The bad guys suddenly started moving about an hour after sunrise.
We had eyes on two sides of the house from our hide site, and so it was impossible to miss when the front door slammed open and half a dozen men rushed out, bearded and armed to the teeth. The only one who wasn’t in a rush was the guy with the Talib beard, wearing all Russian camouflage and talking into a radio. We were so close that I could actually pick out a few of the Albanian words.
I was already nervous about being within a hundred meters of the target building, but having what looked an awful lot like a terrorist react force come rushing out made my guts pucker. Only training and discipline kept me stock-still, though my hand was already on my OBR’s firing control, finger hovering near the trigger. If we’d been made, it was going to get really loud and really messy, really fast.
We were also probably all going to die in the process. Not to mention the hostage whom I was already pretty sure was tied up inside that house.
“Deacon, Weeb,” Scott Hayes’ voice said in my ear. “I think I see what’s got ‘em all stirred up. There’s company coming.”
I didn’t answer right away. I was keeping my eyes fixed somewhere just above Camouflage Jacket’s shoulder as I inched my off hand toward the push-to-talk clipped to the strap of my chest rig.
None of us had wanted to set up so close. Phil had been downright adamant that we needed to find some other way of handling the situation, as the night had worn on and we’d had to get closer and closer just to see the house through the trees. The hills we’d hiked in through were heavily forested, and just the crunch of leaves under our boots had been excruciatingly loud.
And if I could hear the guy who I was pretty sure was Ibrahim Baruti, then he could hear me.
(Continued from the Escalation Prologue)
