He pulled a crate from under the floorboards that the thugs hadn’t found. Inside, wrapped in oiled paper, was not money, but things that could stop a small army: ammo cans, a few old but reliable grenades, a roll of tripwire, and an old-school but functional night vision set.
“You thought I was just picking berries?” Mike whispered, loading magazines. “I’ve been waiting for you for fifteen years.” He knew they’d come eventually.
The ones who didn’t forgive him for the failure of Operation Sunset back in ’98. The ones who lost millions because of his principles. He didn’t know their names then, but he knew men like that had long memories.
Mike staged his weapons. The shotgun by the window facing the porch. The pistol tucked into his belt, a grenade in his jacket pocket.
Blue sat beside him, sensing his master’s tension. The dog let out a tiny whine. “Quiet, boy. We’re going to work,” Mike calmed him.
The radio on the table hissed. Through the static, a voice broke through. Cold, authoritative, emotionless.
“Unit One, report. Unit One, status. Over.” Mike picked up the radio. He waited.
“Unit One, respond. If no response, we initiate Phase Two. Grid sweep. ETA five minutes.”
Mike keyed the mic. He didn’t try to mimic Scar’s voice. There was no point.
“Base,” he said in his calm, deep voice. “Unit One is out of the game. Two and Three as well. Send the rest, just bring plenty of body bags.”
“The ground is frozen; digging is hard work.” There was a long silence on the other end. Then the voice replied, and there was a hint of recognition in it.
“Ghost. You’re still alive. Good. I like finishing things personally.”
The connection cut. Mike put the radio down. So, they knew who he was, and they were coming.
Five minutes. ETA. Was it a chopper?
In this weather? Unlikely. Probably snowmobiles.
The wind muffled the sound of engines, but they’d be here soon. “Alright, boys!” he told the tied thugs. “The party’s starting.”
“I’m putting you in the root cellar. It’s safe there unless they toss a grenade through the window. Stay quiet as mice.” He opened the hatch in the floor that led to the small cellar where he kept his preserves.
One by one, he lowered his prisoners down. Tiny groaned in pain as he was lowered, but Mike ignored it. He needed a clear field of maneuver.
Closing the hatch, he slid a heavy chest over it. Now he had an empty house turned into a pillbox. Mike put on the night vision goggles and checked the fit.
A greenish light filled the room. He saw everything: every crack, every corner. He stepped onto the porch, letting in a swirl of snow.
Blue followed. “Flank!” Mike commanded, pointing into the dark. The dog understood without words.
His job was to be the invisible flank attack. Mike stood alone on the porch. In the distance, through the howl of the blizzard, he heard a growing rumble.
The steady, powerful roar of engines. Snowmobiles. And there were several of them.
Four, maybe five. Their headlights cut through the forest darkness, dancing across the tree trunks. They were moving confidently, in a wedge formation.
Pros. These guys wouldn’t talk or ask for money. They’d shoot on sight.
Mike raised the shotgun. He felt the years falling away. The ache in his back was gone.
His hands were as steady as granite. He was at war again. And the war had come to his front door.
The first snowmobile burst into the clearing in front of the house. The rider was in white camo. He held a submachine gun…
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