The Singularity Race by Mark de Castrique Page B

had a childlike view of the world that needed a reality check. Mullins was ready to pull his own Glock and demand to be driven back to Asheville.
    The billionaire threw up his hands. “Okay, okay. We’re all on the same side. Work it however you want.”
    Fifteen minutes later, the limo stopped in front of a wrought-iron gate stretching across a freshly paved driveway. Twin stone pillars anchored either side. A matching fence extended from the pillars and disappeared into the trees. Everything looked so new Mullins wouldn’t have been surprised to see a price tag dangling from one of the black pickets. Sharp spikes capped each bar, except every twenty feet or so a square box replaced the spike. Mullins suspected they held some kind of electrical component.
    â€œYou put this fence in?” Mullins asked.
    â€œJust completed it two days ago. Encompasses the perimeter and has laser beams across the top that will be tripped should someone try to crawl over.”
    â€œHow many gates?”
    â€œTwo. This one and another one at the dock.”
    Mullins saw the address mounted in one of the stone pillars. “You put up a visible street number?”
    â€œHad to. Fire department requires some form of identification.”
    Mullins nodded with approval. He memorized the number. As soon as he could steal a few minutes alone, he’d text it to Allen and request a set of satellite photographs of the compound.
    ***
    The photographs lay on the desk in three piles. Foliage hid most of the terrain adjacent to the lake. On the aerial view, a bold black line drawn by a Sharpie marked the property boundaries. Beneath that top picture, a series of photos featured close-ups of the entrance gate, the dock, the exterior of the three-level lake house, and the single-story guesthouse. Four pages of documents detailed the specifications of the security system and the floor plans of both buildings.
    Heinrich Schmidt set the stack labeled “Lake Lure” aside and examined the surveillance photos of an apartment building in Arlington, Virginia. Shirlington House, the residence of ex-Secret Service agent Rusty Mullins. A Sharpie had circled a corner window on the fourth floor. The wide parking lot below offered no concealment for a sniper’s position. A second photo showed a blue Prius with Virginia license plates, the target’s car, parked in a spot at the edge of the pavement. Good for a drive-by hit if it were a two-man operation, but not ideal for working alone. And Schmidt’s instructions had been for a solo op.
    The third stack covered a three-story brick building in an Arlington neighborhood called Fairlington Villages. A ring had been drawn around the windows on the lower right with the words “Woodson Condo” printed above. Schmidt understood that the unit housed Kayli and Josh, daughter and grandson of Rusty Mullins and the wife and child of Allen Woodson.
    If collateral damage could be ignored, a packet of C-4 plastic explosive would take out both men if a family gathering brought them together in the home.
    Schmidt combined the photos and documents into one pile. His preferred location was the isolated lake house, but if pressed into action, he’d take whatever appeared to be the best opportunity. Meanwhile, he was content to earn a fee for simply waiting. The Hampton Inn in the small city of Spartanburg, South Carolina, made a secure hiding spot, and whether he was called into action at Lake Lure only a few hours away or the suburbs of D.C., Heinrich Schmidt was ready.
    He looked across the room at the golf bag and clubs leaning against the closet. The new set had arrived via Federal Express that morning and the shipping box lay ripped open on the hotel floor. The return address was from an online sporting-goods store in Chicago.
    A fine set of clubs, although the woods were missing.
    The M24 Sniper Weapons System fit snugly in their place—the rifle, telescopic scope, and