Blood List(59)

Gene scowled. "Maintain radio discipline." He then followed up with a question. "Sam?"

"Hard to pick out anything," she said. "It looks like you've got three boats, the Navy SEAL-style fast inflatable ones, three or four hostiles per boat. I don't see any large guns or anything, and resolution isn't good enough to pick out sidearms, but there are at least two assault rifles in the group. I think they're wearing night-vision goggles."

This was his worst nightmare. Gene stopped the Hummer behind the house. He grabbed the megaphone from the dash and jumped out, then headed inside with Paul on his heels. "You stay right there on that couch and don't even twitch." Gene feared that Marty might try a friendly fire incident with Renner and was equally afraid that Marty might not survive the experience if he tried it. He found the solution to his dilemma next to the couch in the form of an ornate wrought iron end table.

He pulled out a pair of the over-sized zip ties that many law enforcement agencies use for handcuffs and looked at Paul. "Grab the leg of that table." With two tight loops he secured Paul to the bulky, fifty-pound weight. Paul lay face-down on the couch and began whistling a tuneless melody. It's not perfect, but it should keep him from sneaking around. That done, he turned toward the door.

"Everyone check in. Watch your targets," Gene said. They all knew the drill, so no one spoke over anyone else.

"Brent, lighthouse."

"Goldman, cliff path."

"Bates, third floor."

"Palomini, first floor."

"Renner, couch." The irony in Paul's voice carried over the COM. Gene ignored him and moved to the porch.

Sam spoke. "ETA one minute forty."

Gene surveyed the beach. "We're in it deep, people. Verify that they're hostiles, then neutralize them. Keep them alive if at all possible. Carl and Marty, on my mark you take out their boats, then Carl, you hit the beach with the spotlight. Jerri, you keep on them so Sam can feed us information. Doug, fall back to the top of the path and get a field of fire on the beach. We'll force surrender as they stumble to shore. Go!" Simple, tactical, and hopefully hard to screw up. It might keep anyone from getting killed. He could see the lights approaching the beach.

Off to his right, Marty lay in the snow, using the edge of the cliff as a defilade. He had a sniper rifle trained at the beach and an H&K MP5 lying next to him. Gene ran forward several steps, then dropped to his belly. "If they fire, return for effect, but we don't want a bloodbath here. If we can show them they're trapped, they'll give up."

"Twenty seconds," Sam said.

Gene replied back, "Carl, Marty, do it."

Over the COM, Sam reported agents under fire on Martha's Vineyard, requesting immediate support.

The muzzle flash from Marty's shot left afterimages in Gene's vision, and the report was the loudest sound outside of a jet engine that he had ever heard. Carl's shot popped one raft. Gene saw dark forms dumped into the icy water as the deflated rubber tangled their legs. Marty's shot demolished the motor of the second raft. More dim shapes dove for cover into the water. One man wailed; a wet, gurgling cry of desperation. Marty rolled to the right, denying the men below an easy target and lining up for his next shot.

The third boat sped for shore, the men aboard opening fire as they made landfall. Gene rolled hard to his left, flinching as bullets thumped into the ground near his position. He heard the staccato beat of Doug's H&K from the cliff path and the throatier return chatter of AKs from the beach.

Marty's second shot burst the last raft, even as the beach lit up like a midsummer day. Carl had redirected the lighthouse beacon onto the shore. The men below covered their eyes as their night vision goggles were overloaded by the harsh glare. Gene crept forward for a better look.

Four men had made the sand, one face-down, the other three firing blindly toward the cliff face and the lighthouse. Another seven were still in the water, taking cover amidst the craggy rocks and tearing off their goggles. One, tangled in the rubber of his boat, screamed and clutched his face.

Gene yelled through the megaphone, straining to be heard over the pounding waves and weapons-fire. "FBI! Drop your weapons! You're surrounded and caught in a crossfire!" If the men below heard, they made no indication of it. He screamed again. "FBI! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"

A burst of automatic fire replied. A stream of bullets sliced into the upper cliff face and whizzed over his head. A window shattered in the house behind them as Gene scrambled backward. Doug responded with several tight bursts from his automatic. A man sprawled into the surf as Doug sprayed the rocks in the water with suppressing fire.