Last Man Standing by David Baldacci

strike plan was approved, ops orders written; we got blueprints of the target and built a copy of it
     at Quantico. Practiced our butts off until we knew every inch. Got our rules of engagement, nothing out of the ordinary, suited
     up and climbed in the Suburban. End of story.”
    “You guys do your own surveillance, snipers on glass,” Bates said, referring to snipers observing the target through binoculars
     and spotting scopes. “Anything pop on that?”
    “Nothing special or else we would’ve been told in our briefing. Except for the possible witness angle, to me it was just a
     glorified dope house raid. Hell, we cut our teeth on those.”
    “If it was just a dope house, they wouldn’t have needed you guys to crack it, Web. WFO could’ve used its SWAT team.”
    “Well, we were told the logistics were really tricky, and they were. And we knew the targets were supposed to be real nasty
     and were packing some ordnance SWAT didn’t think they could handle. And then you had the issue of the potential witnesses.
     That was enough to make it our gig. But none of us were expecting eight remote-controlled mini-guns.”
    “Obviously it was all bullshit. Fed to us like mother’s milk. Except for the guns, the place was empty. Ambush all the way.
     There were no bean counters, no records, no nothing.”
    Web rubbed his hand against the bullet gouges on the brick. Many were so deep Web could see the concrete block underneath—armor-piercing,
     for sure. The only good thing was death for his team would have been instantaneous. “The snipers had to see something.” He
     was hoping they had seen whatever had made Web freeze. Yet how could they?
    “I haven’t finished talking to them,” was all Bates would offer on that point, and again Web chose not to press it.
    “Where’s the kid?” Web hesitated, trying to remember. “Kevin.”
    Bates also hesitated for a second. “Disappeared.”
    Web stiffened. “How? He’s a kid.”
    “I’m not saying he did it on his own.”
    “We know who he is?”
    “Kevin Westbrook. Age ten. Got some family around, but most are guests of the state. Has an older brother, street name of
     Big F, the
F
standing for what you think it does. Head street ganger as big as a tree, and smart as a Harvard MBA. Deals in meth, Jamaican
     sinsemilla, the really cool stuff, though we’ve never been able to build a case against him. This area is sort of his turf.”
    Web stretched the fingers of his injured hand. The Band-Aid wasn’t doing the trick right now, and he felt guilty for even
     thinking about it. “That’s a pretty big coincidence that the little brother of the guy who runs this area was sitting out
     in the alley when we came by.” Even as he talked about the boy, Web could feel a change come over his body, as though his
     very soul were sliding out and moving on. He actually thought he might pass out. Web was starting to wonder if he needed a
     doctor or an exorcist.
    “Well, he does live around here. And from what we found out, his home life isn’t all that great. He probably avoided it if
     he could.”
    “This big brother missing too?” Web asked as his balance began to return.
    “Not that he actually lives at a normal address. When you’re in the kind of business he is, you keep moving. We don’t have
     any direct evidence tying him to even a misdemeanor, but we’re looking for him real hard right now.” He stared at Web. “You
     sure you’re okay?”
    Web waved off this comment. “How exactly did you lose the kid?”
    “That’s not real clear right now. We’ll know more after we finish going through the neighborhood. Somebody had to see those
     weapons coming in and that machine gun nest being put up. Even around here that qualifies as a little unusual.”
    “You really think anybody here’s going to talk to you?”
    “We have to try, Web. We only need one pair of eyes.”
    The men fell silent for a while. Bates finally looked up, his expression