Despite the surging anger of those first moments, McDowell worked hard to maintain an aura of studied calm. His normally reliable sources had given him no warning as to an attack and he had no idea as to the FBI’s numbers. Maybe a dozen men and lightly armed, but they had already managed to fight their way into the two barns. The computer room was at the rear of the farmhouse, on the top floor, out of direct view of the attackers; safe for maybe another five minutes at most.
Terrill was fast outliving its usefulness and McDowell knew he couldn’t afford to delay any longer. A week was all he had wanted, even five days might have been enough. He moved across to where Jon Carter sat, the Englishman more focused on checking the local police reports than the drama outside. They had practiced such a scenario just the once, the four non-combatants primed as to what to do and say, no-one expecting them to make a fight of it. And if everything went to plan, they’d most likely be back on the streets within seventy-two hours. The key figures were already working as one to remove the President from power, it assumed success would drag along with it the ambitious and the naïve, the silent majority confused enough by recent events to follow their natural inclination and do nothing.
A hand on Carter’s shoulder and a nod of affirmation was all it took to seal Terrill’s fate. A brief word to the others, then McDowell grabbed his M4 assault rifle, thundering down the stairs before ordering Preston to check out the back; including McDowell, Terrill’s security complement had already been reduced from eight to just four – time to leave, if they could.
With a raucous clatter the FBI renewed their attack, McDowell instinctively ducking as the wall beside him exploded with plaster and brick; Carter and Preston waited at the rear of the farmhouse, impatient to leave.
“Cameras picked out several more agents,” Carter advised. “About two hundred yards to the north; nothing east or west.”
“West,” McDowell ordered without hesitation. “We’ll aim for 604 and try to hijack a vehicle.” He glanced at Carter, “Stay here, Jon; your job’s done.”
“No thanks,” responded Carter, shaking his head. “Even twenty-four hours stuck in a cell is too long, let alone seventy-two.”
McDowell merely nodded in understanding. A final check and then he led the way out the back. The double gates at the rear threatened to be a choke point, McDowell wasting precious seconds struggling to get them open; it was then a staggered withdrawal, McDowell and Lavergne sprinting ahead for forty yards before covering the other three as they chased past. Even as McDowell slithered to a halt beside a stumpy bush, there was a renewed rattle of gunfire from the north.
Carter weaved first one way and then the other in the hope of escaping a bullet, suddenly stumbling. He fell just short of McDowell, coughing blood. McDowell started to move toward him but was waved away, it obvious even to Carter that the FBI was for once the healthier option.
Preston raced past, stopped, fired, and then shouted McDowell forward. Now they were also taking gunfire from the farmhouse, McDowell urging everyone on, hoping that it was all worth the effort. If they could get hold of a car then they stood a chance, a police helicopter his greatest worry.
Three of them made it to the treeline. Not that there was any sign of active pursuit, the FBI seemingly content with the prize of the research centre and its secrets.