Power and Empire

Loading magazines was a Zenlike experience for him, and Clark took his time, thinking through his plan as he depressed the follower and slid in each successive round. He tucked the mags in the pocket of his navy blue windbreaker and stuffed the remainder of his gear into the CamelBak hydration pack. He left the Gemtech suppressor attached to the Glock, and put that in the pack as well, wearing the Wilson on his hip for the time being. In his pocket, he carried a small flashlight, a Zippo lighter, and a heavy-duty Benchmade automatic knife called a Presidio. He was not one to consider blades very good defensive weapons. They just weren’t tactical. Offensive killing was an entirely different story.

Clark spent the next ten minutes sitting in the parking lot studying Google Maps of the area around Zambrano’s place, committing the various possible routes of approach to memory. He’d look at them again when he got closer, but it gave his mind something to chew on while he made the hour-and-a-half drive.

In the meantime, he pushed the speed-dial button for his wife. She answered on the first ring.

He had no news, at least none that he could share with her. Sometimes it was just comforting to hear her voice.

• • •

Emilio Zambrano had done Clark the great favor of building his house on a lake. People in the United States tended to feel more secure when they faced the water, as if any threat would have to work too hard to get to them from that direction.

There were several lots for sale across this arm of the reservoir, and it was a simple matter for Clark to park and pretend to be an interested customer. He would eventually work his way closer, but a pair of 18-power marine binoculars from a quarter-mile away helped him rough out the beginnings of a plan.

Zambrano had gone a step further than most and picked a site in a secluded bay, cut back approximately fifty meters from the main body of the lake. The home itself was a gray brick two-story, tucked in at the head of the bay in between two limestone ridges that were covered with cedar trees. The eastern ridge jutted out farther than the one on the west and looked like it would make a good vantage point when he did decide to move closer. A long grassy hill, as manicured as any fairway at Augusta, ran down from a raised deck on the front of the house to the water’s edge. A runabout, gleaming white in the Texas sun, was tied up to a set of floating docks. To the right of the house, a swimming pool had been cut into the side of the hill along with a brick cabana that matched the house. The cabana, as well as a small utility shed partway down the hill, hid much of the pool from any boats that happened to venture too close to the property. For Clark’s purposes, the outbuildings conveniently created a blind spot from above, leaving a good portion of the dock invisible from the upper portion of the property.

Clark watched long enough to count seven different men wandering the grounds. There was something going on up at the pool, but the angle was wrong so he couldn’t tell what it was. He took a swig of bottled water before pouring the remainder into the dirt and replacing it with about a half-cup of brake fluid. He re-capped the bottle and put it in the CamelBak with the unopened sack of pool shock. After one final gear check, he drove to the other side of the lake.

Clark had arrived early enough in the day that he could take his time. He drove past Zambrano’s nondescript steel gate and left the rental in the trees nearly a mile down the gravel road. From there he traveled cross-country, going up and over two scrubby hills before arriving at the eastern ridge overlooking Zambrano’s docks. His dark blue windbreaker and khaki slacks melded perfectly with the mottled shadows of scrub cedar and caliche rock.

Clark often thought that he’d spent at least a quarter of his adult life flat on his belly peering through one kind of scope or another, watching, waiting. There was, to him, a great virtue in stillness.

His initial assessment had been correct. The ridge offered a near perfect vantage point of the house, the expansive deck and hot tub, the pool, and the docks below. He was much closer than before but, at just over a hundred meters and in the trees, was far enough away that he didn’t have to worry too much about being seen. Still, years of discipline forced him to move slowly and deliberately, staying off the ridgeline to keep from silhouetting himself.

Making himself comfortable, he set the binoculars on the ground beside him and took out the notebook and pencil again, entering data in more detail now that he was close enough for a better look. His first course of business was to identify as many of Zambrano’s men as he could. From the looks of things, Pacheco had been right. Security here was the Sun Yee On triad, likely employed by Lily Chen.