Sterling watched the curtain settle as the warm light vanished. Restrepo went to bed at 2230 most nights. It was 2228.
"He's tucking in. Sticking to routine," Sterling said. "Hold positions. We move at 0300." Restrepo knew they were coming.Knew it was soon. He just didn't know it was tonight—both for his protection and the integrity of the mission.
"Copy, Bravo One," Nick said.
"Copy," Doyle said.
"Copy," Nelson repeated.
Sterling eased back against the cinder block. He thought about the shirts on the railing. It wasn't anything important, but something to keep his mind occupied and alert.
But the buzzing streetlight on the corner kept tugging his focus away from his thoughts. Or maybe it was the shift in the air. He stiffened. The litter pattern at the storm drain hadn't moved. The parked cars along the south curb hadn't moved. Nothing had changed. That should have settled Sterling's nerves. But it didn't.
A dark Renault came down the street at thirty kilometers an hour.
Sterling lifted his rifle and peered through the scope.
The vehicle was a four-door sedan, nothing special. Though Sterling couldn't pinpoint the narrative, the muddied plates clearly conveyed a story.
There were two men in the front, two in the back. They drove past the panadería without slowing. That wasn’t necessarily significant. Tourists only slowed down if they were unsure of their location or interested in stopping. It was too late for that for the latter.
The Renault turned right at the corner and disappeared.
Sterling noted the time.
"Bravo Two," he said. "Dark Renault sedan with four passengers just passed your location."
"Copy that," Nick said. "It's doing a U-turn."
At forty-three seconds, the Renault came back around the block in the opposite direction, slower this time.
Shit. Sterling had spent eight months gathering intel not just on Restrepo, but on the organization. The CIA needed information, and Sterling had been at a standstill until Restrepo landed in his lap through a backdoor. His sister needed out of a bad situation, and the American government could help with that.
Sterling had been successful in getting Restrepo to agree to giving intel, and in return, he and his sister got to start a new life in America. All Sterling had to do was make it look like Restrepo had been abducted and murdered. That was actually the easy part.
Unfortunately, someone else's clock was running on Restrepo. Someone else had either figured out Restrepo had turned or wanted him for something else. And whoever they were, they were going to be inside that apartment in the next ten minutes.
"All Bravo, all Bravo," Sterling said. "Audible. We move now. Repeat, we move now. Three-mike collapse. Stack on the door."
"Copy, moving," Doyle said.
"Copy, moving," Nelson said.
"On it," Nick said.
"Pulling forward," Driscoll said.
Sterling broke position. The rifle came up and slung tight to his chest. For six hours, he’d kept his legs folded under him, and the first three strides down the rough stairwell sent a hot bloom of pins and needles up the back of his thighs. He took the flights two at a time, boots quiet on poured concrete and one hand on the unfinished railing for balance.
He busted through the side door and raced across the street.
The pavement was still wet from the rain. He kept low and his rifle ready, tight to his chest.
Nelson beat him to the front door. The breaching tool was pressed against his thigh. Nelson had done this in a dozen worse places.
Doyle came in from the east, scanning as he approached the door.
"Nick, position," Sterling said.