The Boys from Santa Cruz

CHAPTER FIVE
1

Lieutenant J. B. Sperry, in command of the Marshall County Sheriff Department’s tactical response squad, jabbed with his pointer at a tiny red-penciled cross on the topographical map spread out across Sheriff Mike Lisle’s desk.

“X marks the spot where Epstein’s cell phone was triangulated,” he explained to the recently arrived Pender. “Access is via either the county road here”-jabbing the map with his pointer again-“or this old fire trail coming in from the south”-jab-“which is going to be slower and rougher, but should provide better cover.”

“The problem is, we don’t have any information on the site itself, such as how many buildings are still standing, if any,” said Sheriff Lisle, who had graying temples and a Batman jaw. “That’s why I want to wait for the satellite photos before we mount an assault.”

“But while we’re waiting, Sweet could be on the move,” argued Sperry, a beefy Joe Montana type, dimpled chin and all. He had, he’d been sure to let Pender know, done his tac squad training at Quantico. “In which case, every minute we delay increases his chances of getting away.”

“Whereas going in blind increases our chances of sustaining casualties,” Lisle said wearily-obviously, they’d been over this ground before. “What do you think, Agent Pender?”

“I think we need to move as quickly as possible. If Sweet hasn’t killed Epstein already, it’s only because he’s still torturing him. And since we’re only going up against one man, I can’t see how deploying sooner rather than later is going to put your people in any additional jeopardy.”

After mulling it over, or giving the appearance of having mulled it over, Lisle nodded decisively. “Okay, let’s do it.”

In the muster room, the tac squad was buddying up, each team member double-checking his or her partner’s weapons, armor, and communication gear, and being double-checked in return. The tense mood, the nervous banter, and the clatter of equipment reminded Pender of his old high school football team suiting up before a game. All that was missing was the click-clack of spikes on the locker room floor.

Pender didn’t stick around for the coach’s pep talk. Instead, operating on the Hopper principle-it’s more effective to ask forgiveness than to ask permission-he slipped out the back door while Sperry was still addressing his squad, and climbed into the back of the shiny black Lenco BEAR, the multiuse, ballistic engineered armored response vehicle that was to ferry the tac squad up into the foothills.

Air-conditioned for stakeouts, armored for assaults, with run-flat tires, bulletproof portholes, shielded gunports, a rotating turret, and a sniper’s platform on the roof, the BEAR had padded benches running the full length of the cabin on either side. Pender hunched his shoulders and tried to make himself inconspicuous as the squad began belting themselves in around him. But somehow the sharp-eyed Lieutenant Sperry, sitting in the swiveling command seat next to the driver, managed to pick the six-four, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound federal agent in the houndstooth-checked hat and tomato-soup-colored sport coat out of a dozen armored, helmeted deputies in paratrooper boots and desert camo. They locked eyes. You need me, Pender vibed him. You know you need me. I’m the only guy you’ve got who knows Sweet and Epstein both, you’d be crazy not to-

Sperry broke eye contact first. “Somebody get that man a vest and a helmet,” he barked.