Free The Black Sun by James Twining Page A

freezer, the cold air swirling inside it like fog on a wet winter’s morning. Tom could just about make out what she was pointing at.
    An arm. A human arm. And it was holding a rolled-up canvas.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    BLACK PINE MOUNTAINS, NEAR MALTA, IDAHO
    January 5—2:09 p.m.
    The large H-shaped farmhouse and its rambling assortment of outbuildings nestled in a wide clearing in the middle of the forest. A single dirt track, wide enough for one car, snaked its way over three miles back to the nearest blacktop. Here and there animal tracks materialized and then faded away again, hinting at life without ever fully confirming it, the forest’s muffled silence broken only by the call of an occasional eagle knifing through the air far overhead before vanishing into the sun.
    Bailey lay in the snow, hidden among the trees, the crisp blue vault of the sky just about visible through their dark, oily branches. He was already cold, and now he could feel the moisture seeping in through the knees of his supposedly waterproof trousers. Viggiano was lying on one side of him, a pair of binoculars glued to his face, with Sheriff Hennessy on the other.
    “How many people did you say were in there?” asked Viggiano. “Twenty to twenty-five,” Bailey replied, shifting position to relieve the stiffness in his arms. “Each family’s got their
    70 james twining
    own bedroom in the side extensions. They all eat and hang out together in the main building.”
    “Goddamned cousin-fuckers,” Viggiano muttered. Bailey sensed Hennessy shifting uneasily beside him.
    Viggiano picked up his radio. “Okay, Vasquez—move in.”
    Two teams of seven men rose from their hiding places along Phase Line Yellow, their final position for cover and concealment, and emerged running in single file from the trees at opposite ends of the outer perimeter. Still in formation, they vaulted over the low wooden fence and passed Phase Line Green, the point of no return, rapidly moving in on the front and rear entrances to the main building. Once there, they crouched along the side walls to the left of each door.
    Using his own set of binoculars, Bailey checked the farmhouse for signs of life from inside—a shadow or a twitching curtain or a hurriedly extinguished light—but detected nothing apart from a few flakes of white paint peeling from the window frames and fluttering in the wind.
    Then he ran his binoculars along the two SWAT teams in their helmets, gas masks, and bulletproof vests. Against the whiteness of the snow they looked like large black beetles, the visors on their helmets winking in the afternoon sun. In addition to submachine guns and pistols, one man in each unit was also equipped with a large metal battering ram.
    “Okay,” came Vasquez’s voice over the radio. “Still no sign of activity inside. Alpha team, stand by.”
    A voice amplified through a bullhorn rang out. “This is the FBI. You are surrounded. Come out with your hands up.”
    “I said to keep it low-key, Vasquez, you macho idiot,” Viggiano muttered under his breath.
    Silence from the farmstead.
    Again the amplified voice blared out. “I repeat, this is the FBI. You have ten seconds to show yourselves.”
    Still nothing.
    Viggiano’s radio crackled. “Nothing doing, sir. It’s your call.”
    “Make the breach,” Viggiano ordered. “Now.”
    At each entrance the man with the battering ram stepped forward and slammed it into the
    lock.
    Both
    doors
    splintered
    71 the black sun

    on impact and flew open. A second man then lobbed a teargas canister through each open doorway. A few seconds later, the canisters exploded, sending dense, choking clouds of gas billowing out of the front and rear of the building.
    “GO, GO, GO!” yelled Vasquez as the men disappeared into the house. From their vantage point, Bailey could hear muffled shouting and the regular pop and fizz of further tear-gas grenades being let off, but nothing else. No screams. No crying children. Certainly not a