and whispered: "Shhhh. Be very quiet and stay calm and you might survive tonight. Do you understand?"
Charles Boehner released the wrist he was futilely attempting to dislodge and sagged back in his bed. Thalma raised her night goggles and switched on a bedside lamp. His eyes bulged with what she took to be recognition. He noted the pistol in her free hand.
"Speak quietly," she said. "I don't especially want to kill any of your men."
When Boehner nodded, she uncovered his mouth. He blinked at her for a few moments and then cleared his throat.
"How did you get in here?"
"Through the window."
He followed her glance to the missing section of glass.
"What do you want?"
"To come to an understanding."
A sharp rap sounded on the door.
"Sorry to disturb, Mr. Boehner," came a deep male voice, "but I heard a noise. Are you okay?"
"Tell him you're fine," Thalma whispered in a hiss.
Boehner cleared his throat with considerable effort.
"Mr. Boehner?"
The door opened a crack. Thalma sprang lightly from the bed behind the door.
"I'm fine," Boehner rasped out. "Thank you, Centurion."
The door flew open and a very large black man burst inside, handgun drawn. Thalma smacked him on the side of the head and caught him as he fell. She leaned up against the door, closing it softly and locking the deadbolt with one hand.
Boehner was fumbling out a short-barreled revolver from the night table. Thalma advanced toward him, holding the guard's big body awkwardly in front of her with one arm while aiming her pistol at Boehner with the other.
"I have a clear shot, you don't," she said. "Set your gun on the floor."
"I happen to be a very good shot. I'm a former Recon Marine, Ms. Engstrom, and if I'm going to die I prefer it to be with a gun in my hand."
"I hadn't planned to kill you. But if you keep pointing your weapon at me your death is a certainty."
"Few things in combat are a certainty, Ms. Engstrom."
Thalma chided herself for missing the important fact that Boehner was ex-military. She'd been expecting an elderly individual who'd piss himself with fright at her unexpected appearance. Stupid.
"I've met several of your employees who are former military," she said. "So far it hasn't worked out well for them."
"You have an extraordinary skill-set, I'll grant you that. I have no doubt in an exchange of fire with you I will die. But as I said, I prefer to die fighting than as an old man cowering helplessly in bed. Never been much for cowering. So why don't you tell me about your proposition and I'll decide whether or not to continue this Mexican stand-off?"
Thalma could see the bullet holes sprouting in his forehead as clear as day, and her trigger finger ached to squeeze off the shots, but she knew part of that desire sprang from wanting to crush this arrogant old bastard. That was not the kind of emotion that should rule in this situation.
"Who was 'Centurion'?" she asked.
He chuckled. "One of our most aggressive guard dogs, a Doberman. We named it after that Monty Python routine as a joke – you know, with Pontius Pilate in Life of Brian."
"Right. When Pontius Pilate asks the centurion what he thinks is funny."
"Yes. That's the scene."
She eased closer – a double-edged tactic that could place his gun hand within reach of her left arm supporting the big guard while also giving him a better target. His revolver eased upward, and she found herself staring down the barrel of what she judged to be a classic Smith and Wesson 686 .357 – a twin of what Maggie carried in her purse. Boehner had a real chance to kill her now. Would he take the shot?
She reversed course and eased back into the darkness. Boehner smiled. Thalma battled a burst of angry frustration. This was not in any way how she'd envisioned this going.
"You unleashed quite a shit storm with those recordings and files," he said, sounding more amused than annoyed. "I suppose you believe you've made the world a better place."
"I don't know if that's possible. But it can't hurt for people to know what the scumbags in charge are doing."
"That's the mistake you idealists always make. That people care about the truth. If they did, the world would already be a very different place."
"Do you care about the truth?"
"The important truth, Ms. Engstrom: the weak whine and cry about their rights while the strong take care of business and thrive."
"Might makes right?"
"I'll leave concerns about right and wrong to ideologues. I'm only concerned with living the best, most satisfying life I can."
"At the expense of the rest of humanity."
"Say what you have to say, Ms. Engstrom. I find political philosophy tiresome and this old man needs his beauty rest."
"I came here to demonstrate that I can get to you," she said, layering icy calm over her anger, which she knew he'd hear as weakness. "No matter how much security you surround yourself with you can't stop me from killing you. And should you ever threaten me or my family again – should you even show an interest in us – I will know and will come for you."
Boehner continued to aim his .357 at her, his hands remaining steady. She had to hand it to the old dude. He might be a fucking evil piece of shit but he had steel balls and ice water running in his veins.
"Is that it?" he asked.
"That's it."
"Then consider your message received."
Footsteps sounded in the hall along with muted voices. The guard's absence had been noted, Thalma thought, and the troops were massing. This operation was going seriously SNAFU.
"So are you planning to fly out of here?" Boehner asked with a smile.
She wondered for an instant if he was actually being serious – if he'd somehow figured out her "super power" - but no, his smug smile confirmed his sarcasm over her chances of leaving his fiefdom alive.
To make matters more interesting, the big guard hanging in her weary left arm was stirring awake as she edged toward the window. When he made a groggy effort to stand up and pull himself free, Thalma released him suddenly and shoved him on top of a startled Boehner.
In the same motion she dove through the window opening, stretched out her arms –
And fell like a stone. No lift at all and no time for reorienting herself or anything else except the thought: Not again! She hit the soft grass on her spread-eagled chest, a hard slap with both arms and the backpack breaking her fall – the pack not in a good way as the torch and cartridges crunched into her ribs and her breath blew out with mini-hurricane force. Her awareness flickered for a moment before coming back online. Voices carried from the house and to her right. Not a lot of time for lounging around.
She staggered to her feet, finding a precarious balance, and pushed herself into a gimpy sprint. One choppy step after another, building a ragged momentum until at fifty yards her strides smoothed out and she sucked in some clean, warm breaths and started to gain her true speed.
Good thing, she thought as she noticed the man and a Doberman sprinting on her right. The man was falling behind, but the Doberman – Centurion? – not so much.
Floodlights on the mansion's roof lit up, casting the several-acre yard in football stadium incandescence. She imagined she made a starkly visible figure running through the grass. Next question: What weapons did they have to make use of that light? Any assault or sniper rifle would be more than capable of taking her out from the house.
Thalma veered sharply toward a garden and small grove of trees, anticipating the sonic crack of high-velocity rounds smacking the air where she'd been, but the only sound she heard was the panting of the Doberman fifty or sixty yards behind her, working hard to close the distance. Behind the dog, his handler had dropped into a shooter's kneel. She veered again, reaching the trees and their shadows just as the shooter behind her opened fire. Now high-velocity bullets were snapping through the air where she'd been.
She blasted through the trees knowing the kneeling man had no shot, and the Doberman, slowed by the garden and perhaps fatigue, had dropped off the pace a few yards. She now had a mere sixty yard sprint to one shadowy corner of the wall, where she hoped to make her jump for freedom without offering anyone on the roof a clear shot.
Roaring engines caused her to glance back as vehicles exploded from the mansion's six-car garage and swarmed out over the grass like locusts in her direction. Too late to stop me.
Two meters from the wall she launched herself off one leg without breaking stride, smacking into the cement three-quarters of the way up and then stretching from there to gain the top and the bitter reward of concertina wire biting into hands and arms. Using her pack to shield her chest and stomach, she pivoted to the other side and dropped the twelve feet to the ground. Barely a nudge compared to her fall from the fourth floor.
The massive steel door gates were swinging open as Thalma sprinted toward the nearest property and its mere eight-foot iron fence generously festooned with vines and brushing up against a thick stand of trees. A property laid out as a normal yard with some security features as opposed to Boehner's military compound-style residence.
She climbed the fence without too much problem and took up residence in the upper limbs of a tall cedar. From there she had a view over Boehner's wall and the top of the four-story mansion, presently obscured by the blinding halide lights. Below, the search vehicles spread out in various directions, two vehicles per group. They had a lot of territory to cover and with no authority to search their neighbors' homes or land - unlike their law enforcement counterparts – they had to know the odds of finding her weren't good.
