Blaze of Glory by Jeff Struecker, Alton Gansky Page B

quarter mile to the east.
    “I got nuthin’, Boss,” J. J. answered. “No movement in the backyard . . . maybe I should say back acreage. I can see through a half dozen windows. No movement. Same lights are on per last report.”
    “Roger that, Colt. Shaq, you got anything for me?”
    “Negative, Boss. A cemetery has more action.”
    “What cemetery do you hang out in, Shaq?”
    “Can it, Colt.” A mental image of the property and house formed in Moyer’s mind. His team had set up a three-point surveillance perimeter, allowing them to eyeball every part of the property and building.
    “Junior, you got anything on audio?” In his mind, Moyer could see Pete Rasor aim a directional mike at the villa.
    “Nada, Boss. I’ve been straining my eardrums, and the most I hear is the house cooling and what sounds like a water heater firing up. No voices, no snoring, no television, or radio.”
    De Luca lay on the ground next to Moyer, binoculars pressed to his eyes. He lowered the high-powered glasses and, on one elbow, put his mouth closer to Moyer’s ear. Whatever the man wanted to say, he didn’t want it going out over the radio.
    “You’re doubting our intel, aren’t you?”
    “Something’s not right. That’s for sure.”
    “I assure you, our people are very good.”
    “Ease up, Polo. No one is blaming you or your intel team for anything. You do enough missions you learn nothing goes according to plan.”
    De Luca sighed. “Polo. You Americans like your code names.”
    “You don’t like Polo? Marco Polo was a great man. He brought spaghetti from China to Italy.”
    Moyer heard another sigh. He checked his watch. The luminous hands showed him it was 0233. A solid hour of watching and waiting had yielded nothing. It was time to do something. “Data, give me one more sweep.”
    “Roger.”
    Through the goggles Moyer watched Zinsser remove a small electronic device from his vest. He had kept it in hand through the duration of their hike. Designed to pick up radio transmissions across a wide spectrum, it was invaluable in locating wireless sensors that might detect their presence and send a signal to an alarm in the house.
    Thirty seconds later. “Nothing, Boss. We’re clear for at least a mile around.”
    “Everyone get that?”
    “Loud and clear.”
    “Roger.”
    “Okay,” Moyer said, “on my mark, we move. No one enters until they hear from me.” He took a deep breath. “Three, two, one, mark.”
    Moyer was on his feet moving forward in a crouch, his M4A1 held close to his chest. He glanced to his right. Zinsser was matching him step for step. To his left he saw Le Duca with his Beretta AR70 at the ready. He looked like a man who had done this a dozen times. Moyer was glad to see it.

    EATING DINNER AT THE Red Lobster in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania, just outside Carlisle was a weekly treat for Tess. It was close enough that she could drive to it without trouble, but far away enough to make the destination seem special. Tess had no problems dining alone. Usually she brought a novel to read. So much of her life was spent reading reports and technical manuals that a novel brought a mental break while still providing intellectually stimulating material.
    In front of her rested a plate of broiled sole, rice, and shrimp scampi. To the side was a metal basket with one and a half garlic biscuits, what remained of the three the waitress had brought.
    Next to the plate, open to page 104, sat a Dean Koontz novel. She had stopped reading when her meal arrived. Tess shifted her gaze to the traffic motoring along the road in front of the restaurant. The food was good as always, but her appetite had fled a few moments before, and she didn’t know why.
    Tess forced herself to face the plate and eat, but her mind drifted to a distant land and to J. J. Every bite of food turned her stomach. No, it wasn’t the food; it was something else. What? Fear. She recognized the emotion. Her stomach tightened into a