“I see movement but no faces.” Jonathan heard Boxers’ unmistakable growl through the same earpiece. Closer to seven feet tall than six, with a girth that made him look bulletproof, Boxers had been born as Brian Van de Meulebroeke, and had been Jonathan’s right-hand man from back in their days in the Unit when they’d toiled under the supervision of Uncle Sam and his surrogates. His position on the opposite hill gave him a good view of Jonathan’s location. “Looks like they might be here for the same reason we are. They’re taking positions next to you.”

Jonathan acknowledged by tapping his transmit button once to break squelch. They might be in the same place, Jonathan thought, but he doubted that they were here for the same reason. Jonathan’s plan was to let a group of kidnappers take a bag loaded with three million dollars in return for leaving behind their hostages. Now it seemed that there’d be competition for the money.

“One is very damn close to you, Boss,” Boxers went on. “I give it twenty feet of separation, and he’s settling in. There’s enough brush between the two of you that as long as you don’t sneeze, you’ll be invisible.” After about ten seconds, Boxers finished with, “I’ve got his range dialed in. If he makes an ugly face, I’ll take him out.”

In Boxers’ world, there were no problems so great that they couldn’t be solved with the appropriate application of firepower. In this case, the firepower in play would be Hechler and Koch’s HK417, a lightweight cannon chambered in 7.62 millimeter that could send ten rounds per second downrange with needle-threading accuracy. As far as Jonathan was concerned, it was the best marksman’s rifle since the M14, and he had every confidence that as long as Boxers was within a thousand yards (he was actually within a quarter of a thousand yards), his closest visitor posed no physical threat.

But why had he been joined by soldiers, and where had they come from?