* * *
Anderson crouched close to the edge of the treeline, gaze looking east across the farmland to the high chain-link fence and the buildings beyond. Flores waited beside him, finger pressed to his earpiece, waiting impatiently for everyone to get into position.
The repeat of Anderson’s buildings’ search had proved complex and frustrating, the fear of an informer encouraging Flores – with Jensen’s backing – to bypass normal procedure and stretch his authority to the limit. In just two hours he had pulled together a team of fourteen, each agent well-known to Flores and trusted absolutely.
Despite having to work within significant constraints, Anderson’s challenge had seemed eminently achievable; that was until the various possibilities slowly reduced to a big fat zero. They had adjusted the criteria, the agricultural research centre escaping their initial trawl mainly due to its size, sixty acres. Its formal links with the small community of Terrill had also made it seem an unlikely option, although that should strictly have moved it up the rankings, McDowell having similarly worked hard to integrate August 14’s UK base into local life. An inconclusive business search, followed by discreet enquiries into the type and extent of the facility’s electrical work, had moved the research centre ever higher; its final placement at the top was eventually confirmed once fingerprints obtained via the local agricultural committee had identified Lee Preston, his description a good match to one of the men involved in the Mississippi killings. Off the radar for almost a year, Preston’s presence at Terrill under an assumed name might not prove he was working with McDowell but it seemed a reasonable bet.
Terrill itself was sixteen miles west of Fredericksburg, on the border of Spotsylvania and Orange Counties, the population of just over four hundred spread out along Route 621. The research centre was on the northern edge, a wedge-shaped strip of land containing six buildings in total, the three largest of farmhouse and a pair of converted barns set back a quarter of a mile from the main road.
There was the expected website, its references to alley cropping systems and production hedges meaning little to Anderson. In practice that seemed to involve long lines of stumpy bushes, all in neat rows north to south, some ten yards between each line. In the alleys between them were a complex mix of crops, several acres in total of each, and at different stages of growth, some just left as grass and clover.
McDowell was obviously determined to keep up the pretence of an agricultural research centre, its green credentials reinforced by a wind turbine and an array of solar panels, back-up power provided by a battery bank and diesel generator. There were also four satellite dishes, McDowell similarly sticking with his philosophy of technological overkill.
The larger buildings formed three sides of a square, the open end facing the main road. The FBI’s main target was the middle structure of the farmhouse: brick-built and two storeys, most of the electrical work had been concentrated on the top floor, making it the most likely location for the computer centre.
Anderson had waited expectantly for Flores to pass across a detailed map with the positons of McDowell’s men duly highlighted, but the relevant satellite data was considered off-limits, Flores’ team having to make do with a twenty-minute briefing and a quick sketch. Anderson had however been issued with the essential of Kevlar helmet, goggles and bullet-proof vest; no weapon, as he was simply expected to observe until the area was fully secure. The police would only be informed once the attack was underway, Flores determined to keep the operation as secret as possible.
No back-up, no real intelligence as to what they were likely to face, and the weather now brightening after the heavy rain – to Anderson it was a recipe for disaster, not that the FBI seemed worried. Flores estimated at least eight targets, maybe as many as twelve, his guess based purely on the fact there were six vehicles parked between the main buildings. Anderson’s maths was a little different: four SUVs and two medium-sized cars could easily add up to a more worrying total of twenty.
Fourteen – plus Anderson – versus anywhere between an over-optimistic eight and a disastrous twenty: such differing numbers didn’t help Anderson’s confidence level. However, some of those eight to twenty would be academics and computer experts like Jon Carter, so hopefully less keen on risking life and limb.
Flores spoke briefly into his radio; then nodded at Anderson. Moments later the first two agents moved forward in a crouching run, MP5 sub-machine guns held ready for instant use. Flores had split the FBI team into three groups: five men attacking from the south-east; Flores and four other agents plus Anderson coming in from the south-west; the final four agents would form a holding line to the north, McDowell’s most likely route of escape.
It was a hundred and fifty yards from treeline to the wire fence surrounding the main buildings, security cameras perched high-up, no sign yet of any guards or even a lone dog. The bushes between the alleys were waist-high but not that thick, providing a minimal amount of cover. Anderson would have personally opted for an elbow-wrenching crawl from one from line of bushes to the next; the FBI preferred a more direct and somewhat speedier approach, working on the principle that the cameras would catch them whatever route they took.
Once the two agents reached halfway to the fence, Flores led the rest forward, Anderson nervous and keyed-up, ready to react at the first sound of a gunshot.
Ahead the fence was now being cut, Anderson puzzled as to why there was still no response, with at least one of the cameras easily revealing their advance. Their initial target was the western barn: two-storeys and timber-framed, the side facing Anderson was some thirty feet long with two narrow windows and a chunky-looking wooden door.
As the first two agents squirmed through the gap in the fence, gunfire belatedly erupted from the barn; one agent instantly collapsed to the ground, hands clawing at his neck. Anderson saw no more as he flung himself forwards, hugging the rain-soaked earth, sensing Flores returning fire.
Anderson glanced up, ears bombarded by the gun battle around him. There were just three rows of bushes between him and the fence, offering a deceptive sense of cover and he could easily see through the screen of branches. Beyond the second barn, muzzle flashes revealed that the twin attack was similarly pinned down. To Anderson it seemed pointless to stay where he was, a bullet just as likely as not to hit him, and he squirmed forward, following Flores as he headed towards the gap in the fence.
The gunfire slackened and Anderson squeezed through the fence. One agent was slightly injured, another dead, shot through the throat. Anderson grabbed the latter’s MP5, daring Flores to argue, determined not just to sit by and do nothing. The western barn was no more than thirty yards away, windows shattered, the wooden planks pockmarked and splintered. Its bulk in turn protected them from the farmhouse, the barn’s defenders either dead or keeping their heads well down. With two agents providing covering fire, Flores was the first to reach the barn, sliding to a halt beside the outer wall.
Gunfire was now sporadic, both sides carefully picking their targets; still nothing from inside the barn. McDowell didn’t look to be pulling out just yet, perhaps realising the attackers couldn’t count on additional support.
A whispered instruction from Flores, then a burst from his SMG shattered the door lock; moments later, two stun grenades were lobbed through the smashed windows into the room beyond.
Even before the double explosion died away, Flores shoulder-charged the door, stumbling inside, a second agent and Anderson close on his heels, a single shot ringing out.