Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [165]
Nigel hadn’t been exaggerating the extent of his weapon’s cache, which he kept in an old steamer trunk in his closet. They chose a pair of noise-suppressed SIG Sauer P226 9-millimeter pistols. Standard-issue sidearm for the British SAS. They’d both spent many hours on the range with the P226. At Embling’s urging, they each grabbed a lead-and-leather cosh. “Never can tell when you’ll have a merciful moment,” he told them with a smile.
Now Chavez whispered, “What’s the plan?”
“Probably be one guard outside, either static or roving, and another inside. We’ll take down the first, then deal with the other when the time comes. Ding, try the cosh first. The fewer bodies we leave, the better.”
“Fine by me.”
They split up, Clark moving west through the trees behind the barn and Chavez following the drainage ditch bordering the main road. “In position,” Clark heard through his earpiece.
That was fast, Clark thought. Ah to be young again. “Stand by.”
He took his time moving through the underbrush, checking for telltales underfoot and low-hanging branches too dark to see. After a quarter-mile the trees began thinning out, and he soon found himself at the north end of the turnaround, thirty yards opposite the driveway entrance.
“In position,” he whispered. “Where are you?”
“End of the drainage ditch, against the driveway berm.”
“I see one sentry. Sitting in a lawn chair at the van’s front bumper.”
“Come again?”
“Sitting in a lawn chair, smoking, facing my direction.” Whoever had hired them was not getting his money’s worth. “Got a Type 56 leaning against the bumper on his right.” The 56 was a Chinese copy of the AK-47. Not the same quality, but certainly enough to worry about.
Chavez said, “I’m seeing one light on, lower level, my side.”
“Dark here. No movement. Go when you’re ready.”
“Roger.”
Even though he knew Ding was coming, Clark didn’t spot him until he was within ten feet of the van’s rear bumper. Ninjas own the night had been Chavez’s old unit’s motto. And he still did, Clark knew.
Chavez reached the bumper, took a peek around the quarter panel, then dropped into a crouch and waited.
“Still nothing,” Clark whispered after a minute.
He got a double-click roger in reply.
Chavez eased back now, moving around the other side of the van and out of sight. Ten seconds later, a shadow appeared behind the seated guard. Chavez’s arm cocked back and came forward. The guard slumped forward, leaning sideways against the van’s grille. Chavez pulled him back upright and crushed out the fallen cigarette.
“Down and out.”
“Roger. Moving.”
They met in the shadows along the house’s south wall. The porch and front door lay to their left. With Clark in the lead, they slid down until the entrance was in view. The inside door stood open, but the screen door was closed. They mounted the porch and got stacked on either side of the door. Now they could hear the faint sounds of television from inside the house. Clark, on the latch side, reached up and tested it. Locked. He reached into his back pocket, thumbed open his knife, and gently, carefully, inserted the tip into the mesh and drew the blade down until he had created a six-inch slit. He closed the knife and returned it to his pocket, then reached through and felt around until he found what he was looking for. There was a soft snick. He withdrew his hand and then sat still for a full minute.
Clark nodded at Chavez, who returned it, then crab-walked across the doorway and slid into position behind Clark, who reached up and depressed the door handle. He opened the door an inch, stopped, then tried another couple of inches. No matter their age or condition, screen doors seemed prone to creaking. Maybe it was the exposure to the elements.
This door didn’t disappoint. At the halfway point the hinges peeped. Clark froze. Chavez scooted forward until he could see beneath Clark’s outstretched arm into the house. He pulled back and signaled