Deadly Intent

by Brent Towns

  The man stared past them at the wall.

  Ferrero tried again, this time in Spanish. “Quién eres?”

  The man glanced at him and then spit on the floor at his feet.

  Kane stepped in closer and hit him across the face. “Necesitas tener respeto. You need to have respect.”

  This time the man spit blood.

  Kane hit him again. “I can do this all day.”

  “Fuck you,” the man snarled.

  “English,” Thurston said. “That’s a start.”

  “Fucking puta.”

  “Who set up the ambush?” Thurston asked.

  The man just stared at her.

  “I’ll ask you again. Who set up the ambush?”

  The man swore at her again.

  “What happened to the drugs that were on the ship?”

  Nothing.

  “Ma’am, give us a go, and we’ll get him to talk,” Brown said.

  Thurston’s eyes grew hard. “I’ll not have him tortured.”

  “No, ma’am. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  She looked at him skeptically and then nodded. “OK. Give it a go.”

  They left the room, and White joined Brown. They were in there for thirty minutes before Brown emerged.

  “His name is Alejandro. He doesn’t know who ordered the setup,” Brown explained. “However, he does know where the drugs and weapons went to.”

  “Which is?” Ferrero asked.

  “Puerto de Topolobampo in Mexico.”

  Kane cursed. “Sinaloa. Should have fucking guessed.”

  “Well, that’s their destination anyway. It seems that they are to be delivered to a warehouse in Juarez from there.”

  “Did he say exactly where?” Thurston asked.

  Brown shook his head.

  “Rattle his cage some more and see if he knows.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Brown said. Before going back in, he looked at Kane. “That was some serious shit you all went through out there.”

  Shrugging, Reaper said, “What is it they say? All in a day’s work.”

  Brown smiled. “Yes, sir. Serious shit. I’ll go and see what else our friend knows.”

  “Once we’re done with him,” Thurston said, “he needs to disappear. Can’t have him back on the street telling what he knows.”

  They stared at her.

  Thurston shrugged. “What? I said I don’t abide torture. Didn’t say anything about killing. As soon as we know everything there is to know, we’re back on that plane.”

  Moosehead Lake

  Maine

  There were ten in total. Black-clad figures fitted out in tactical vests and armed with Diemaco C8s, made in Canada then shipped across the border and into the laps of the United Patriot Front of America.

  For some reason, none of them wore night vision goggles. Maybe they considered them superfluous to their needs. After all, it was just a hospital.

  As they slipped through the trees, they split into two groups of five. The first stopped in place one hundred yards from the building while the second circled around to the back so they could affect a double-pronged attack.

  Ten minutes after they split, a radio message came over the comms from the second team. “Team Two in position.”

  The leader of team one depressed his talk button, “Copy. On my mark. Three, two, one, Execute.”

  Then all hell broke loose.

  “We have movement on one of the cameras, amigo,” Arenas said as he shook Traynor awake.

  It was a touch after 2 a.m., and the only sounds to be heard were the loons on the lake. Traynor came out of his bedroll and to his feet. As he did so, he scooped up the suppressed HK416.

  Arenas was already in his tac vest and had his helmet with night vision in place. He checked his weapon and made sure he had a round in the chamber with the safety on.

  While Traynor prepared, Arenas kept an eye on the camera. “They’ve gone out of view.”

  “If they get inside, we’re going to have trouble,” Traynor pointed out as he rammed his SIG M17 home in its thigh holster.

  “I hope that will not happen. Let’s go and make it so, amigo.”

  They walked out the door and into the night, to the darkness being torn apart by gunfire.

  “Shit!” Traynor cursed as he hit the dirt, the thud of bullets all around him as they dug deep into the ground. He flicked his NVGs down. Ahead of him in the green haze formed by the goggles, he could see five forms. All were armed, and all were shooting at both him and Arenas.

  A burst spewed forth as he squeezed the trigger. One of the attackers jerked violently as the bullets struck home. The problem was that all impacted the vest and even though it put the shooter down, he was by no means out of the fight.

  Beside Traynor, Arenas used a different method. He had the selector switch on his 416 set to single shot. With his NVGs down, the laser sight on the weapon stood out like a beacon. He dropped it onto his first target’s head and fired. The shooter’s skull snapped back, and his body dropped like a stone.

  He shifted aim within a couple of heartbeats and fired again for the same result.

  The effect was instant, and the two remaining shooters emptied their magazines in a wild spray. Traynor felt a bullet tug at his sleeve. He cursed under his breath and fired off another burst. This time the bullets struck the shooter just above the vest and opened a horrific wound in the man’s throat.

  Although they couldn’t see it, the man clutched at his throat, striving to stem the gouts of arterial blood.

  The remaining shooter died with a bullet in his brain.

  As the gunfire died away across the lake, Arenas and Traynor came to their feet. They advanced on the fallen attackers; their weapons raised and ready to fire. When they reached them, the man who'd taken the burst in the vest was starting to squirm. Arenas reversed his 416 and hit him between the eyes with the stock.

  “We’ll come back for him,” he said.

  “They fucking split up,” Traynor cursed. “The second team will be inside already.”

  “On me,” Arenas snapped, and he ran towards the rear entrance to the hospital.

  The doorway took them in through the kitchen and out into a large dining hall. From there they exited into a foyer with three passageways running off in different directions.

  It was in the foyer that they found the first casualty of the unwanted intrusion. On the floor was a night nurse. A man. His white clothes stained red with blood. They flipped up their NVGs.

  Arenas lowered his HK416 and let it hang by its strap. Traynor followed suit and both then drew their M17s from their leg holsters.

  There was movement along each of the halls as the gunfire had disturbed the patients. Each passage had dim night lights which ran horizontally at the base of the walls.

  Further movement behind them made Traynor swing around, his gun up and ready to fire.

  Harper’s arms were raised, and he said hurriedly, “Easy, it’s me. What’s going on? What happened to Michael?”

  Michael was obviously the male nurse on the floor.

  “Take care of your patients,” Traynor urged him. “They’re inside.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Arenas and Traynor made their way along the passage. Inquisitive patients were ushered back inside their rooms when the men reached them. At the end of the passage, there was a turn to the left.

  A person wearing full tactical gear appeared suddenly and was surprised to see the two men.

  He tried to bring up his gun, but it was already too late. Arenas and Traynor opened fire together. The man jerked with the bullet strikes and dropped to the floor. While one bullet hit his vest, the second punched into his face, deflected upward, and ripped through his brain.

  Another man leaned around the edge of the hallway and opened fire with his Diemaco C8. The bullets burned along the passage, forcing the two Reaper team men to dive for the nearest doorway.

  The firing stopped, and Arenas put his head around the c
orner of the doorway. The end of the passage was empty. With hand signals to Traynor, he indicated his intent to move further along.

  The M17 came up to eye level, and Arenas started forward. Behind him, Traynor emerged and covered his back.

  When Arenas reached the corner, he peered around it and saw that the passage that way was empty. He took a knee beside the downed man and felt for a pulse. There was none.

  With his gaze focused back on the passage, Arenas said, “Moving, amigo.”

  Halfway along, he reached the room where Melanie Kane lay. He looked inside and saw that she was as OK as she could be, given her state. Relief flooded through Arenas, and he moved along to the next doorway. Jimmy’s room.

  It was empty. “Shit.”

  The bed was mussed, and there were signs of a struggle.

  Traynor was at his shoulder. “What?”

  “The boy is gone.”

  The curtain flickered in the breeze of the open window. “They got out that way.”

  Hurrying across to the window, they looked out and were immediately assaulted by spraying glass and bullets as the rattle of an automatic weapon rang out, peppering the pane and punching holes in the wall.

  They dove to the floor, and Traynor shot out the ceiling light which had illuminated them. Then they flipped down their NVGs and worked their way back to the window.

  The firing had stopped, and they peered cautiously through the opening. The hazy green view revealed retreating figures. And the boy.

  “They’re making for the lake,” Arenas said hurriedly. “We need to stop them.”

  The two Reaper men climbed through the ruined window frame and started after the kidnappers. The head start was too great, however, and by the time they reached the shore of the lake, the group had already boarded the waiting boat, and it was roaring off across the water.

  Arenas placed the muzzle of the M17 against the man’s thigh and growled, “You tell me what I want to know, amigo, and I won’t shoot you in the leg.”

  The man gave him a wry smile which more or less said, I dare you to. So he did. Arenas shot him right through the solid mass of thigh muscle.

  The report reverberated around the small shack, followed by a high-pitched scream. Arenas slapped his face and said, “I don’t have time for this, imbécil. Tell me what I want to know.”

  “You fucking shot me, asshole!” the man shrieked.

  “And I’ll shoot you again if you don’t tell me what I want to know,” Arenas snarled.

  “All right, all right. I’ll tell you.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mickey.”

  “Where have your friends taken the boy?”

  “Appalachia Mountains. We have a compound there.”

  “Who’s we?” Traynor snapped.

  “United Patriot Front of America,” Mickey said.

  “Shit,” Traynor hissed.

  Arenas stared at him. “Who are these people?”

  “Bunch of fucking gun nuts,” Traynor explained. “Want to take the country back from the politicians. You know, usual bullshit.”

  “But why have they taken him?” Arenas asked, his focus back on their prisoner. “Why have you taken him?”

  “Ten million dollars.”

  “What?”

  “The colonel was offered ten million by some Irishman, to get the woman and the boy.”

  Arenas said, “O’Brien?”

  The man shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me about him,” Traynor said.

  “He arrived the other day with a bunch of mercs. And some other Mexican guy.”

  “Christ,” Traynor hissed. “Was it Montoya?”

  The man nodded. “Maybe. But he left.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Don’t know.”

  The barrel of Arenas’ weapon pressed down on the wounded leg. The man shrieked, “I don’t know! Honest. He and the mercs left the next day.”

  The former DEA agent took out his cell. “We’ve gotta call this in.”

  CIA Safehouse

  Ecuador

  Thurston was dozing on a cot when Ferrero woke her. He switched on the light and said, “Sorry, Mary, but we’ve got a problem.”

  She gathered herself for a moment and sat up, swinging her legs over the cot’s side. She asked, “What is it, Luis?”

  “There’s an issue with the team in Maine.”

  Her face grew serious. “Talk to me.”

  He placed the cell down and said, “Tell her, Pete.”

  Traynor’s voice came over the speaker. “Ma’am, we were hit by two teams of militia. We stopped one but the second got away with Jimmy. Reaper’s sister is safe.”

  “Shit!” Thurston growled. “How many shooters?”

  “There were ten in all.”

  “And they were militia?”

  “The feller we questioned said they were a group holed up in the Appalachian Mountains. United Patriot Front of America.”

  Thurston glanced at Ferrero who winced. She nodded. “You said you have a prisoner?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did you get anything else out of him?”

  “He more or less told us where they were holed up,” Traynor answered. “And there was one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “A team of mercs arrived at their compound a few days ago. They brought with them a couple of passengers. Montoya was one, the other we can be sure, was O’Brien.”

  “Are they still there?”

  “Montoya left the next day. The second man is still there. He paid ten million to get to Reaper’s sister and the boy.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “OK. Hang up and wait for a phone call.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The line went dead.

  Ferrero said, “How do you want to play this?”

  “Keep it under your hat for now. I need everyone on this team with their eyes forward. I’ll make a call and get them some help. They’re going to need it. The man who heads up those damned nuts was a ranger. His name is Luke Webster. He was a colonel and has mostly military personnel under him.”

  “Who are you going to call?” Ferrero asked.

  “Jones. If anyone can help, it’ll be him.”

  Moosehead Lake

  Maine

  The cell rang, and Traynor picked up immediately. “Hello?”

  The deep voice on the other end said, “You know what I hate about getting a phone call at three in the morning? It’s generally always bad news. Tell me yours and don’t leave anything out.”

  Traynor related the events of the evening to General Jones. When he’d finished, the general said, “I’ll send some transport for you. Most likely a helo. You’ll be taken to a secure place where you’ll find Scimitar waiting for you. Both he and Pop-Eye will help you out with this one. Do whatever it takes to get the kid back. Even if you have to kill all those fucking gun nuts to do it.”

  The line went dead.

  Traynor looked at Arenas and grinned. “I guess we’re going to kick some militia ass.”

  Sinaloa Mexico

  Team Reaper was swapped over from CIA to DEA the following night. A three-vehicle convoy sped along the gravel road, leaving a rooster tail of dust behind it. The HC-130 had landed on a strip ten miles from Puerto de Topolobampo. Their gear was loaded into the backs of the three Chevy Suburbans before starting out for the DEA safehouse which overlooked the port.

  Headlights cut through the dark as they rounded a bend in the road and the gravel changed to blacktop. Reaper sat in the front with the driver of the first vehicle, a man named Wells. In the back were Thurston and Cara. The suburban behind them carried Ferrero, Axe, and Reynolds. The third vehicle carried Swift, Teller, and Spencer.

  Countryside gave way to the streets of Topolobampo, and that was when it happened. The small convoy swung around a blind corner and was faced with four armed men standing in the middle
of the street. Behind them, blocking any further advance was a battered old Ford truck.

  Wells cursed and brought the Chevy to a halt. Kane took out his M17 and placed it on his lap. Behind him, he sensed Cara and Thurston do the same.

  “Out back of us,” Wells said.

  Kane looked in the side mirror and saw another truck fall in behind the third Chevy. Reaper pressed his talk button. “Axe, Spencer, be prepared but hold your fire. We don’t want a damned firefight just yet.”

  Axe’s voice came over the coms, “You ruin all my fun, Reaper. Can’t I shoot just one?”

  “If this goes south, shoot as many as you want.”

  Two of the armed men approached the Chevy. They split and stood at each side window. Kane wound his down and stared out at the tattooed man standing before him.

  The Mexican had a mirthless smile on his face. He said, “What have we got here? A car full of gringos, yes? What are you doing out here after dark? Do you not know that it is very dangerous to do this?”

  Kane smiled. “What can we do for you, amigo?”

  “You can get out of the car for a start, eh?”

  Shaking his head, Kane said, “Can’t do that.”

  “But what if I insist?”

  “That would be a mistake,” Kane told him.

  The man stared at him as he weighed up what to do next. Stops like this relied on fear to be successful. But this American showed anything but fear. He shrugged. “I will ask you again nicely, gringo. You and your friends get out of the car.”

  Instead of getting out, Kane said, “What’s your name?”

  The man frowned. “Pablo.”

  “Well, Pablo, have you ever seen what one of these can do up close?”

  The Mexican was confused, and before he could blink, Kane raised the M17 and pointed it straight at Pablo’s face. He was armed with an AK-47 and reflexively made to bring it up.

  “I wouldn’t,” Kane snapped. “Not unless you want to see the sun come up.”

  Pablo’s face screwed up in anger. “If you kill me, gringo, Ernesto will kill you and everyone in the car.”

  “I don’t think so. You see, he’ll already be dead.”