by Evan Graver
“What are you going to do?” she whispered.
“Get out of here. Come on.” He motioned to the girl after getting his feet settled on the footplate. Her terrified brown eyes shone with tears and her chest heaved with her ragged gasps.
She crawled to Greg. “Do you want me to push you?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mango Hulsey sat on the bed in his hotel room with his back against the headboard. The muted television played a soccer match between Argentina and Brazil. “We’re supposed to meet with Aaron’s friends tonight, but we didn’t,” he said into the telephone.
“Why not?” Jennifer asked.
“I’m not sure, Aaron said—” Mango was cut off by a loud explosion. The blast wave threw him from the bed and shattered the windows. He dropped the phone.
“Mango! Mango!” Jennifer screamed.
He scooped up the phone and brought it to his ear as an AK-47 spoke on full auto.
“What’s going on, Mango?”
“Stay calm, Jennifer. I need to go.”
“No, Mango. Don’t go,” she pleaded. “Stay with me! Stay on the line!”
Mango could hear the tears in her voice. The sobs of helplessness and fear. It stabbed at his gut, made him feel angry at the interruption, and desperate to return to his wife.
“I have to go, babe. I’ll call you in a little bit.” He pressed END to silence her cries. It did nothing for the guilt that ate at his belly.
He moved to the window overlooking the balcony and pushed the curtain aside. A second bomb detonated in the pool courtyard, throwing him to the ground and raining broken glass across his body. Mango climbed back to his feet and looked out the gaping hole where the window had been. The curtains swayed in the ocean breeze, bringing in the stench of scorched wood and plastic. Leafless palm trees lay on their sides. Broken glass covered the sidewalks and grounds. The pool bar’s thatch roof burned furiously on its twisted posts.
In the firelight, Mango counted seven AK-47-wielding men in black fatigues, combat boots, and balaclavas. He reached into his duffle bag, retrieved his Glock, and shoved two extra magazines into his back pants pocket while he assessed the room. The only way out was through the front door. A small window in the bathroom looked down on an alleyway. The rectangular frame was too narrow for him to climb through, and he loathed the jump from the second story. He feared his artificial limb would break, or worse, damage the stump of his leg.
He used his foot to sweep glass across the tile, so he had a clear place to lay down. Then he unlatched the door and dropped to the floor before letting it swing open all the way. He wiggled to the edge of the balcony. The shortest way down was the stairs by the two suites.
Screams tore the night air and Mango saw the invaders pull a woman from her room by her hair. Two more men kicked in the next room’s door, systematically making their way down the length of the hotel, dragging people out.
“Why does this shit always happen?” Mango muttered as he crawled toward the stairwell. He had just passed the door to the suite and was almost to the steps when the door jerked open. Mango rolled onto his back, at the same time bringing his Glock up to point at the person in the doorway.
Jim Kilroy aimed a handgun at Mango.
Mango commanded, “Get back into your room.”
“You’re with them!” Kilroy’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Karen Kilroy stepped out the room and looked at Mango. “Jim, put the gun down,” she hissed. “He’s not one of them. He’s an undercover DHS agent.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s here with Ryan Weller.” Her next words came through gritted teeth. “They’re here for you, Jim.”
“Get back inside,” Mango commanded. He rose and followed them through the door.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ryan ducked under a low hanging palm frond. He paused at the vine-covered, bright pink concrete block wall running the length of the resort grounds from Front Street to the beach. As he prepared to climb around the wall, he saw an armed man standing on Caye Caulker Adventures’ dock.
Fearing he might be seen and shot before he could get over the wall, he decided to go through the water and eliminate the guard. He stashed his wallet and cell phone under a nearby bush, and then ran back to a neighboring dock. He crawled into the warm water, using the low dock boards to pull himself to the end of the pier. The ache in his arm and shoulder were constant and the salt water burned his sliced wrist. He took several deep breaths and dove under the water. With strong kicks and pulls of his arms, he swam as fast as he could. When he came up for a breath, he tried to splash as little as possible and not draw the guard’s attention. After another deep breath, he dove again, swimming hard.
Slipping under the Caye Caulker Adventures’ dock, he moved closer to the beach. He wanted to see the action, count the forces he faced, and determine who they were. They could be anyone, he realized. A two-million-dollar bounty attracted a lot of attention. Getting out of Mexico without getting caught had taken some luck, and a lot of skill. He knew now he hadn’t escaped as cleanly as he’d thought. The repercussions of killing the high priest of the Aztlán movement were coming back to haunt him. He feared for the lives of his friends and the innocent hotel guests he had endangered.
Peering up through the gaps in the dock boards, he saw the guard above him held an AK across his chest and paced the length of the dock. A second man moved along the beach to prevent anyone from escaping or mounting a rescue. Ryan waited until the man walking the beach had his back turned before he moved out from under the dock.
The dock guard turned to walk toward the ocean. Ryan scrambled up between two boats and crept toward the guard. When the guard turned to make his way back to shore, he saw Ryan and brought his rifle up. Ryan blocked the rising muzzle and jammed his tactical folding knife into the man’s chest, burying the blade to the hilt; the point slicing into the man’s heart. Ryan purposely fell with the man into the water between two small boats. They made a loud splash and sank toward the bottom.
Ryan pulled his knife free and surfaced. Above him, alerted by the splash, the other guard pounded down the dock. The guard he’d just killed had dropped his gun when they’d landed in the water and in the low light from the resort lights and fires, Ryan could just make it out. Ryan dove back to the sandy bottom and retrieved the firearm. One of the things he loved about the AK was that it could be drowned or packed full of mud and the cheap Russian gun would still function.
In the darkness, he clung a post under the dock. The guard turned in place, looking at the water on both sides of the dock for his lost companion. Knowing any gunfire coming from the marina would attract more attention, Ryan was loath to just shoot the man. His decision about what to do was made for him when gunfire erupted near the hotel. Ryan aimed the barrel of his rifle between the dock boards and sent a hail of 7.62-millimeter rounds into the man above.
He swung himself onto the dock, liberated the fallen man’s extra magazines, and shoved them into the cargo pockets of his shorts before charging toward the resort.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Greg fingered an eight-inch-long chef’s knife he’d picked up from the bar on his way toward the busted hotel lobby doors. Even with the glass missing, he still had to pull them open. The corner of the door dragged on the floor, scraping an arch across the tile, and the waitress helped wrench it open. No one guarded the lobby, so they started toward to the hotel’s main entrance. His wheels rolled smoothly across the polished floor.
Just outside the hotel’s front door, Greg saw a man leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. His AK hung on a sling around his neck and he held the pistol grip loosely in his hand. Greg put the knife between his left leg and the wheelchair’s plastic clothing guard and pushed through the door.
The guard turned and lifted his weapon. His casual demeanor indicated he was not expecting any resistanc
e from the hotel guests. “Get back,” he commanded.
Greg gave his wheels a hard shove. He whipped the knife up and across the gunman’s arm, slicing deeply into the man’s flesh. He felt the sharp edge of the knife skip on the rough surface of the man’s ulna. The gunman dropped his weapon in shock. Greg brought the knife around and stabbed the blade deep into the man’s ribcage. The guard dropped to his knees and then fell onto his face. With some effort, Greg rolled the man over and pilfered his cache of spare magazines before picking up the gun. He felt the waitress brush past him and glanced up to see her running across the street. She disappeared into the blackness between two buildings.
He checked to ensure there was a round in the AK’s chamber before flicking the safety off. He moved through the lobby to its rear doors. They opened onto a small seating area and the pool deck beyond. He saw three men kicking in doors and dragging out guests. They were holding their hostages under guard in an area close to the dive shop.
Greg angled his wheelchair, locked the brakes, shoved the butt of his rifle into his shoulder, and braced the gun barrel against the lobby door frame while he waited for the men to return from dropping off hostages. Just as they were about to kick in the next door, he pulled the trigger. Bullets blew the first man’s brains across the lawn and hammered the second in the chest. The third dropped to the ground and returned fire.
The bolt locked open, indicating an empty magazine. He replenished the gun with a fresh load and laid it across his lap. He jerked away from the door as bullets chewed up the stucco, wood, and metal around his former position.
Retreat was not a word in his vocabulary. Rather, he was moving back to the next ambush site. The best place for him to make a stand was behind the twelve-foot-long reception counter. Black granite wrapped around the front, sides, and top of the counter. The hard stone was more effective at stopping bullets than the plaster and wood walls. However, protected he was, the enemy could come at him from both the front and rear entrances of the lobby.
Ensconced behind the granite, he waited for the end to come. There was something about being shot at that sharpened one’s focus. The adrenaline pumping through his system had wiped out the buzz of the alcohol. He hadn’t felt this alive in years. He didn’t enjoy shooting people, but they had pushed him, and he was ready to fight.
Let ‘em come! This would be his last stand.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mango listened to the full auto gunfight and leaned out to find the source. He saw Greg blasting away from the lobby’s rear entrance. Knowing Greg needed help, he turned to Jim Kilroy. “You got any more guns around here?”
“Just this one.” Kilroy held up his Smith and Wesson M&P nine-millimeter pistol.
“We need to help my friend. He’s the one shooting at the terrorists.”
“What do you suggest?”
“We go downstairs and start shooting those assholes.”
“I got that part,” Jim said. “Give. Me. A. Plan.”
“Greg’s probably trapped in the lobby. They’ll try to flank him.” Mango went to the big sliding doors overlooking the black ocean. “We go out the door and drop down into the alley. Then we’ll go around the front of the building and start picking off bad guys.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you want, bro? You’re supposed to be the international arms dealer, can’t you come up with a plan?”
“You are DHS agent, aren’t you?”
“I’m not, but I know a few,” Mango replied.
“What the hell is going on around here?” Karen demanded.
“I’m just a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest, and it’s time to go win.” Mango stripped the sheets off the bed, twisted them into a rope, and then tied the two cream-colored, king size sheets together.
“What are you doing?” Karen asked incredulously.
“Honey,” Jim said patiently. “We don’t have time for that right now.”
Jim took one end of the sheet rope and tied it to the balcony’s railing. Mango dropped the other end of the makeshift rope into the alley. He climbed over the wrought-iron railing and rappelled down. Jim followed a moment later.
The two men ran to Front Street. Mango stopped at the corner, pressed himself against the wall, and then eased around it. He kept his gun up in his right hand, ready to kill any Tangos⸻military slang for terrorists⸻he might encounter. Flanking the hotel’s front entrance were two walls protruding three feet out from the main wall which supported a faux balcony above. Mango ran to the stub wall and peered around it. The lobby doors were missing their glass, and a dead man lay face up with a kitchen knife sticking out of his ribs. Mango smiled, finally knowing how Greg must have gotten his hands on a gun.
He moved to the busted lobby doors and crouched down. “Greg?”
“In here.” Greg gave Mango a wave.
Mango flashed an okay sign. Jim moved up beside Mango and stepped out to shoot at two terrorists flanking the hotel. A scream rewarded his efforts. The second terrorist brought his gun up and fired.
Mango dove to the ground. Not only was their flanker firing, but Greg had also resumed shooting.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ryan scurried up the dock into some bushes on the edge of the seawall. He watched as Mango and Jim Kilroy tied sheets to a railing and escaped into the alley. He hoped they were going around to the front of the hotel. Concentrating on the area around him, Ryan saw a group of hotel guests being held captive near the dive shop.
He sprinted the fifty yards to the back of the dive shop. He found a shack housing the air compressor used to fill the rows and rows of aluminum dive tanks. A small wagon sat beside them. Ryan had seen the dive instructors tow loads of tanks to and from the dive boats with it, and it was still stacked with a pyramid of tanks held in place with a ratchet strap.
An idea formed in Ryan’s mind. He opened the door to the compressor shed. Hanging from a peg board, just inside the shack’s entrance, was a five-pound sledgehammer, a large crescent wrench, and several screwdrivers.
He glanced out at the tanks. The standard procedure for most dive shops around the world was to use rubber caps to cover the tank valve to indicate a full tank. When the cap was off, the tank was empty. The tanks in the wagon had rubber caps on their valves. He grabbed the sledgehammer from the pegboard and set it in the cart. He then moved the wagon so the back of it faced the terrorists now approaching the lobby doors.
Picking up the hammer, he slammed it viciously into the valve on the top tank. Metal on metal rang across the courtyard. Ryan paid it no mind and struck a second blow to the valve. Again, he smacked the valve. A fourth mighty blow broke the valve off. The tank, pressurized to three thousand pounds per square inch, shot off the pyramid like a missile as the air escaped through the tiny hole left by the broken valve. It skipped on the concrete just before the pool, took flight over the water, and smashed into a terrorist who happened to step into the tank’s path. The impact killed the terrorist, and the scuba tank missile punched through the stucco and wood of the hotel wall.
Ryan shook his head in amazement at the missile’s power, then bent to smack the next tank valve. The tank took off after three hits and swept across the pool deck. It collided with one of the few standing palm trees and ricocheted into a hotel room door. He knocked the valve off the third tank, which angled off to the left. The fourth cartwheeled across the water, dipped, and hit the concrete. It skipped and bounced, angling the nose into the air. The tank shot into the second story balcony.
This final tank drew the attention of the terrorists to Ryan’s position. He made a break for the dive shop amid a hail of gunfire. At the front of the building, he found a man guarding the guests. Many of the guests were lying on the ground crying, bleeding, and distraught. Ryan brought his AK to his shoulder and fired a burst into the guard, who went down quickly. The guard fell beside a woman, who started screaming.
“Paradise ain’t supposed to be like this,” Ryan said w
ryly. He felt sorry for the woman, knowing that terrorism was probably something she only saw on the news.
Ryan stepped around the corner and saw a giant with long blond hair staring at him. He wasn’t wearing a balaclava like his men. The giant raised his rifle and fired a burst as Ryan darted back behind the building. He tripped over the edge of the sidewalk and the barrel of his AK skidded across the concrete. Using the gun to catch himself in midstride, he stumbled to the door of the dive shop. He knocked the glass out of the locked door with the rifle’s stock.
Inside, it was black. Only the dying fires provided flickering light, giving the interior a ghostly appearance. Ryan smelled rubber and neoprene laced with palm frond smoke. He crouched amongst the racks of dive equipment, trying to remember the layout from his previous visits.
The door on the far side of the shop shattered as the giant kicked it open. Ryan shouldered his rifle. Taking careful aim, he fired the remaining rounds in the mag. When the bolt locked open, the blond giant was still standing in the doorway. Ryan stared in amazement. The man should have been dead. Rapidly, he changed magazines and aimed at the man ducking into the store. He stroked the trigger again. The bullets stitched up the wall to the left of the giant.
“Damn!” Ryan looked at the barrel of his gun. It curved slightly to the left. “How in the hell?”
It was too late to do anything about the problem. The blond giant was diving at him. Ryan jammed the gun at the giant’s chest to knock him off balance. The giant batted the gun from his hands as if it were a baby’s play toy.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Volk screamed, “YA nepobedim!” I’m invincible, as he leapt through the air. Outstretched arms swatted away the American’s rifle just before he landed on his opponent. They rolled across the floor, knocking over racks of clothing. Underneath him, Ryan flailed his arms and legs. The giant knew he was stronger and heavier, and kept his opponent pinned to the ground. He spun chest to chest, so his body and Ryan’s were at right angles. Volk curled one arm around Ryan’s neck and hooked the other through Ryan’s crotch. In a display of strength, he picked his opponent up as he rose. Ryan repeatedly drove his elbow into Volk’s back, but Volk only felt muted blows to his trapezius muscles.
