Target Omega

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Garin scratched himself awake sometime after five A.M. He was covered with fewer insect bites than he had expected, but the one on the back of his neck itched worse than any he had gotten during a miserable month he’d once spent in the Colombian jungle.

The eastern sky was a light yellow and the house and barn were readily visible. They appeared freshly painted and well maintained. A rear door was open — having been kicked in during last night’s raid. It was the lone sign of what had occurred hours before.

Clearly, Garin needed to find somewhere else from which to operate. He had plenty of cash and at least one false ID that no one in the government knew about, so theoretically, he could rent a hotel room and work from there.

But the events of the last forty-eight hours, especially those of last night, had spooked him. It seemed wherever he went, with the exception of the bunker, his adversaries followed. Or, as in the case of both his apartment and his sister’s house, they preceded him. They seemed to be everywhere. Pop was right: If someone can see you, your enemies can, and will, find you.

Garin decided it was best to return to the Washington, D.C., area. After all, he had gone to Ohio only to secure his sister’s family, and he had come here only to operate freely, with minimal chance of detection. He would find out in a few minutes whether he had accomplished the first goal. Last night proved that he wouldn’t accomplish the second. At least in Washington, he had a potential resource that might produce some answers. So far, he had none.

Garin grabbed his rifle and was about to get up when, on the grassy field approximately one hundred yards in front of him, the ground began to move. He remained still as the ground took the shape of a man slightly taller than Garin, with a stocky, muscular build, holding an M110 sniper rifle. The sniper wore a ghillie suit that had allowed him to blend in with the foliage. Had the sniper not moved first, Garin would have never detected his presence. Had Garin moved first, he would most certainly be dead right now. The raiders had left the sniper behind as a fail-safe. Garin had missed him completely last night, and that made the sniper very good.

The sniper was facing north, his back to Garin. It appeared as if he was speaking into a communication device. After placing the device in an unseen pocket, he stretched, arched his back, and removed his balaclava. He appeared to be adjusting something on his rifle. Garin, a paranoid about scope glare, flipped the antireflective cover on the scope of his rifle to prevent any reflected light from giving away his position. Only a few moments later, he could hear the distinctive sound of an approaching Little Bird over the horizon. The craft appeared, hugging the treetops of the woods north of the farmhouse. Garin calculated it must have been stationed only a few miles away. It banked east and then swept over the cornfield before coming to rest midway between Garin and the sniper.

As the sniper turned to board the craft, Garin’s stomach tightened. Although he was nearly the length of a football field away, Garin was fairly certain that he was looking at the face of one of the deadliest snipers in the world.

His name was Congo Knox. He was unforgiving. And he was Delta Force.