Last Man Standing by David Baldacci Read Free Book Online Page B

them could have been working with the target?” said Bates, referring to the people Web and company had
     passed in the alley.
    “Down here anything’s possible,” replied Web. “There was obviously a leak. And it could have come anywhere along the line.”
    “There’s a lot of possibilities there,” Bates said. “Let’s go over some.”
    Web shrugged. “This wasn’t a triple-eight-beep scenario,” he said, a reference to the three number eights that appeared on
     his pager representing a command for all HRT operators to haul butt to Quantico. “Last night was selected as the target date
     in advance, so everybody met at HRT to get our gear and team configurations ready and then we moved out in the Suburbans.
     We did the prelim staging at Buzzard Point and then drove to the last staging area. We had a U.S. attorney available in case
     we needed some additional warrants issued. The snipers were already in place. They went in early posing as HVAC rehab workers
     doing a job on roof units on two of the buildings along the strike path. Assaulters did our down-and-dirty with the local
     police just like always. After we left the last point of concealment, Teddy Riner requested and received compromise authority
     because of the unfriendly logistics. We wanted to be able to shoot on the fly if we had to. We knew that hitting the place
     from the front and exposing ourselves to fire in the courtyard was risky, but we also thought they wouldn’t expect it. Plus
     the way the building was situated and configured, there weren’t a lot of options. We got the green light to move to crisis
     site and then we were going to execute on TOC’s countdown. We had one primary exterior breach point. The assault plan was
     to split once we were inside and hit from two points while Hotel and DEA blew in from the rear, with a unit in reserve and
     the snipers as backup firepower and cover. Hard and fast, just like always.”
    The two men sat on a pair of trash cans. Bates tossed his pack of gum in the trash, pulled out his cigarettes and offered
     one to Web, who declined.
    “The local police knew the target, didn’t they?” Bates asked.
    Web nodded. “The approximate physical location. So they can keep a presence, help quadrant off the area and keep people on
     the outside of the perimeter out of the way, look for associates of the target tipping them off, that sort of thing.”
    “How much advance time you figure the locals had in case there was a leak from there?”
    “Hour.”
    “Well, nobody set up that death trap in an hour.”
    “Who was the undercover on this one?”
    “Goes without saying that you take this name to the grave with you.” Bates paused, presumably for emphasis, and then said,
     “His name is Randall Cove. A real vet. Working the target from deep inside. I mean deep, like down-in-the-sewer deep. African-American,
     built like a truck and could do the street stuff with the best of them. He’s done a million of these gigs.”
    “So what’s his story?”
    “I haven’t asked him.”
    “Why not?”
    “I can’t find him.” Bates paused and then added, “Do you know for certain if Cove was aware when the hit was happening?”
    Web was surprised by this question. “Your end would know that better than mine. I can tell you for a fact that we were not
     briefed that the undercover or any snitches would be at the target. If they were supposed to be there, they’d tell us in the
     pre-op. That way we’d know who they were, what they looked like and we’d cuff ’em and get ’em out just like everybody else,
     so the real target wouldn’t get a heads-up and kill them.”
    “How much did you know about the target?”
    “Druggies’ financial ops, with bean counters present. Heavy security. They wanted the money guys as potential witnesses that
     we were to treat as hostages. Bag ’em fast and get them out before anyone figured out what we were doing and popped them so
     they couldn’t rat. Our