32
32The tires of Boris Hamer’s department-issued sedan crunched over the terrain. Hamer was hunched in the driver’s seat to present a small target.
Or am I afraid?
Or am I afraid?He surveyed the trees along the river drive, and then the foliage lining the path to the Wytchoff estate. Nothing. For assurance, he touched his Glock which rested upon the passenger seat. He wore a bulletproof vest under his shirt, but his head was unprotected. The car’s windows were toughened but would they stand up to a sniper round?
He spoke into his comms as the sedan crested a rise in the path, “Alpha. I see the house.”
“Bravo,” came the reply from his sniper, “windows are shuttered, curtains are drawn, no sign of a break-in.”
The sniper had arrived on the Rhine in a Zodiac Medline 660 thirty minutes
