Chapter 176

The Atlanta battle plan was for Luke and his two soldiers to capture Max Fowler first. Martin Schroeder and his team would then fling Christopher Henry Brady into a van. Shoot him. And take him to a pre-dug grave north of Atlanta.

With the two main characters off the board, Pettigrew and Fitzsimmons would move as quickly as possible to kill the other two partners — Mike Gleason and Jimmy Horton. Their bodies would be buried west and south of town.

The Four Corners teams had surprise on their side. Fowler and Brady didn’t know that the Stillmans had even a hint of their plans to take control of Four Corners. Through his political connections, Brady had a Transfer of Deed already drawn up, awaiting only Claire’s forced signature. The property transfer — all 12,000 acres would take place after her death in a flaming car accident.

Surprise, yes, and also combat experience from the Stillman team. All the former soldiers had seen house-to-house action in the Middle East. Yet, the attacks weren’t against foreign combatants on enemy soil. The killings should be relatively easy. Getting away with murder was another consideration.

As was kidnapping Fowler.

But to wait, to allow Atlanta to refine it’s takeover plans, to add members to its team, to come closer to capturing Claire, would be foolhardy.

Max Fowler, twice divorced, came out of the side door of his Buckhead house around 9:30 on Monday morning. He walked 22-paces to his garage and turned the doorknob.

Luke’s two teammates grabbed him and instantly pulled him into the garage. Just as Luke injected him with Midazolam, Fowler stared at him and said, “Claire.”

Fowler was out. They backed the van up, strapped him in the back and were pulling away when Luke texted Martin, “Go.” Two of the security team would drive Fowler back to Four Corners — a distance of about 900 miles. They would keep him in the back of the van, sedated, and strapped in.

Martin Schroeder had been watching Brady at his low-rise complex not that far from Fowler’s house. He had strolled out of his million-dollar condo, looked casually around, and went to the end of his driveway. He picked up the Atlanta Constitution, wearing a white robe, smoking a cigar, carrying a cup of coffee. He wasn’t going anywhere soon.

Martin waited two minutes, then led his guys to the front door. He had scouted the entrance before and knew that Brady had an electronic hotel-style lock on his front door. Martin, shielded by his buddies, knelt down and took out a small box, about half an inch thick and around two inches square. It had a set of insulated wires several inches long that were attached to a smaller box.

A card, like a credit card, was on the other end of the larger box. He held it up to the lock, and two small red lights lit up on the smaller box. They stayed lit for about 15 seconds. Martin then detached the card and slid it into the lock, where a green light indicated it was now open. The RFID lock had a transponder in it that magnetically recognized the key card.

The team moved in, silently and swiftly.

South of town, Pettigrew and his two men moved the instant they got Martin’s signal. This time the battle gods cooperated. Mike Gleason was home alone in Alpharetta. He was in his back yard, watering his small lawn. One guy strolled toward Gleason, holding a clipboard and pen. As Gleason was turning off the hose, Pettigrew shot him in the back of his head.

They quickly, and efficiently, maneuvered Gleason into a body bag, and were driving to the grave site two minutes after they had gotten out of the van.

At about the same time, in Sandy Springs, Jimmy Horton was taking delivery of a new Samsung 75” Smart TV. Fitzsimmons watched through binoculars for over 45 minutes until the technician had it up an running. When he left, the Four Corners team huddled around the front door. Locked.

Fitzsimmons stuck his tension wrench into the lock, and calmly inserted the pick of the snap gun with it. He pulled the trigger and the snap gun forced the pins over, while the tension wrench held them out of the way long enough for him to open the lock.

The three men moved silently, in single-file toward the noise made by. the new Samsung. Horton was sitting on a leather sofa, his back to them, naked, watching gay porn. The suppressor masked the sound so efficiently that no neighbor could have heard anything even if the TV weren’t so loud.

The third body, the third van-trip to a pre-dug grave.