I feel Phillips tense up. “I never went inside the building,” he claims. “Got pepper-sprayed just the same.” He gestures with his pistol barrel. “Take this turn.”
I ease off onto a dirt road. I feel the undercarriage scrape. Now we’re passing crop rows and farm equipment. In the distance I can make out the glow from a small ranch house. Nothing around it.
“Cut your lights,” says Phillips.
I turn them off and follow the road by feel. The high grass brushes the outside mirror, and the tires roll along deep grooves in the dirt. The chassis creaks and rumbles.
I wish we had some backup. But Phillips has my phone. Wouldn’t let me make a call. He says he won’t trust anybody but me. Not sure why I have that honor, but so far, it seems to be keeping me alive.
“You think Polermo will talk to you?” I ask.
“No, John. I think he’ll kill me. Or try to. We need to get the drop on him. And it won’t be easy. He was an escape and evasion trainer. He trained me.”
“How do you know he’s even here?”
“Give me some credit,” says Phillips. “Do you think you’re the only one I’ve been tracking?”
My left tire hits a dip in the road. Then …
Bam!
I get slammed against the door as the car flips over, my side down. I see a flash of flames from outside. My ears are ringing.
“IED!” Phillips shouts. “Get out!”
He releases his seat belt and falls on top of me. I unclip my belt and climb out behind him through the broken window, then fall on the ground, scraping my leg on a piece of twisted metal.
“Get the guns!” Phillips shouts. “He’s ready for us!”
I crawl around to the back of the car. The trunk is blown open. My Ruger and my Glock are lying against the sidewall, ammo clips scattered all over. There’s also two armored vests, cartons of water, and packets of survival food. I grab the guns and a few extra clips, trying to clear my head. Phillips reaches past me and unstraps a rifle case from deep in the trunk. He unzips it and pulls out an M4 carbine. He hands me a ballistic vest and slides the other one over his head.
Thick smoke is billowing from under the car, obscuring my vision. Phillips pulls me away from the vehicle and into the high grass beside the road.
He sticks his pistol in his belt and grips the automatic rifle, tightens the telescopic sight. I jam a clip into my Glock and slide my Ruger under my belt.
Phillips points across the expanse of tall grass. “We need to move fast. He’ll be setting up a field of fire.”
And just like that, I’m in combat again.
I grab Phillips’s sleeve. “Aiden! If this is really the guy, I want him alive.”
“Copy that,” he says. “But he doesn’t feel the same about us.”
CHAPTER 91
Polermo
INSIDE THE RENTED SINGLE-STORY house, former army lieutenant J. T. Polermo assembles his arsenal and plans another getaway. He doesn’t know if the burning car in the approach road was a lone invader or the scout for a larger assault team, but he can’t take any chances.
He peeks through his living-room window with a night-vision spotting scope and sees two figures moving away from the burning vehicle. One he recognizes. The other, a very tall Black man, he does not. But he has a feeling about who sent them.
He lowers the top frame on a double-hung window and knocks out the screen, then shoulders an automatic rifle and rests it on the frame. He fires off a quick burst and watches the men drop. He waits for return fire.
Nothing.
Polermo hurries into a vestibule, pulls out a camo duffel, andremoves a brick of C-4, one of many in his collection. He slings the bag and his rifle over his shoulder, goes to the kitchen, unwinds a length of det cord, and sticks the end into the C-4. He opens the stove and puts the explosive inside, then turns all the gas valves to high. The room fills with the odor of mercaptan.
Polermo unspools the det cord and trails it behind him to the back door. There, he pulls out a Bic lighter and holds the flame to the end of the det cord until it starts to sizzle. Then he shoves the back door open and heads for the woods.
