Page 1 of Resuscitation
ChapterOne
Eastfork,NY
Friday, February 13th, 7:37 P.M.
Seven men dressedin black and wearing unmarked ballistic vests jostled in their seats as the dark Ford van rumbled through the night. Outside, a storm raged, the windshield wipers frantically sweeping away the snow, gusts of wind battering the vehicle, buffeting the passengers.
In the dimly lit rear, each man inspected his gear—checking sidearms, mics, and earpieces. Satisfied with their equipment, one after another they pulled on night vision goggles, confirming they were operational with a quick thumbs-up.
Their leader sat in the seat diagonally behind the driver. Andrew Mercer eyed each of his men in turn before opening a large Pelican case and removing law enforcement-issue Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns. The H&Ks hadn’t been cheap or easy to come by, but with everything riding on tonight’s success, they were worth the investment. He handed out the MP5s along with their 30-round magazines, finishing with a trio of flash-bang grenades for each of the team.
As his team inspected their new armaments, eyes gleaming like kids on Christmas morning, Mercer unholstered his own Glock 22 semiautomatic, checked the rounds of Speer gold dot ammunition, and slapped the magazine into place with a familiar click before racking the slide to place a live round in the chamber.
Satisfied that his men were ready, Mercer moved into the front passenger seat beside the driver, carefully placing the last MP5 alongside the van’s central console.
“We’re good to go,” he told Connor, the driver.
Connor, eyes narrowed to see the highway through the relentless barrage of snow, gestured to an exit sign. “This it?”
Mercer frowned. At the snow, at the sign he could barely read through the fog, but mostly at the lack of enthusiasm in Connor’s voice. His little brother was the whole reason tonight was happening—to make up for everything that had gone wrong in their lives, to pay back the man who’d stolen so much from them, to finally get what he and Connor deserved. A little appreciation of Mercer’s hard work wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?
“Take the exit and turn left,” he replied. “Our road is another two miles after.”
Connor veered onto the exit, the rear of the van shimmying as the tires fought for traction. As he slowed for the turn onto the county road, Mercer saw him glance at the rearview mirror and the dark clad, dangerous-looking figures hunched in the back, slapping magazines onto their new weapons with dark determination.
Enough of this shit, Mercer thought. Kid needed to get his thinking straight before the action started. “Spit it out. What’s eating at you?”
“Yeah, uh, I’m just thinking.” Not Connor’s strong suit, but Mercer didn’t say anything—ever since Connor got out of the joint, he seemed even more hesitant than he used to be. As if a few years in prison had drained his will to take ownership of anything, much less his own damn life. Another reason for tonight—Mercer was certain that once they got what they came for, Connor would regain his spark, go back to the little brother Mercer missed so bad it felt like a part of him had vanished.
Connor continued, “Like, don’t you think this is all overkill? For one guy, I mean. Plus, don’t we have the element of surprise?” Connor looked at his older brother hopefully, as if he might agree and call the whole thing off.
“One guy—one guy who murdered our grandfather in cold blood.” Mercer’s voice dropped low and deadly, a rattlesnake spitting venom. “One guy holed up in a mansion fortress up in the mountains with what he stole. From us. One fuckin’ guy. We’re not taking any chances with this sonofabitch.”
Connor nodded, his expression locked down tight, giving nothing away. “Sure, Andrew. You’re the boss.”
Mercer narrowed his gaze as he studied his little brother. “Hey, you know I’ve got your back, right? Think I’m gonna let you down?” He winced at the unspoken “again” floating between them. Not again.Neveragain. “No damn way. We’re going in and taking back what’s ours.”
“No, no, I know that. I know that.” Then he said the word Mercer had been waiting for. “Thanks. You could’ve taken off, didn’t have to wait for me to get out. Thanks. For everything.”
Mercer nodded, satisfied. He needed everyone on the same page here. He’d spent years of his life tracking down Watts, their grandfather’s killer. The man who had stolen the priceless Bitterroot Stars, rubies which were rightfully theirs. A man who was meant to be his father’s best friend, who’d been Connor’s godfather for chrissake. Tonight, the traitor was going to pay for fucking with the Mercer family.
As silence filled the front of the van, in the back, one of the crew, Mark Evans, an agile, small-framed man, toyed with a portable keypad that emitted annoying click-clacks.
“You gonna get us in clean this time, Marky Mark? Unlike that crapshoot job over in Cleveland?” a voice cut in. It was Leon, with a freshly shaved, blond crewcut and a perpetual scowl. “Tripped every damn sensor in the place.”
“Jesus, you still going on about that shit? It was two years ago. And no, I didn’t trip every sensor…one went off for about a millisecond, so fuck you.”
“Ooohhh, did I trigger you?” Leon cooed before turning to the figure hunched next to him, a large man combing through the snaking mohawk centered on his shaven skull. “You get me, right, Brick? Got no time for fuckups, right?”
Brick, still combing, glared at the two men. Mercer always laughed at how the ugliest man he’d ever met was fanatical about maintaining his weird-ass haircut. “Knock it off, both of ya. Not the time for draggin’ up ancient history.”
“Yeah, shuddup, dickwipe,” Mark chimed in.
Jonah Harper, a tall and imposing South African mercenary, checked his equipment with an almost obsessive attention. “I can tell you all one thing. The power’ll be out in seconds. There’ll be no mistakes from me,” he stated, his tone leaving no room for doubt.
Across from him, Tyson Wallace rolled his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips. “There you go again, actin’ like you’re the only one who knows what he’s doing. Just cuz you’ve got that sexy accent going on.”
“Someone’s gotta make up for the general lack of brains around here,” Harper retorted, buttoning a pair of wire cutters into his chest pocket.
