The Last Line Read Free Page A

meters; getting it wet in a late-night swim wasn’t going to hurt the unit at all. He struck out with a breaststroke, moving slowly to avoid disturbing the water with more than a ripple. Someone might be watching the water, though he doubted it. Across the lake was exactly the wrong direction for someone trying to reach the airfield.
    At least, it was for people trying to reach it through the woods. Teller had a different idea.
    The pond was a brackish, irregular lake just off the nearby river. Teller was swimming down one of the lake’s inlets now. Five hundred yards to the northeast, lights showed on a wooded shore. There was a small suburban community there between the millpond and the river, according to the maps Teller had studied—houses belonging to the Farm’s permanent staff or used by long-term guests.
    What he was about to try was almost certainly in violation of at least the spirit of tonight’s E&E exercise. He hadn’t exactly been ordered to stay on a particular route, but there’d been a clear understanding that he was to travel a more or less direct path southeast from the drop-off point to the airfield, sticking to the woods and swamps and staying clear of inhabited areas. The total trek was about three miles; he’d already traveled more than that, backtracking twice since midnight, then swinging well to the north and east to avoid his pursuers.
    He maintained a slow but steady pace across the black water with scarcely a ripple to betray his movement. In the distance, shouts silenced the steady chirp of crickets. It sounded like they’d found Red Three.
    Eventually his boots brushed against mud, and then he staggered up out of the lake, dripping. A few more yards through a sheltering privacy wall of trees, and he emerged onto a suburban street.
    Most of the houses were empty; all were dark. One nearby house had a couple of cars parked in the driveway, a two-door Nissan and a Ford pickup truck. He pulled a small folding knife from a pocket in his utilities. The truck was the easier target—and as a bonus it wasn’t even locked. Well, why should it be? This small and quintessentially American community was located deep in the heart of one of the most secure and secret facilities in the United States.
    A few moments later, he touched two bare wires to each other and the truck gunned to life. He wrapped the wires together, put the vehicle in gear, backed out onto the street, and drove off toward the southeast.
    Fifteen minutes later, once again in the woods, he abandoned the truck at the side of a road, checked his compass, and started walking once more.
    Ten minutes more on foot brought him to the airfield. There was some activity on the far side of the runway—vehicles with flashing red lights and a couple of military Hummers. The control tower building was brightly lit; a room on the ground floor had been converted into a temporary command center for the night’s festivities.
    A pair of contractors met him outside the command center, rough-looking men in camouflage utilities and carrying M-4A1 Commandos. “Hold it right there, asshole,” one of them growled.
    â€œI’ve finished the fucking mission,” Teller said. He glanced at his watch—0314, well ahead of his 0600 deadline. “Game’s over. Let me through.”
    â€œYou’re damned right, game over,” the other merc said with a nasty grin. “You’ve got some people pretty fucking pissed off at you.”
    â€œIncluding us, you son of a bitch,” the first merc said.
    Teller studied the two. The CIA often employed contract soldiers—mercenaries—for its sentries, shit details, military ops, and, as tonight, its paramilitary training exercises. They were well trained and generally possessed decent to excellent martial arts skills. Teller might be able to take down one of these two, but not both, not after running through the woods for three hours and