After a shower and change of clothes, Drake left his office and drove south on I-5 to meet Mike and his hastily assembled team.
There was no way to know what they would be up against if Kaamil tried to finish what he had started. Drake knew the layout of his father-in-law’s house in Lake Oswego, and the likely avenues of attack. But he had to make sure there was little or no collateral damage if Kaamil came.
Senator Hazelton’s house was located in the middle of a three-acre parcel on the southern shore of the lake. In addition to its other accommodations, the house also had a recently added safe room. If Kaamil attacked, Drake knew everyone inside would be safe if they reached that sanctuary. His concern was how to keep attackers away from the house so no one had to use the safe room. The grounds around the house were what he had to concentrate on.
Twenty minutes later, Drake turned off I-5 and followed Kruse Way east to Kruse Oaks Drive and the parking lot of the Crowne Plaza Hotel. Drake couldn’t fault Mike’s choice of accommodations for his men. The hotel was close to the Senator’s home, business-travel anonymous and comfortable. He entered the hotel. An atrium with a waterfall cascading from the upper floors did little to deflect his concentration as he made his way to the bank of elevators.
An elevator took him quickly to the third floor, and a short walk down the hall brought him to Room 301. Three knocks on the door and he was greeted by his smiling friend.
“Come in, meet my men,” Mike welcomed. “We delayed ordering room service until we knew a little more about what you have planned, and whether your credit card is any good. Hope you don’t mind.”
Drake gave his old friend a one-arm hug, then made his way around the room, greeting the team.
Mike made the introductions.
“This is Capt. Ricardo Gonzales, formerly of the Green Berets. One of the first guys I hired when I started the company. He’s one mean man, except when his wife Linda is around,” Mike said, punching the man’s shoulder.
“Sounds like a wise man,” Drake said. “Glad to meet you, Captain.”
Capt. Gonzales got up from his stool at the counter of the kitchen/wet bar and shook Drake’s hand. Gonzales stood five foot ten and looked like an Aztec Indian chiseled from obsidian, his features were so sharp. He was mid-thirties but carried his years like a proud eighteen-year-old recruit.
“Mike told me he served with you, and that you’re a good operator,” Gonzales said. “I look forward to working with you tonight.”
“Likewise. Mike said you’re good, which tells me you’re the best. What was your team specialty, Captain?” Drake asked.
“Weapons, medic secondary,” Gonzales said.
“Glad you’re here, Ricardo. We wore the uniform, but this is private, sort of. Call me Adam.”
Sergeant Billy Montgomery was next to stand and be introduced. Sandy red hair and freckles across his nose, he looked like the prototypical southern white soldier boy. Drake didn’t need to be told he was one gung-ho soldier. His look and confident glare said he’d been there and seen it all.
“Call me Billy. I’m only a Ranger, but then I’m younger than these guys. If you need someone with younger, sharper skills, then I’m your guy.”
“Billy, your accent isn’t what I expected,” Drake said, cutting off the boos from the others. “Where are you from?”
“Manhattan, sir, born and raised. Dad’s a Wall Street type, but he knows what’s going on in the world. He didn’t stand in my way when I chose the Army over an MBA.”
After Sgt. Montgomery, Mike introduced Sergeant Lawrence Green, a stocky black man standing six foot four at least, and weighing in, by Drake’s guess, at around two fifty. Sgt. Green didn’t smile when he stood and shook Drake’s hand.
“Larry was with LAPD before he took a bullet in his shoulder last year. With his master’s in criminology from USC, he advises me on criminal behavior, and generally keeps me out of trouble,” Mike said.
Drake leaned a step closer and said, “Larry, Mike needs someone to keep him out of trouble, thank God it’s you and not me. When I worked with him, it was, well, difficult.”
“He’s said the same of you. You two must have been a hell of a team. His being good with a gun, and you being good with the ladies,” Green said amidst a chorus of hoo-ahs.
Drake laughed with them. “When we have time, gentlemen, I’ll be glad to set the record straight. For now, all you need to know is it wasn’t my good looks that kept saving his butt.”
“Last, but not least, I want you to meet William Richard,” Mike said. “He’s fondly known among us as ‘Dicky,’ our best long gunner next to me. Two-time one-thousand-yard national champion.”
“Dicky, I’m impressed. I don’t think Mike ever officially won that championship, but then some of the stuff we did they didn’t give medals for. Welcome to the party.”
“Thanks for the invite. Been a while since I’ve had the chance to do some real shooting.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Drake said. “Take a seat, gentlemen, and I’ll go over what I need from you tonight. If you’re hungry, order something light now, because I think we might be out for quite a while. But when we’re finished tonight, I’m buying steaks and cigars, so keep that in mind when you order.”
While Mike took orders for a light, pre-op dinner, Drake told them what he knew and what he thought might happen that night. When he left Mike and his men, all dressed in dark jeans, black T-shirts, and dark blue windbreakers, they were checking their weapons one last time before heading out.