ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FIVE
Tampico, Mexico
CHAN ENTERED THROUGH the front door, scanned the living area left to right for Bohannon; no sign of the Chief. Quickly, he moved down the hallway to a rear bedroom where the hostages were held. Before entering, he leveled his weapon.
With a swift kick, he shattered the doorjamb.
Inside the small room, no Bohannon.
Relieved, Chan turned to the hostages. Eyes bulging, McDonald twitched, clearly frightened. Terrified, Brux sobbed uncontrollably. He’d peed his pants.
With a moue of distaste, Chan said, “You’re not coming, anyway.”
Moving across the floor, he positioned himself behind Brux. With a three-foot length of cord wrapped tight around each fist, Chan circled the journalist’s neck.
“What…are…you…doing?” McDonald said, her voice a strangled cry.
“Travelling light,” Chan said.
“If you hurt me, Mathias will kill you.”
“Hurt you, Miss McDonald? Never! You’re my airfare outta’ here. A nice pension in the Caymans.”
Turning to Brux, Chan tightened his grip. Knuckles white, veins pulsing like snakes beneath his skin, he squeezed. Squeezed until Clayton’s eyes bulged, and his skin turned crimson. Squeezed until Clayton’s eyes popped, and his skin turned blue. Squeezed until the young man stopped breathing.
Seated on the floor alongside her dead co-hostage, knowing a similar fate awaited, Tara lowered her head and cried.
Kneeling beside her, Chan raised Tara’s chin.
Words of comfort?
No.
Chan slapped Tara hard on the cheek; once, and once more.
“Stop blubbering. Do as I say, you leave here alive. You’re worth nothing to me dead.”
Chan removed a knife from a sheath on his hip. Tara recoiled. Chan smiled ruefully.
“Really, Miss McDonald? What kind of man do you think I am?”
With a swift flick of the blade, Chan severed Tara’s ankle restraints and freed her wrists.
After which Tara stopped trembling, became deathly still. Staring over Chan’s shoulder to the door, she parted her lips to speak, words failing.
“Move away from the woman, Chan. Move away now.”
ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SIX
Tampico, Mexico
MATHIAS MOVED RIGHT. Using the heat sensor, he located the man standing fifty yards off among a stand of spindly trees. From this distance, he could eviscerate him with the SIG Copperhead machine pistol. No reason he shouldn’t. No reason except this man had once saved his life. Hathaway, Chan? Not Bohannon. Bohannon would be indoors guarding the most valuable asset of all: Tara.
Swinging wide to approach the man ten yards to the rear, Mathias heard a swoosh, like air escaping a car tire. It lasted only a fraction of a second, enough time for Mathias to drop to the ground. The sound traveled back to front; a shot coming from behind. Using the infrared and the night goggles, Mathias scanned the trees for a thermal image of the shooter. Nothing.
Who’d taken the shot? Whoever it was, was gone.
Returning his focus to the man ahead, Mathias searched for the original target. Nothing. The man was either gone or down. Scanning the ground ahead, Mathias found the thermal image at the base of a tree. The man was down, body temp cooling rapidly. The speed with which his life force evaporated told Mathias the man was dead.
Staying low through the trees, in seconds Mathias reached the body. Even with his skull shattered and face half blown away, Mathias recognized Rodney Hathaway, a man who’d once risked his own life to rescue an injured comrade facing certain death in the rubble of a collapsed minaret in Fallujah.
But Iraq and Fallujah were a billion light-years away. Tara was fifty yards away.
And someone was out there. Someone here to help Mathias, or someone who’d merely missed?
Like Fallujah and Iraq, the answer to that question seemed a billion light-years away.
ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SEVEN
Tampico, Mexico
“STEP AWAY FROM THE WOMAN, CHAN.”
Standing, Chan backed away from Tara, showed Bohannon his hands.
“I’m glad you’re here, Chief. We need to get Miss McDonald away from this as fast as possible.”
“Indeedy, we do,” Bohannon said, keeping the long-gun leveled at Chan center mass. “And what exactly is this?”
“You got it wrong, Chief. It’s a war-zone out there; Desert Storm Three.” Chan grinned. “Hathaway is protecting the perimeter, but it won’t hold. We need to get the woman to the boat now.”
“We will. But how about first you lose that blade.”
As if surprised to be holding the knife, Chan lowered the blade.
“What happened to him?” Bohannon gestured to Brux.
“Excess baggage, Chief.”
Bohannon nodded. “Hathaway?”
“Sarge will hear us fire the boat engines. When he does, he’ll retreat, join us.”
“I see.”
But Bohannon saw nothing at all.
ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-EIGHT
Tampico, Mexico
SCANNING THE HOME, Mathias detected four heat signatures: two standing, one kneeling, one huddled on the floor like a sack of potatoes body temp rapidly cooling.
Dying potatoes.
Tara, or the second hostage?
Quickly, Mathias assessed the situation. Bohannon, Chan, and the remaining hostage gathered together in a rear room. Bohannon and Chan standing not fifteen feet apart. Mathias presumed they had comms. Unable to reach Hathaway, soon they’d know he was taken, wounded, or dead.
Down from three men to two, the strength of the assault force unknown, it was time to abandon the position; transfer the remaining hostage to the high-speed watercraft tethered to the dock floating on the black water of the lagoon. Head upriver along the Pánuco. But to where?
According to satellite imagery, nowhere.
Escape downriver into the Gulf of Mexico with America to the north, hundreds of miles of deserted coastline to the south, nowhere to refuel, to resupply, or to hide. The Yucatan Peninsula well beyond range.
For Bohannon and Chan, escape over water was not an option.
Motor vehicle? Air? Motor vehicle to the private airstrip and out by air?
From Tampico to the slums of Mexico City, the jungles of Latin America, double-back into the U.S.?
By air, in twenty-four hours, they could be anywhere.
Thinking like Bohannon, Mathias knew the second hostage was collateral damage, zero value as a bargaining chip to negotiate an escape. Which meant the remaining hostage must be Tara.
In only minutes, Mathias processed this information. Knowing his own window to act was rapidly closing, Mathias retrieved the remaining Bogies from his rucksack. Like a sprinter bursting from the blocks, he took off into the trees. Crashing through the brush toward the front door of the home, he lobbed Bogies to the back of the house as he moved.
Hearing the explosions, fearing a full-on assault from the rear, Bohannon and Chan would move to the front door.
Where they would find Mathias, waiting.
ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-NINE
Tampico, Mexico
“DON’T TRUST HIM, BOHANNON. He plans to leave you behind, shoot you in the back, ransom me off to the highest bidder.”
To Bohannon, a ring of truth. But McDonald was becoming hysterical.
“Is this true, Jackie?”
“William.”
“Is this true? After what we’ve been through, you’d shoot me in the back?”
“Followed you down the rabbit hole once before, Chief; didn’t work out so well for me.”
“You’re right, Jackie. I’m sorry. It was wrong for you to carry my weight.”
“William.”
“Okay, but there could be a platoon of soldiers waiting to greet us out there.”
“Or just Mathias.”
“Same difference.”
Reaching for Tara, Chan
gripped her by the upper arm. Forcing her to her feet, he pulled her close.
“Really, Jackie? A human shield? She’s no use to either of us dead.”
“I keep telling you it’s William, William!”
“Okay; William. She’s still no use to us dead.”
Skin greasy, veins popping like he’d been flayed, Chan nodded to Tara. “We get off the dock using her as a shield. Upriver, we go our separate ways. The woman stays with me.”
Thinking on it, after a while, Bohannon said, “Sounds like a plan, William. Unshackle her, and we’ll be on our way.”
Keeping Tara close, Chan moved to the support beam where she and Brux had been secured by a link chain. With a wary eye on Bohannon, Chan passed Tara a key.
“Free yourself,” he said.
Tara turned, leaving Chan momentarily exposed.
On cue, Bohannon fired. The .375 slug passed through William Jackie Chan’s left eye socket, through his brain, through his skull, through the rear wall of the home, lost to the darkness beyond. Reflexively, Chan’s body recoiled, pinned itself back to the wall. After a moment, it collapsed, leaving a bloody smear of brain matter and skull fragments looking like a Jackson Pollock painting decorating the wall.
Tara froze, expecting the next round for her.
Instead, Bohannon said, “Move, Ms. McDonald. We don’t have much time.”
Before Tara could turn the key, a series of rapid-fire explosions outside the home knocked Tara to the floor where she covered her head. Anticipating a breach, Bohannon dropped to one knee in a sniper’s stance, scanned the room three-sixty.
When the breach didn’t come, he said, “Let’s go, Ms. McDonald; time’s a wasting.”
Tara fumbled with the lock, released it after two tries. Trembling, jelly-kneed, she said to Bohannon, “You’re not going to kill me?”
Bohannon smiled, that infuriatingly charming grin he’d flashed her back at the ranch. “You die when I die, Ms. McDonald.”
ONE HUNDRED THIRTY
Tampico, Mexico
MATHIAS REACHED THE FRONT DOOR. He thought he’d heard a gunshot but couldn’t be sure. At the threshold, he paused. He heard no movement and no voices coming from inside. Centering himself in the doorframe, Mathias raised his leg and kicked. The cheap plywood door splintered on impact.
At the same time, Mathias pulled back, dropped low, counted One-Two-Three. No gunfire greeting his arrival.
In one fluid motion, Mathias entered the home in a wrestler’s crouch, SIG Sauer poised and level sweeping the front room side to side. But the room was empty. The Bogies hadn’t forced Bohannon and Chan to make their move.
Mathias paused, surveyed his surroundings: a threadbare sofa, armchairs, a floor lamp providing the only light. A low table with beer bottles, dirty plates with left-overs congealing, a trio of unmarked pill bottles. Bohannon had been clipped by the cop in New York. Perhaps he was seriously injured, or even dying. Why hadn’t he and Chan made a run for it through the front door?
Mathias couldn’t wait to find out.
To his left was a small kitchen, to his right, a narrow hallway leading presumably to the rooms at the back of the home.
Mathias unclipped a stun grenade from his vest. Breathing deep, he moved down the narrow hallway to his right to complete his mission to save Tara.
ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-ONE
Tampico, Mexico
TARA EXITED THE BEDROOM, Bohannon behind her. The hallway was dark, the soft glow of the single floor lamp ahead guiding her way. Tara knew Mathias had arrived; could sense his proximity. Had he come alone or with an army?
Tara chuckled aloud: He was Mathias; of course, he’d come alone.
“Something funny, Ms. McDonald.”
Tara chuckled again. “Tonight, Mr. Bohannon, the joke’s on you.”
ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-TWO
Tampico, Mexico
MATHIAS HEARD THE FAMILIAR LAUGH before he recognized the silhouette: Tara, walking under her own steam. Following her, Bohannon. No sign of Jackie Chan bringing up the rear.
Mathias retreated to the shadow of the kitchen. As Tara and Bohannon emerged from the hallway, Bohannon noted the splintered front door.
Raising his weapon to the back of Tara’s skull, he said, “Show yourself, Mathias, and stand down.”
Without hesitation, Mathias stepped from the gloom. “Chief.”
Bohannon addressed Mathias by rank. “Captain.”
“Mathias, sir, just Mathias, now.”
“Indeedy, it is.”
“I’d be obliged if you lower your weapon. Ms. McDonald has no dog in this fight.”
“I didn’t invite her to the dance, Mathias. Whatever happens to Ms. McDonald, here, is on you.”
“I won’t argue the point; all the more reason to leave her be.”
“Make no mistake, Mathias. I will not hesitate doing to Ms. McDonald what I didn’t to the FBI Agent in Atlanta. Her fate is in your hands.”
Mathias nodded.
“Are you alone?” Bohannon said.
“I am. But you should know Sarge is dead and it wasn’t me who killed him.”
Like the sun emerging from behind a black cloud, Bohannon’s expression brightened. He laughed. “We’ve both been had, Mathias.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”
“Of course, you do; you’re not that naïve. Was it you who put down Padgett? Not many men could make that shot.”
Tara flinched. “What’s he saying, Mathias? What have you done?”
Ignoring her, Mathias said, “I still don’t understand, sir.”
“Willful ignorance? No, not you, not after Afghanistan. You learned a thing or two working for Brookbank and our mutual friend.”
Mathias said, “It’s been said, but Dabney Berkshire is no friend to me.”
“Puppetmaster, then. Was it him set-me-up in New York? Made me the fall-guy for the Director? Fed you the intelligence you needed to track me here? I’ll save you a lie, Mathias; of course, it was.”
“Lower the weapon, sir, and we can talk.”
“I’m not a psychopath, Mathias, no matter how it looks.”
“Lower the weapon, sir; I won’t ask you a third time.”
But Bohannon never got the chance. A moment later, a barrage of machinegun fire erupted from outside the home dropping him to the floor. Simultaneously, to protect Tara, Bohannon forced her down. Landing headfirst onto the low table, she sent beer bottles, dirty plates, and cutlery flying everywhere. Stunned, Mathias retreated a step then collapsed onto Tara shielding her with his body and his bulletproof vest.
Coming from every direction, automatic gunfire splintered and shredded the rotting wood panels of the home. If not for instinct, they all would be dead.
“Stay down!” Mathias said to Tara, his voice a hiss. “Where is Chan?”
“Dead. Back room. Bohannon killed him.”
“Goddamn.”
“What does it mean, Mathias?”
“I don’t know.” Scanning the room for Bohannon, his former CO was nowhere to be seen. “For now, we need to stay low. Are you okay?”
“You don’t have to carry me if it’s what you’re asking.”
“My girl,” Mathias said. Passing her the Sig Sauer machine pistol, he said, “You know how to use this, Tara; don’t be shy.”
Tara grinned fiendishly.
After what seemed an eternity, the roar of gunfire died.
Without hesitation, Mathias said to Tara, “Now! Move!”
ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-THREE
Tampico, Mexico
STAYING LOW, ZIGZAGGING through the underbrush, they made it to the Pathfinder without being shot at or decapitated. Mathias had blasted an opening in the rear wall of the home using one of his last remaining Bogies. With the rest, he created a gap through the woods leading to the Pathfinder. Tossing smoke bombs and stun grenades randomly with one hand, he used the other to spray the undergrowth with gunfire from the 9mm Sig machine pistol. Racing b
eside him, Tara did the same.
Thankfully, they weren’t pursued. Miraculously, the Pathfinder hadn’t been disabled. They arrived at the airfield with twenty-two minutes to spare.
The chopper pilot was waiting. When Mathias exited the vehicle with Tara, the pilot said, “Buen trabajo, amigo.” Looking to his watch, he added, “Veinte minutos de sobra.”
Noting the vegetation, debris, and dirt clinging to their clothing, hair, and skin, he retrieved a rag from inside the chopper. Apologetic, he passed it to Tara. “Lo siento.”
Tara accepted gratefully.
Mathias hustled her to the chopper. Inside, they strapped themselves in. Beyond the airstrip, the Maduro Refinery belched flame like a fire-breathing dragon. Near-delirious with fading adrenalin, fear, and fatigue, Tara trembled. Mathias pulled her close, encircling her with his powerful arms.
“It’s over now, Tara, we’re safe.”
Like an ostrich burying its head, Tara snuggled into the heat of Mathias’s warm body. He smelled of the outdoors; trees and leaves, moss and dirt, twigs and bits of debris.
At a thousand feet, lulled by the thump of the rotor, Tara calmed. Taking time to study the pilot, she saw a man who was young, good-looking, with dark hair slicked back from a high forehead like that of a Latin tango dancer. He wore a denim work shirt, tan khakis. He wore sturdy military-style boots. Bits of leaves, moss, twigs, and debris soiled the leather uppers. He’d removed some, but in haste, not near enough.
Tara was about to say to Mathias, but said instead, “No, Mathias. I don’t think we’ll ever really be safe.”
ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FOUR
Georgetown, Washington DC
TRUMP, PADGETT, AND ALEXIS KIM dominating the headlines. Trump facing certain impeachment, Kim destined to replace him as the Republican nominee for President, a certainty to take the Oval Office. A mass school shooting in Atlanta where two shooters had massacred twenty-three high school students. The murder of fourteen parishioners in a Baptist church in Alabama by a man in protest of a refugee resettlement program sponsored by the congregation. A trade war with China. Putin rattling his saber. Iran threatening to nuke Israel, the North Koreans threatening to nuke the South. In the UK, a country in chaos over Brexit and in the neighbor to the north a socialist government led by a Prime Minister wearing a turban.
American Sniper Page 20
