Mortal Pursuit

1

Cain pulled on the black ski mask and checked the pistol’s clip.

Seventeen rounds. He nodded, satisfied.

“Rack ‘em back.”

Five clicks as the slides were cycled on five Glock 17s, his own and four others, each feeding a 9mm Black Talon round into the chamber.

“Let’s move.”

He slung a black duffel bag over his shoulder and headed out of the clearing, pursued by a low tramp of boots.

Moisture fogged the air, a breath of mist carried from the lake. The buzz-hum of every cicada, the rustle of every leaf, was sharp in the stillness. There was no other sound, even on a Saturday night in August-no traffic noise, no car alarms or boom boxes, not even the distant barking of a dog.

Cain thought of the places he had lived when he hadn’t been in prison, the one-room holes in urban war zones where the thump and howl of ghetto music chased a man even in his dreams.

Nothing like that here. This was a peaceful place.

But not for long.

At the edge of the road he looked back, squinting into the last sparks of twilight.

The dark green GMC Safari van, parked in the clearing, was screened from sight by a stand of ponderosa pines. The four figures treading in single file behind him were nearly invisible also.

Like him, they were outfitted in black. Black Magnum Hi-Tech SWAT boots, high-cut. Black nylon sweat pants with elasticized drawstring waists. Black leather gun belts, the stainless steel buckles covered in electrician’s tape to cut glare.

Clipped to each belt, a ProCom M54 handheld transceiver, brushing lightly against the sheath of a Cold Steel Tanto combat knife.

On the opposite hip, the holstered Glock, its sound-suppressor tube poking through a hole in the swivel holster’s base. Adjacent to the holster, a cartridge case holding two spare magazines.

Black nylon jackets, Velcro-fastened, the manufacturer’s decals taped over. On each left wrist, an Indiglo digital watch, the steel band replaced with black leather, a red filter taped over the LED display to preserve night vision.

Black Isotoner gloves. Black ski masks-no mouth cutouts. Black camouflage paint around the eyes, striping any visible portions of skin.

All four toted knapsacks and backpacks. The backpacks contained miscellaneous equipment-rope, padlocks, a length of chain, extra flashlights, other things.

The knapsacks were empty. Soon enough they would be filled with treasure, the haul of a lifetime in a single night.

Yet only a minor bonus, a fringe benefit when compared with the ultimate payoff.

Mindful of that payoff, Cain had spared no effort or expense in mounting tonight’s operation. Clothes, radios, guns, silencers-all of the highest quality.

Every detail had been reviewed, every tactic rehearsed. Nothing could go wrong. Failure was not merely unacceptable. It was unthinkable.

He would succeed or die. There was no other option.

Drawing slow breaths through his mask, Cain looked down the road. A mountain road, rutted and winding, lightless, empty of traffic.

It dead-ended fifty yards beyond the gated entrance to the Kent estate, directly across the way.