Split Second

King was riding in the backseat. He reached over and touched Parks on the shoulder. "You know Bob Scott is a weapons freak, but he's also an expert in hand-to-hand. That's how he escaped from the Viet Cong. Story goes he spent six months filing a metal buckledown to a razor's edge and then cut the throats of his two captors with it. Not a guy you want to slip up with."

"I hear you. We go in with surprise and overwhelming force. Textbook. That's the best way I know how to do it." Parks then said, "You really think we'll find Bruno and maybe Joan there?"

"Maybe," said King, "but I don't know if they'll be breathing."

Buick Man and Simmons were completing their preparations. The generators were in place and fully operational. The wires had been laid, the explosives set, the detonators readied. The items that Buick Man had so diligently created were also in place and ready for the big moment. All equipment had been tested and checked a dozen times. All it had to do was work perfectly the thirteenth go-round, and victory was theirs.

As Buick Man surveyed his handiwork representing so much planning and work, he didn't even allow himself a look of satisfaction. Simmons noted this and put aside the box he was rechecking.

"Well, it's almost show time. Looks like we're actually going to pull it off. You ought to feel good about that."

"Go check on them," Buick Man ordered crisply, and then sat in a chair and went over every detail again in his head.

Simmons made his way to the prisoners and eyed them through the separate doors of the rooms they were being held in. Unconscious for now-their food had been drugged-they'd be awake soon enough. And if all went according to plan, he'd be on his way out of the country with enough money to last him several lifetimes. He returned to where Buick Man still sat, eyes closed, head lowered.

"How long before you think they come calling here?" Simmons asked, breaking the silence hesitantly, for he knew how the man craved quiet.

Buick Man answered, "Soon. They should be hitting the Tennessee bunker any time now."

"They'll be surprised."

Buick Man looked at him disdainfully. "That's the general idea. Do you have any comprehension of the thought and planning that's gone into this? Do you think this is all simply for your amusement?"

Simmons looked down nervously. "So when will she be getting back?"

"She'll be here in time. She wouldn't want to miss the next part. I'm actually looking forward to it myself." Now he looked at his companion. "Areyou ready?"

Simmons squared his shoulders and assumed a confident look. "I was born ready for this stuff."

Buick Man stared at him intently for a moment or so and then lowered his head and closed his eyes once more.

61

Using binoculars, Michelle and King watched safely from the truck as a Suburban with a half dozen of Parks's men inside rolled down the dirt road toward the house, or more aptly, the cabin. Looking around, King thought that the area could not be any more remote. They were on the spine of a ridge of the Great Smoky Mountains, and the tricky topography had pushed the truck's four-wheel-drive power to its limits. Pine, ash and oak rose on all sides around them, forming a wall that would bring darkness here about two hours earlier than normal. Even now, at eleven o'clock in the morning, dusk seemed to be gathering, and there was a damp cold in the air that seemed to eat right through them, even inside the truck.

King and Michelle watched as the Suburban stopped in front of the cabin and the driver got out. There were no other vehicles visible; no smoke curled from the cabin's chimney, and not even a dog, cat or chicken graced the dirt front yard. Inside the truck the heavily armed federal agents were invisible behind the tinted glass. Well, King thought, the Trojan horse tactic had worked for thousands of years, and he hoped it continued its win streak here. As he sat there visualizing the agents lying in wait, another thought dimly took shape in his head: Trojan horse? He pushed it away for now and refocused on the coming siege.

The cabin was surrounded by the other agents, who lay in thedirt and grass and behind rock outcropping on all sides, their rifles pointed at precise locations along the target: the doors, windows and other prime kill zones. King thought whoever was in the cabin would need to be a magician to escape this net. And yet the underground bunker was problematic. He and Parks had discussed this. The blueprints the marshal had been able to obtain were missing one critical element: the location of the bunker's exterior doors and/or air vents, which it had to have. To guard against escape through these exits, Parks had posted men at points where it seemed logical the bunker would have outside access.