Page 1 of Resuscitation

Chapter One

Eastfork, NY

Seven men dressed in black and wearing unmarked ballistic vests jostled in their seats as the dark Ford van rumbled through the night. Outside, a storm raged, the windshield wipers frantically sweeping away the snow, gusts of wind battering the vehicle, buffeting the passengers.

In the dimly lit rear, each man inspected his gear—checking sidearms, mics, and earpieces. Satisfied with their equipment, one after another they pulled on night vision goggles, confirming they were operational with a quick thumbs-up.

Their leader sat in the seat diagonally behind the driver.

Andrew Mercer eyed each of his men in turn before opening a large Pelican case and removing law enforcement-issue Heckler he was prepared for this. He reached for his multi-meter and placed an insulated mat on the ground. Disconnecting the panel’s power supply was delicate work, and one misstep could trigger the alarm he was trying to disable.

He identified the live wires with the multi-meter, his movements precise and controlled.

Using wire cutters, he carefully severed the connections to the sensors and siren, then bridged specific circuits to create a false loop, making the system believe all sensors were in their neutral state.

He also found and disabled the tamper circuits, ensuring no backup alarm would be triggered.

Then the ex-con activated his radio and spoke into an earpiece that had been plugged into it.

“Delta to Bravo. Alarms down. Over.”

“Roger that,” came Harper’s reply from his planned position near the house.

The South African had been recruited for this job by Mercer’s ex-cell mate, Brick.

Harper had located the electrical box on the wall of the house and crouched down in front of it, adjusting a small, red lens headlamp.

Then he pried the box door open with a flathead screwdriver and scanned the complex wiring inside for a few moments before flipping the main breaker switch.

There was a secret, secondary compartment where the backup battery resided.

But it couldn’t hide from Harper, not for long.

Using wire cutters, he severed the connection to the battery, ensuring it couldn’t power the system.

He pressed his finger to his earpiece and spoke quietly into mic on his lapel, wired to the walkie-talkie on his belt. “Bravo to Alpha. Power and alarms are down. All clear to proceed. Out.”

In the van, Brick set up a DragonMart DMJ-208 signal jammer with a range of up to 150 meters to block mobile and GPS signals.

Mercer jumped out of the vehicle, jogged up to the gates, and pushed them open.

He hesitated for a moment, shoulders hunched in anticipation of alarms that never came.

Brick’s man, Harper, had performed as promised.

Connor started the van, kept the lights off, and drove through the gates. Mercer climbed back into the passenger seat, and the vehicle crept up the drive. “Twelve minutes until the alarm company’s response car arrives.”

“You sure it’s just a square badge, not the cops?” Connor asked, glancing at his brother.

“Watts is a fugitive. He wouldn’t risk calling the cops. Besides, they’d be even slower, especially in this weather.” The van stopped outside the historic mansion’s entry. Mercer exited with the handheld thermal imaging camera and pointed it at the building.

“Let’s see where you’re hiding, Watts.” He crunched through the thick snow along the front of the building until a heat signal displayed on his screen.

“Gotcha!” Mercer keyed his radio. “Target in second-floor front bedroom. Connor, Brick, on me.” He slapped the camera into Brick’s hand, gesturing to the remaining men with hand signals to circle around and enter from the other side. The figures soon disappeared into the blizzard.

Mercer flipped on his NVGs and strode to the front door, MP5 at the ready.

Connor and Brick followed close behind. Mercer tapped the door with the butt of his rifle, then slammed his boot against the wood, crashing it open without resistance.

The fancy electronic locks, now without power, had been rendered completely useless.

“Careful,” Connor blurted, but Mercer was already stepping over the threshold.

He stopped abruptly once inside. “What the fuck?”

Pile upon piles of junk filled the foyer, reaching almost to the second floor.

Bathtubs, bicycles, chairs, tables, shelves, old TVs, and appliances had all been thrown together, turning the interior into a literal dumping ground.

Who knew what booby-traps could be hidden in the haphazard hoard that blocked passage to the staircase?

Connor and Brick came alongside him, eyeing the flea market carnage.

“He’s on the move,” Brick muttered, tilting the angle of the display on the imaging camera to show Mercer. The man-shaped blob of heat seemed to ooze above them, headed toward the east wing of the house.

Static buzzed in Mercer’s ear. “Sierra to Alpha. We’re in the kitchen, but it’s blocked. There’s shit everywhere. Over.”

Before Mercer had a chance to respond, the world turned white. An intense, bright glare frazzled his eyesight. He ripped off his NVGs and squinted, rifle raised toward where the blob that had to be Watts had last been.

A voice boomed out from above. “Stop! Don’t move or you’re a dead man, Andy Mercer!”

He froze. Gradually Watts came into focus, crouched next to a giant spotlight positioned halfway up the stairs. The old man held a shotgun aimed directly at Mercer’s head.