Range banked toward the aroma of strong coffee that filled the mostly quiet Command center. “What’ve we got?” Taking his first slurp, he angled toward Pike.
The smattering of silver along his temples and threaded through his tight crop were the only signs that Pike Auberon had hit his forties. Like him, most in the special ops community had more than their fair share of gray hair and heartburn. But that was the extent of the chief’s age markers. Fit, trim, and sharp-witted, he had developed his own team that earned the respect, not the derision, of the U.S. government and military. The fact that the CIA worked so closely with Omen spoke of that long-standing respect.
“Casey there”—Pike jutted his jaw toward a plain female analyst with straight blonde hair tied into a tight bun at the base of her neck—“has been monitoring Roud.”
“In case they come looking,” Range muttered, one arm over his chest, the other propping up the coffee mug. “Knew extracting her would tick them off.”
“And it has,” Casey said. “It’s been twelve hours and there are already more vehicles in that village and compound than we’ve tracked in weeks.”
Range smirked. “Good.”
The chief snapped a gaze to him. “Good?”
“Tick them off, they want to act now.” He shrugged. “They make mistakes.”
“They’re gearing up to make the kind of mistakes we can’t come back from.”
Now Range hesitated.
“Tell him, Casey.”
“So far, we have identified several AK47s—”
“They had those when we hit it.”
“—and about four RPGs, and three technicals, specifically trucks with RPKs mounted on the back.”
Okay, that was a lot of firepower. Too much for a search. This was an attack party. He frowned. “They can’t know where the women are …” Unless— “Freak.” He glanced at the chief. “Trackers.”
“Our best guess, too,” Pike said with a nod. “Crow is down there now, running the scanners over them and will neutralize any tracking devices.” He moved to a monitor on the right. “Wanted you to see this.”
Range shifted to eyeball the screen.
“Video during the night in the bunkroom.”
The imaging turned the sleeping forms into faint blue ghosts. The nine members they’d brought in slept soundly … save one male figure that moved through the dark room and knelt beside a bed.
“That’s the guy who tried to pound your nose into your skull sneaking over to talk with the interpreter.” Pike jutted his jaw again. “But watch.”
The woman wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and the two moved to a corner … right below the eye of the camera. “Casey, the other one.” The screen flickered to life with the view of another camera. “She knew there was a camera there, but hadn’t spotted the one in the A/C vent.”
Range grunted.
Luther joined them. “Only person who searches for cameras in rooms is one who’s guilty.”
“Or one who has had to live with them.” Range watched, and despite no sound, it wasn’t hard to figure out there was an argument.
“You’re defending her?”
“Stating facts,” he countered, left cheek twitching as he took in the body language on the screen. Watching as the woman maneuvered her way out of the corner in which she’d been backed. “Do we know the relationship between these two?”
“Negative,” Pike said. “We believe he’s the madam’s bodyguard, but no connection or relation to the interpreter.”
“There’s a connection,” Range countered. “That’s too intimate of a fight to not have one.”
“Not our concern,” Pike said. “We need actionable intel from Jazani. I’m already getting heat from higher-ups.”
Scowling, Range straightened. “We just brought her in!”
