Page 134 of Unexpected Redemption

Serving as our team lead, Leo provides a status for HQ. “Alpha team in recon position.”

I lower my NODs, resting them on the bridge of my nose, and zoom in on the rear of the building. It takes a few secondsfor my eyes to adjust to the greenish hue of the night vision in these things. I was never a fan, but it’s necessary to carry out missions in low lighting unless you want to wave around a big-ass flashlight and give away your position like an FNG. Nice way to get shot.

Scanning from side to side, I detect no movement along the back of the structure.

“As expected, the strip mall is approximately three hundred feet long. Limited lighting,” Leo mutters.

“Five rear doors for the individual businesses. All closed. No sign of pedestrian activity,” Sawyer adds.

“No visible cameras on the roof or along the fence,” I report.

Calling it afenceis a little generous. The chain-link barrier lining the back of the property is fucking cut, lifted, and rolled in so many directions it’s barely identifiable.

Sawyer continues with his call out. “One vehicle parked behind the building. A black sedan. Dark tinted windows. It’s on the east end, near the dumpster.”

Interesting that the informant would park there when we’re supposed to meet at the west rear corner of the alley behind the strip mall.

Adrenaline begins flowing through me. “Can you run the plate, Klein?”

Klein’s response is gruff and not fucking helpful to the mission. “Fuck no. The way they’re backed up, I can’t see it unless I get the drone between the fucking bumper and dumpster.”

My agitation at these fucking mosquitoes and lack of viable intel approaches throat punch levels. “Do you at least recognize the vehicle from our surveillance?”

“Negative. It’s not one we’ve been tracking.”

“Of course not,” I grumble under my breath like a tantrum-throwing teen.

“Is the car running?” Leo asks.

“I can’t tell,” I answer, then swat a mosquito drinking from my neck.

Another swat, this time on the tiny patch of exposed skin on my forearm. Hanging out in the wooded brush in Florida at night—not a fan.

Fucking fieldwork.

Probably snakes in here too. So many lizards. Lettie would freak. Hope she isn’t paying too much attention to our cam footage.

At least we’re far enough from water to avoid becoming gator food. Most likely.

Boss’s deep timbre cuts through the comms. “Team, target location is too dark for my liking. But my gut says to proceed once bravo gets in position.”

“How’s your gut, Lionheart?” Sawyer asks, oddly accent-free.

“Nice and peaceful,” he responds coolly.

Both their guts are calm? You can take that check to the bank. It’s as good as backed by the Federal Reserve and blessed by the Pope.

Mia cracks her mic for the first time since we arrived on the scene. “Teams, we’ve only got one heat signature in the car. Driver’s seat. Vehicle is running with the air conditioning on. No interior lights on at present, so our vision is limited.”

I lock my eyes on the car, angling to see who is inside. “Can you tell anything else about the tango?”

“Not from how they’re sitting,” she responds with frustration braided in her words.

Klein comes through next. “Bravo team, we see you. Move into your recon position. Jeeves, start circling.”

“Wilco,” Henderson replies, ignoring the joke about him being the chauffeur.

Even the Tomer of old would have had a retort to that.

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