The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [152]
Vail cocked her head. Manette was right. She shuddered to think how close it was, how close the young women who had gone to the inn for a special night of pampering had come to getting something they were not expecting.
A MOMENT LATER, Bledsoe followed the assault vehicle into the front lot and parked. Kilgore hopped out of the truck’s cab and led the way to the inn’s entrance.
As they entered the Jeb Room, the task force members took in the dark wood paneling, fireplace, and ceiling beams.
“I run all my tactical sessions out of here whenever we’ve got a maneuver in the area. Manager’s my aunt’s friend.” He placed the Virtual Earth images on a long table by the far wall.
“So who was Jeb?” Manette asked.
“General Jeb Stuart, Confederate Army. In fact,” Kilgore said, “General Stuart met with the Gray Ghost, Colonel John Mosby, right here in this very room, planning their strategy for the Civil War.”
Manette frowned. “That don’t make me feel at home.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Robby said.
“Political views aside,” Bledsoe said, “I hope our strategy session is more successful than theirs was.”
Kilgore stood the topographical map against the wall. “It will be, Bledsoe. It will be.”
The seven tactical team members arrived during the course of the next hour. Kilgore reviewed the map and Virtual Earth images and formulated a plan. Coffee was brought up by management, who met one of the officers at the door. With a sensitive operation being planned, no outsiders were permitted into the room.
An hour later, Kilgore began packing away the maps while the tactical team and task force members headed down to the truck to suit up.
Bledsoe stood in front of his seat, hands on his hips.
“What’s wrong?” Vail asked.
“My chair. I left it there,” he said, pointing to a spot, “and now it’s here.” He indicated a location several feet away.
“I think you need some sleep. We all do.” Vail pat him on the back, then headed out the door.
“I’m serious.”
“That’d be Monte,” Kilgore said. “Ghost from the 1700s. He moves things around, makes noises.” Kilgore craned his neck and spoke to the ceiling: “Cut it out, Monte, you’re scaring this guy.” Kilgore chuckled, then headed out the door, maps in hand.
“Ghost?” Bledsoe asked. He looked around the room, suddenly realized he was alone, and warded off a chill. Then he rushed out the closing door.
A LITTLE OVER THREE HOURS from the moment they had arrived at the Loudoun Special Ops building, the tactical assault vehicle and accompanying car pulled to a stop amongst a stand of mature oaks a half mile down the road from the perimeter of the Farwell ranch. The SERT team of eight men jumped out the rear, black-vested jackets covering their torsos and sniper rifles gripped in both hands as if they were an organic extension of their arms.
The task force members were outfitted in similar garb, most of them using vests for the first time in years. Fortunately, it was a cold afternoon, and the added weight and insulation provided warmth. They did not know how long they would be outside, exposed to the elements, without supplies from the truck to tide them over.
Several of the men tossed a tan-and-brown camouflage canvas over the truck while others collected brush from the surrounding trees and gathered it around the tires. Large branches were thrown atop the team member’s black car to prevent any reflection from the mirror or windows.
“Okay, listen up,” Kilgore said. He positioned his headset so the mouthpiece of his two-way radio was squarely in front of his mouth. “Radio communication or hand signals only from this point forward. We fan out and establish a perimeter fifty yards off the house. When all looks secure, we’ll move in and breach the place. You’ve all got your marks. Check in as each of you hit them. Remember, this guy is dangerous. Word is he used to hunt fox, so he’s obviously a good shot. Be careful, treat the situation as if he’s got an arsenal in there. We don’t know what to expect. Questions?” He waited a beat, surveyed his team, then said, “Move