Temple

'That's what we thought, too,' Aaronson said. 'And as far as we know, only one terrorist organisation in the United States is known to use tungsten-based ammunition. The Oklahoma Freedom Fighters.'

Demonaco didn't look up from the bullet in his hands.

'That's true, but the Freedom Fighters—'

'—are known to operate like this,' Aaronson cut in. 'Special forces-type entry, double-taps to their victims' heads, the theft of cutting-edge military technology.'

'It would appear that you've been to one of my seminars, too, Captain Aaronson,' Demonaco said.

'Yes, I have,' Aaronson said, 'but I also consider myself to be a specialist in this field, too. I've studied these groups extensively as part of ongoing Naval security updates. We have to keep an eye on these people, too, you know.'

'Then you'd know that the Freedom Fighters are in the middle of a turf war with the Texans,' Demonaco said.

Aaronson bit his lip, frowned. He obviously hadn't known that. He glared at Demonaco, stung by the veiled retort.

Demonaco looked up at the two Naval officers through his horn-rimmed glasses. There was something they weren't telling him.

'Gentlemen. What happened here?'

Aaronson and Mitchell exchanged a look.

'What do you mean?' Mitchell asked.

'I can't help you if I don't know the full story of what happened here. Like, for starters, what it was that was stolen.'

Aaronson grimaced. Then he said, 'They were after a device called the Supernova. They knew where it was and how to get it. They knew all the codes and had all the card- keys. They moved with precision and speed, like a well-oiled commando unit.'

Demonaco said, 'The Freedom Fighters' strike team is good but it isn't big enough to take down a place this size.

It's too small, maybe two or three men at the most. That's why they only attack soft targets—-computer labs, low-level government offices—places from which they can steal technical data like electrical schematics or satellite overpass times. But most importantly, they only attack sites that are lightly guarded. Not fortresses like this. They're first and foremost techno-nuts, not a full-frontal assault squad.'

'But they are the only group known to use tungsten-based ammunition,' Aaronson said.

'That's true.'

'So maybe they've stepped up their operations,' Aaron- son said smugly. 'Maybe they're trying to make the leap into the big leagues.'

'Possible.'

'It's possible,' Aaronson snorted. 'Special Agent Demonaco, perhaps I haven't made something clean The device that was stolen from this facility is of the utmost importance to the future defence of the United States. In the wrong hands, its use could be catastrophic. Now, I have SEAL teams standing by right now to take out three suspected Freedom Fighter locations. But my bosses need to know that this is clean—they don't want another Baltimore.

All we need from you is an acknowledgment that this robbery could only have been done by them.'

'Well…' Demonaco began.

It all depended on the tungsten bullets, really. But for some reason that Demonaco couldn't quite put his finger on, their use here troubled him…

'Agent Demonaco,' Aaronson said, 'let me make this simpler. To the best of your knowledge, is there any paramilitary group in the United States other than the Oklahoma

Freedom Fighters that uses tungsten-cored ammunition?'

'No,' Demonaco said.

'Good. Thank you.'

And with that, Aaronson gave Demonaco and Mitchell a withering glare and stalked away to a nearby telephone where he dialled a short number and said, 'This is Aaronson. Assault operations are go. Repeat. Assault operations are go. Take the bastards down.'

Daylight came to the rainforest.

Race awoke to find himself propped up against the wall of the ATV. His head ached and his clothes were still damp.

The sliding side door of the ATV lay open. He heard voices outside.

'—what are you doing here?'

'—my name is Marc Graf, and I am a lieutenant in the Fallschirmjäger—'

Race got up and went outside.

It was morning and a low fog had descended upon the village. The ATV was now parked in the centre of the main street, and as he stepped out of the big armoured vehicle, it took him a moment to adjust his eyes to the wall of grey all around him. Slowly, however, the main street of Vilcafor began to take shape.

Race froze.

The street was completely deserted.

All the bodies from the previous night's slaughter were gone. Indeed all that remained in their place were large pools of mud and water, peppered by the falling rain.

The cats, he saw, were also gone.

He saw Nash, Lauren and Copeland standing off to his left, over by the citadel. With them stood the six Green Berets and Gaby Lopez.

Before them, however, stood five other people.

Four men and one woman.

The surviving Germans, he guessed.

Race also noticed that only two of the Germans wore military fatigues—soldiers. All the others wore civilian clothing, including two—a man and a woman—who looked like undercover cops. All of them had been disarmed.