Free War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel by James Rollins, Grant Blackwood

unconnected.
    “Who was the intruder?” he asked. “A burglar?”
    Lyon shook his head. “Someone with training. He had a dog with him, too.”
    Pruitt frowned. “A dog?”
    “A big beast, according to Webster. He believes the pair had military training. They sent Webster and his partner running with their tails between their legs. No pun intended.”
    Lyon’s face was stone; he did not joke.
    Pruitt sat back. Karl Webster came out of the military. He was no slouch, and over the years Pruitt had learned to trust the man’s judgment. “What’s his take on this guy?”
    “Shots were exchanged, but Webster got the impression the intruder was purposefully avoiding hitting anyone. Which means this guy is careful, thoughtful, good under pressure.”
    Pruitt understood.
    Dead bodies bring unwanted attention .
    “Are there any leads on this mystery man?”
    Lyon frowned. “Not yet.”
    “Could he have found anything at Conlon’s home?”
    “Nothing. It’s been sanitized.”
    Let’s hope so .
    “Still, he wasn’t there by accident,” Pruitt said. “Someone must have sent him. And I could guess who that might be. Our last loose connection to Project 623.”
    Lyon nodded. “Jane Sabatello. It was my thought as well, but it gives me an idea.”
    Pruitt glanced harder at Lyon.
    “We know her phone is a ghost,” Lyon said. “All outgoing calls go through too many proxies to pin her down. But what about incoming calls? If she sent someone down to investigate Conlon, she’ll be expecting updates from him.”
    Pruitt rubbed his chin, calculating in his head. This last matter was too important to leave to Webster alone, especially this close to their first true test. It was time to tie up these loose ends once and for all.
    “I want you to go to Huntsville and work with Webster,” Pruitt ordered.
    “With all the surveillance resources we have sitting idle at Redstone Arsenal, surely we can find this man. And when you do, make sure he and his dog disappear.”
    Lyon nodded. “Consider it done.”

7
    October 13, 2:08 A . M . CDT
    Huntsville, Alabama
    Someone was coming . . .
    Trapped in Sandy’s storage locker, Tucker needed Kane’s eyes. He already had his satellite phone in hand after taking photographs of Sandy’s makeshift nerve center. As Kane let out another low growl, Tucker tapped in the code to bring up the feed from his partner’s video camera. He radioed Kane to go silent and keep out of sight.
    “C LOSE HIDE .”
    An image—washed out into gray tones by the camera’s night-vision mode—appeared on the screen. The view bobbled as the shepherd retreated to the rear bumper of the SUV. A figure appeared out from under the glare of a sodium lamp on a nearby pole—someone armed with a double-barreled shotgun. From the curves, it was plainly a young woman, her hair tied in a ponytail. She wore jeans, boots, and an untucked flannel shirt. She kept the shotgun firmly at her shoulder. From the way she carried it, she knew how to use it.
    And she hadn’t come alone.
    A large beefy Doberman kept glued to her side, tensed and obviously trained.
    “You in there!” she called out. “Come out! Slow now, you hear?”
    Tucker could guess who this woman was. He pictured the security camera he had noted on the light pole earlier. He raised his voice and called back, “Edith? Edith Lozier?”
    After a moment, the other answered, confirming his supposition. “Who are you?”
    Tucker didn’t want any misunderstanding with an armed civilian in the middle of the night. Apparently the caretaker of Garnett Self-Storage doubled as the security guard for the place. She must have seen him enter the storage facility and knew he didn’t belong here, especially at this particular locker.
    “I’m a friend of Sandy Conlon!” Tucker called back.
    “Come out and show me some ID.”
    Tucker pocketed his phone, approached the rolling door, and slowly pulled it up. The woman backed two firm steps, keeping the shotgun at