The Paris Betrayal James Hannibal (free ereaders TXT) 📖

symptom-fighting meds had given Ben a smidgeon of relief from the bacteria, not enough to feel like himself, but enough to go a few rounds with the likes of Dylan. And he’d bought some extra goodies for the occasion, all stuffed into a new backpack. Ben also had the kick Tess gave him, but she’d warned him not to use it unless he had no other choice.

After wiping his eyes and face with his shirt, Ben ran along the property’s redbrick wall, searching for a good entry point. He found an oak with overhanging branches and nodded. “You’ll do.”

How many times in his career had Ben dropped over an eight-foot fence or wall? Never once had he so much as twisted an ankle. This time faux grass gave way on impact and he fell another six feet into a square, carbon fiber pit. The extra distance, combined with the disease and the weight of his backpack, drove him into the floor—an undignified heap of arms and legs.

Laughter. Dylan’s voice—undercut by a whining hum. “Oh how the mighty Saber has fallen.”

Ben zeroed in on the source. A drone about the size of a volleyball zipped into view to hover beneath the oak tree’s overhanging branches.

“You chose the most obvious route over the wall, Grandpa. Try not to be so predictable.”

The drone’s camera twitched and zoomed to watch Ben haul himself from the pit.

Ben dusted himself off and looked up with a growl. “Is that all you’ve got?”

It wasn’t.

Ben took one step into the yard and a sprinkler head popped up. A burst of high-intensity light seared his brain—an instant migraine. Ben shielded his eyes and stumbled sideways, only to catch a blurred glimpse of a larger head rising from the grass. A drum with a wide gun barrel attached to each side swiveled to track him.

“Dylan, don’t you—”

The device opened fire.

Ben hoisted his backpack up as a shield, knocked back by the rapid pelting of hard rubber slugs. A ripple of four caught his kneecap. “Aagh!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?” The camera drone haunted him, following wherever Ben went but staying just out of reach.

Still blocking the rubber projectiles, he retreated to the cover of a tree trunk deeper in the yard. He waited until a whirring noise told him the drum had run out of ammo, then dealt with the drone. He stepped into the open and swung his backpack at his tormentor.

The drone shot upward, but it clipped a branch, slowing it down. Ben let the backpack go at the apex of its swing and hit his target. The drone fell to the grass, one rotor spinning, the other broken. He hobbled over and picked it up to glare into the camera. “Remember. You did this. Not me.” Ben walked to the brick wall and smashed the drone to bits.

He still had to deal with the flashing sprinkler head. By covering his eyes with his coat, Ben reduced the light to a faded blink and walked close enough to find it with his foot. He stomped it into the grass.

Head pounding, knee aching, eyes burning, Ben marched up to Dylan’s porch steps. “I’m coming in one way or another. Open up or get clear.” He dug through the contents of his bag, drawing out a steel square, six inches on a side, with holes in each corner.

A panel next to the door slid down, exposing a large round disk. Ben instantly felt heat and nausea developing in his chest. He sighed and jammed his KA-BAR straight into the device. A spark flashed. The heat and nausea went away.

A speaker next to the door crackled. “Harsh, Ben. Truly harsh. Do you have any idea how much an acoustic incapacitator costs?”

“Then you shouldn’t have turned it on.” Ben returned to his work.

A camera lens in the porch ceiling turned, zooming in. “Now what?” Dylan said. “What’ve you got there?”

“I went shopping.”

“Shopping for wha—” The kid paused as Ben drew out a plastic grocery bag. “Wait. You didn’t go to Walmart.”

“Yep. Walmart. It didn’t have to be this way.”

“Okay. I can see you’re angry. We both are. And maybe we both said and did things we regret. But that’s no reason—”

“I’m not bluffing, Dylan.”

A laugh—nervous and uncertain. “My door is double-reinforced steel. You’ll never get through.”

“I guess we’ll find out. I don’t know if I ever told you, but I scored high in field chemistry at the schoolhouse.”

Walmart. Low prices on everything an isolated field operative or a homegrown terrorist could possibly need. The idea that you can buy cold packs, geriatric laxatives, fuel additives, and powdered sugar all in the same place—without a photo ID or a federal explosives license—is ludicrous, bordering on criminal.

The only piece of the old recipe missing from the store shelves was iron oxide—more of preference than a necessity. Ben had filed all he needed off the bumper of a rusty Ford in the motel parking lot.

Ben carefully lifted a ball of pinkish-gray putty from the Walmart bag and mashed it against the door next to the knob. To this, he added a model rocket ignitor and attached a roll of wire. He covered the putty with the steel plate and used a miniature drill to drive metal screws into three of the corners.

“Stop that. Desist!” Another drone swept in to harass him, buzzing his head.

Without a word, Ben snatched it from the air and held it fast. He drilled the fourth screw through one of the drone’s skids, securing it to the plate’s last corner. The rotors spun with wild abandon, but the craft could not escape.

“Here’s the thing,” Ben said, packing up. “Nonlethals don’t stop a determined home invader. They just make him mad. Final warning, Dylan. Get clear. I’ll give you ten seconds.” He walked away, trailing the wire behind him.

Dylan’s six-foot pit provided convenient cover. Ben lowered himself inside and covered his ears. “Three, two, one . . .” He touched the wire’s alligator clip to a pair of nine-volt batteries duct-taped together.

The blast shook