Rizzo looks at me. “You’re not used to sitting on your ass, are you?”
“No. I’m not. I’d rather be the first one through the door.”
“Me too,” she says. “With a fire team right behind me.”
We have a lot in common, me and Rizzo.
One minute to go.
The clock hits 11:00.
Mahoney puts the radio to his mouth. “This is Alpha. All units, execute!”
I lean forward, my face just inches from the video screen on the right. I watch as a brown UPS truck rolls into the parking lot and stops near room 14, blocking the Ford pickup. An FBI agent in UPS brown steps out with a package and an electronic keypad.
As he starts walking casually toward the motel’s office at the other end of the building, the UPS truck’s side door slides open and four heavily armed HRT special agents jump out. One is carrying a metal battering ram. Another holds a small sledgehammer. The other two have ballistic shields on their backs.
The agent with the ram smashes Aiden Phillips’s door in as the guy with the sledgehammer breaks the small side window and tosses in an M84 stun grenade—a flash-bang.
I see the flash and a burst of smoke. Anybody in that room is now blinded by the light and deafened by the 170-decibel blast.
The door is hanging loose on its hinges. The two agents with ballistic shields lead the way into the room.
Mahoney slaps the van driver on the shoulder. “Now! Go!”
CHAPTER 49
THE SECOND OUR VAN comes to a full stop in the motel parking lot, Rizzo opens the rear door and jumps out.
“Anna! Wait!” I’m right behind her.
Ned Mahoney is right behind me.
A dark green Lenco BearCat armored vehicle roars into the lot and brakes to a halt. The rear doors fly open and ten members of the Virginia State Police tactical team swarm out. Even more emerge from the woods, all converging on the broken door of room 14.
A few other doors in the motel pop open. Troopers wave the gawkers back inside. Mahoney and I move in front of Rizzo. I have my Glock at the ready. As we get closer, I can smell the smoke from the flash-bang.
One of the entry-team officers comes out and takes off his helmet. He looks at Mahoney and shakes his head.
Mahoney kicks the bottom of the doorjamb with his boot. “Damn it!”
When I lean in through the open door, another agent stops me.
“Careful,” he says. “The bomb disposal tech is taking care of business.”
Rizzo is right behind me. “What’s in there? Explosives?”
“Slowly,” the agent says. “Don’t crowd around.”
Inside, I see an FBI tech on his knees closely examining a curved gray-green plastic case that’s sitting on short legs a few inches off the floor.
My gut flutters. I’ve seen hundreds of these things.
It’s a Claymore mine.
Embossed across the plastic in bold letters are three words:FRONT TOWARD ENEMY.
Meaning us.
