The Last Widow (Will Trent 9)

For unknown reasons, the cartridges were laid out in rows on top of terrycloth towels. The men handling them were wearing black nitrile gloves. The loaded magazines were handed off to more gloved men who packed them into plastic containers about the size of a file box. Eight boxes had been filled so far, about a thousand rounds each. Two men holding clipboards monitored the progress. Two more guys were carrying coolers filled with bottles of Gatorade up the hill. Another group was taking a break at a picnic table. They were all dressed in tactical black, all wearing gloves. Will counted sixteen men total, most of them in their mid-twenties with a couple of gray-haired older men ordering them around.

The air felt different. No one was joking around. They were doing serious work here. Will got the feeling they were ready to leave this place at a moment’s notice.

But where, exactly, was this place?

They were definitely in the mountains. Trees were everywhere. Birds were chirping. A stream or a river was nearby. What caught Will’s eye was a metal storage building just beyond the vans. The doors hung open. Sealed cardboard boxes were stacked inside. All the same size, about thirty inches square. All with packing slips in clear plastic pockets. All with the same number stamped onto the side.

4935-876

“Wolfe.” Gerald had finished talking to a man with a clipboard. He waved Will over. “We’re gonna put you straight to work, soldier. That good with you?”

Will grunted, lifting his chin.

Gerald said, “Dobie, you, too.”

“Cool!” The kid Will had named One ran ahead of them.

Dobie.

Gerald kept a slower pace going up the hill. Will’s fists were clenched. Everyone was armed. His Sig Sauer had ten in the magazine and one in the chamber, but Will would be dead before he could reach for his holster. He was getting that same shaky feeling he’d had at the car accident. What if Sara was at the top of the hill? What if he found her tied up? What if he found her dead? What if he didn’t find her at all?

Will’s hand went up to his cheek. The beard had turned into a talisman. All he had to do was rub it, and he changed into Jack Wolfe. “What’s the kid’s story?”

“Dobie?” Gerald watched him trying to navigate the hill. The kid’s feet slipped in the grass. He jumped up and disappeared over the top. “He’s like all of ’em. Young, dumb and full of come.”

Will felt his teeth grit. He couldn’t square the idiot kid with what he knew about groups like the IPA. Was Dobie a violent racist who wanted to kill all the Jews or was he just a rudderless young man who’d met the wrong people at the wrong time?

At this point, it was a distinction without a difference.

Gerald told Will, “We’ll let you watch a few times before we put you in.”

Will didn’t ask what the in was, because he saw it for himself at the top of the hill.

Only the framing existed in the two-story wooden structure. Will could tell by the gray color that the fake building had been left to the elements for at least six months. Plywood served as the floor. There were openings to indicate doors, but no windows. Safety railings marked the upstairs balcony. The stairs were open-backed, too skinny to be practical. They split into a T in the middle, feeding into either side of the balcony. There were cardboard bad guys with targets on them. A patchwork of tarps served as a ceiling. Two layers, one camouflage, the other thermal blocking to defeat heat-sensing cameras. A lot of work had gone into building and hiding the fake building. Will guessed the space was slightly larger than two regulation basketball courts.

He counted eight men standing watch, all suited up for a raid, only their eyes showing behind clear, plastic goggles. Five more men were already inside the fake building. Two were on the ground floor. Three were running up the stairs to the balcony. Their AR-15s were at their shoulders. Their knees were bent. At the landing, they swiveled in perfect synchronicity and T’d up the next flight of stairs toward the balcony. Another few paces, then the lead man held up his fist to stop. He walked in a crouch. Three steps, then he was at the wall. He pretended to open a door and everyone started firing.

Will saw Dobie jump at the tap-tap-tap sound.

The kid said, “So fucking cool, bro.”

He wasn’t afraid. He was excited.

Will could tell that this wasn’t the first time the fake building had been raided. The wood was spattered with pinpricks of orange, red and blue paint. They were using Simunition, a type of non-lethal ammunition. Will had fired the marking rounds during training exercises. The GBI required all agents to complete active shooter simulations inside of school buildings, abandoned houses, warehouses. They hired actors to play bad guys and civilians. Music was usually blaring. The lights flickered constantly, or sometimes they were off.

You couldn’t do this with real bullets. Your adrenaline ran too high. You couldn’t do it with fake guns, either. The feel had to be the same, so they used blue conversion kits to replace the bolt carriers in rifles and the slides and chamber blocks on nine-mils. The magazines were clear plastic. The dummy rounds had colored paint inside the points so you could tell whether you’d hit a target or killed your partner. Even though the marking rounds weren’t lethal, they hurt like hell. Agents were always made to suit up in black hoods that covered everything but their eyes. Helmets, plastic goggles, padded vests, gloves and padded jocks. There was no better way to train for a real-world force-on-force environment.

Which was exactly what the men inside of the fake building were doing.

Hotel lobby? Office building? Synagogue? Mosque? The men were entering on the ground floor, not through a basement or loading dock. There would be security, but thirteen guys against two retired cops who were supplementing their pensions was not a fair contest. And that didn’t even include the number of civilians who would be inside.

They were planning for a massacre.

Gerald asked Will, “You ready to suit up?”

Will was ready to turn on the tracker inside his holster. These men were planning a full-scale infiltration. They had to be stopped.

But what about Sara?

Will found the tactical equipment piled up on the ground. Guns had been tossed onto the grass. Typical law enforcement-issue Glock 19s, but Will’s Glock 19 was not among them. Nothing looked right. Magazines were half-filled. Some of the AR-15s were caked with dirt. Conversion kits laid around in pieces. Someone had known enough to order the gear, but had not taken the time to instruct them in the proper handling.

Dobie was already strapping down his helmet.

“Hood first,” Will told him.

Dobie turned red. He took off the helmet. His eyes followed Will as he put on the gear, the same way Will had looked to Tessa for cues during Cathy’s prayer.

The kid was so amped up he couldn’t stand still. Was this why Dobie had joined the IPA? Running around playing soldier was a hell of a kick. But the point of drilling was to prepare you for the real thing. Will knew for a fact that Dobie wasn’t ready for the real thing. Watching the guys in the fake building, he wasn’t confident they would do any better. But it didn’t take skill or even luck to kill a lot of people. Only the element of surprise and a willingness to pull the trigger.

Will tightened down his belt. He checked his weapons. He made sure the magazines and chambers were filled with blanks because he didn’t trust these people. Technically, he should take the Sig Sauer out of his holster and clear the chamber. During simulated drills, no live rounds were allowed on the premises.

But nothing about this was a simulation to Will.

“Wolfe, you’re C-Team.” Gerald pointed up the stairs. “To the left.”

Will had wondered why the three men had peeled off in the same direction, leaving their rear open to attack. Another mistake. You didn’t drill one team at a time. It was all or none.

“Dude, it’s cool, right?” Dobie was still bouncing like a meth head. All that Will could see of his face was his bugged-out eyes behind the goggles. His vest had been hit at least six times with Simunition. His jock looked like a multi-colored Rorschach. He should’ve been anxious. This wasn’t a game of paintball. They were going to take this building in real life one day. Probably soon, if Faith’s contact at the FBI was right about the recent chatter.

Will pulled the hood up over his nose. He adjusted his goggles. He told Dobie, “There’s a difference between shooting a piece of cardboard and killing a human being.”

“Yeah-yeah-yeah.” Dobie’s breath flexed against the hood over his mouth. “I got it, bro.”

Will wanted to punch some sense into the little shit. Instead, he showed Dobie how to hold the rifle. “Put your finger here, along the trigger guard. Never, ever touch the trigger unless you’re ready to kill somebody.”

“He’s right, brother.” Another suited up man had joined them, bringing the team to sixteen. He started firing off orders. “Alpha, take the breach. Secure the first floor. Bravo and Charlie, you’re second wave. Up the stairs. Bravo, go right. Charlie will take the left.” For Will’s benefit, he explained, “You’re Charlie. We’ll go to the rear. We’ll wait for the cue. Dobie will open the door. Let’s go.”