I need a driver, a sniper, and someone to handle communications. That's it. This is against protocol, Ramirez warned. If anything goes wrong, my son is in the hands of a man who has every reason to want me to suffer. Jonathan cut her off.
Protocol isn't going to save Malik. I am. After a tense moment, Ramirez nodded. Okay, I'll drive. Williams can handle.
Comms and Jackson is our best sniper. Good. We leave in 5 minutes. As they prepared to depart, Jonathan's secure phone buzzed with a message. Files for the boy.
Delaware warehouse district building 17. Come alone. They've made contact, he told Ramirez, showing her the message. Delaware matches the tracker's direction, she confirmed. But this feels like a trap.
Of course, it's a trap, Jonathan agreed. But now we know exactly where they're taking him, and they don't know. We know. The four-person team moved with practice efficiency, loading gear into an unmarked SUV. Jonathan checked his weapons one last time, his mind replaying the Syrian mission where he had first encountered Anton Vulk.
The man had been ruthless then, a skilled operative with a sadistic streak. Jonathan had shot him during their final confrontation, but Vulk had managed to escape. Now 5 years later, folk had brought their unfinished business to American soil and worse had dragged Malik into it. As they pulled away from the house, Jonathan made a silent vow. By day's end, only one of them would still be standing, and for Malik's sake, it had to be him.
The warehouse district in Delaware was a maze of abandoned buildings and crumbling infrastructure. Once a thriving industrial center, it had fallen into disrepair over the decades, creating the perfect setting for clandestine operations. Building 17 stood at the far edge of the complex, a massive concrete structure with broken windows and rusted metal doors. From their vantage point a/4 mile away, Jonathan surveyed the warehouse through high-powered binoculars. The tracker showed Malik was inside, his signal stationary for the past 30 minutes.
Two guards at the main entrance, Jonathan noted, another on the roof, probably more inside. Agent Jackson, positioned with his sniper rifle on an adjacent rooftop, confirmed through their secure comms. I count five hostiles total on exterior patrol. Standard rotation pattern, fairly disciplined. Professional operators, Jonathan acknowledged.
Not just hired muscle, Ramirez checked her watch. We've got just under 2 hours before their deadline. What's the plan? Jonathan studied the building's layout on his tablet. Folk will expect me to come through the front with the files trying to make the exchange.
We're going to disappoint him. He pointed to a maintenance tunnel indicated on the old building plans. This service access runs beneath the entire complex. Most likely they haven't secured it since it's not on recent maps. And if they have, Ramirez asked.
Then we adapt, Jonathan replied simply. Jackson stays on overwatch. You take the east side. I'll go in through the tunnel. Williams maintains communications and coordinates our movements.