Wicked

Prologue

Shadows rippled and twisted under the light of the full moon, the willow trees swaying with the slight breeze.

Ten men, clad in black body armor and ski masks, slipped silently through the forest, the man in front always brushing aside willow fronds and holding them back while the others passed by. He joined the back of the formation, and they trooped silently on.

At the edge of the wood, where the line of trees ended, the men stopped dead, vanishing into the shadows on each side. A house stood ahead, a quaint cottage with lights burning bright in the windows. A carefully tended garden surrounded the thin, snaking path that led to the front door.

One of the windows was open and the leader of the men could hear faint laughter. He beckoned for his men to come closer. Dropping his voice, he hissed, "Palacio, Deemer, Murphy, surround the house. The rest are coming in with me. Follow my lead, and under no circumstances do you kill anyone unless I say so. If anything goes wrong, anything, the Commander will hold us all personally responsible."

The men nodded. They knew the punishment for a failed misson. Without talking, the three agents that he had singled out jogged to cover various areas of the house. As soon as the team leader was satisfied, he jerked his head and the five remaining men drew their guns.

The leader pulled out a specially manufactured Smith & Wesson, his favorite. He was only twenty-three, a younger face among bearded men. But he was a good commander, and they accepted that.

He set off towards the house, his men following.

They stopped at the door. "Ready?" he breathed. Without looking over his shoulder, he sensed that the men were. These were trained soldiers, professionals in this line of work. Their nerves were like steel.

With a grim smile, the leader lowered his shoulder and rammed the wooden door. It splintered, and he felt it give. Inside, the laughter was replaced by screams, but the leader was in no hurry. There was no one to hear them here, on the very outskirts of the town. No one to save them.

He rammed the door again, and this time it fell, slamming into the ground. Clouds of dust and debris floated everywhere. Screams were still audible as the people inside realized there was nowhere to go. The team leader shouted, "Go, go, go!"

Followed by the six other men, he leaped nimbly over the fallen door. "Harrison, Tucker, Monroe, search the bottom floor! Wiedelitz, Mason, Sharkovsky, with me!" He clattered up the stairs, brandishing his gun. Bursting into the first room, he and Sharkovsky yelled, "Come out with your hands up!"

It was empty. He did a quick search and left. Wiedelitz and Mason had already searched the other room, and came out without anything. That left the last room. The door was tightly shut.

The leader took out his comms unit and spoke into it. "Tucker! Got anything?" The voice of his agent crackled through, clear as day. "No, sir. Harrison and Monroe haven't found anything. We'll be upstairs in thirty seconds." Moments later, the team leader heard footsteps nearing the bottom of the stairs, and he turned to the rest of his men. "We're going in."

The door was locked, predictably, but that was of no importance. The leader shot the lock and barged in. There was a small barricade in front of the door, mostly made out of chairs and books. He stepped over it contemptuously, and looked around. The room was empty.

But he knew better than that. His senses were finely attuned to human fear, and right now the atmosphere was thick with it. His sharp ears picked up the sound of heavy breathing, and occasionally a muffled whisper.

His team was already spreading out, checking behind the dresser, under the bed, in the closet. All empty. With frustration, the leader pounded his fist into his palm. "I said find them!"