by Eric Meyer
Talley checked the men as they assembled, ready for the last part of their journey. Each man, apart from the snipers, carried a Heckler and Koch 416, the modern assault rifle chosen by many Special Forces units to replace the M-16 variants that had been its mainstay for so long. Lightweight and immensely reliable, the gun fired a NATO standard 5.56 millimeter round that would hit anything the user was aiming at, with unerring accuracy. Four of the men carried rifles fitted with the AG-C/EGLM single shot 40 mm grenade launcher. In addition, each man carried a sidearm, the Sig Sauer P226, fitted with a sound suppressor. Some carried combat knives and spare grenades for the launchers. Each was in communication with the others by means of their tactical headsets, and Brad Rose carried the small, portable, encrypted satcom which kept them in contact with their headquarters, or anywhere in the world, if necessary; including the office of their Commander in Chief, at a pinch. They’d stopped a mere hundred yards from their objective, the Salazar warehouse, identified by the sign on the front of the building, ‘Salazar Brothers, Foodstuffs. Import/Export’.
“Communications check,” Talley murmured into his headset.
The replies came back, five by five. He nodded.
“Bravo Three, call in. You snipers all set.”
“Affirmative, Bravo One.”
He made a final visual check. The area was dark, so they’d switched to night vision equipment. When they went in, they’d have to remove immediately after the breach; they expected the inside of the building to be lit up. Salazar’s was not a nine to five business. He looked at the assault team, invisible without night vision in their dark, mottled gray camouflage and gray stripe-painted faces.
“Bravo Two, go.”
Will Bryce ran lightly and silently forward, a miracle for a man of his size. His rifle was slung on his back, and in his hands, he carried the sledgehammer. Roscoe Bremmer and Zeke Murray were right behind him, HKs held ready. Talley’s group fanned out and walked slowly and warily towards the objective. If anyone turned up now, they had to be taken out, quickly and silently. Bryce reached the door and stood for a second, the hammer poised. Bremmer and Murray gave him the nod, and he swung it back, hitting the top door hinge with enough force to stop an M1 Abrams battle tank. The noise was appalling, a crash that resonated through the whole neighborhood. But the door had sagged. He hit the lower hinge, and it crashed open. He threw the hammer to the ground and stepped aside, unslinging his assault rifle as the two shooters ran past him. It was a wide-open space, stacked on either side with wooden crates and sacks of foodstuff. In the center was a huge, square worktable, of about twenty feet to a side. It was piled with electronic scales, smaller boxes, and plastic bags. Ten men were working at the table, and they looked up in astonishment and froze like a tableau. There were four armed guards at the sides of the warehouse, and they recovered quicker.
“Gringos!”
The first man lifted his rifle, an M4 A1 carbine and went down under a hail of bullets from Roscoe Bremmer’s HK. Zeke Murray fired a series of short, three burst taps that took down two more of the guards. He ran over to check them out while Will came up behind, ready now with his HK and looking for the fourth man. He saw a movement out of his right peripheral vision and swiveled fast. The guard had circled back behind a pile of wooden crates and had almost reached the door. He fired a snapshot that missed. The guy had reached a position where Roscoe stood between him and a clear shot.
“Roscoe, duck!”
Bremmer ducked fast, but it was too late. The guard went out the entrance like a hare and ran out into the dark night. The man saw Talley’s group approaching, jerked to a stop and leveled his gun.
Nolan and Merano watched the warehouse. They’d stayed with their night vision equipment, watching Talley’s group walk across towards the warehouse. The man came running out with his M4 A1, and both snipers drew a bead on him. As he leveled his gun, both fired. The force of the heavy bullets threw the man back. He went down a bloody, bleeding corpse.
“Good shooting, Chief,” Talley’s voice came over the headset. “We’re going in. Watch our six.”
“Roger that.”
They entered the warehouse and dived for cover as the sound of heavy gunfire erupted. Then the lights went out, and the interior of the building was plunged into darkness.
“Talk to me,” Talley spoke urgently on the commo.
Will’s voice came back to him, calm and clear.
“Salazar’s men, they were sorting the drugs on a big workbench. When they thought we weren’t looking, they pulled weapons from under the table and started shooting. One of ‘em shot out the lights.”
“Copy that. Let’s all switch to night vision. Do we have any casualties?”
“We’re good. Six of the hostiles are down, but four are still active. We’re looking for them now.”
“Copy that. Go to the rear, and we’ll come in slowly from the front and drive ‘em towards you.”
“Hear you, moving now.”
Talley glanced around to make sure they were ready. Then he started forward. “Let’s do it.”
They went fast through the doorway and spread out inside the near wall of the room. Through the goggles they could see Will, Roscoe and Zeke at the far end. They were kneeling down behind the cover of wooden crates but were distinguishable by their goggles that showed clearly.
Flashes almost overrode the goggles; flares of light that blinded them for brief seconds. Then the firing stopped, but they’d identified the hostiles’ location. They were close to Will’s group; too close to fire in a grenade, sheltering behind a huge, rusting heap of steel machinery. Before he could decide on a plan, more trouble announced itself.
“Bravo One, this is Three.”
“Go ahead, Chief.”
“We’ve got people out here, Boss. They came out of the woodwork when the shooting started. There’s about twenty of them, but more turning up. They’re all armed, assume hostile. I’d guess they’re local soldiers of the Salazar brothers. Yeah, and something else, a cop car just arrived. Four cops got out and linked up with these people. They’re armed with riot guns, heading towards your twenty.”
Talley thought for barely a second. “I’ll send Eisner out to cover the doorway. Carl is busy preparing the charges. We’ve still got some hombres on the loose, so we can’t help out. You’ll have to take ‘em, Chief. If they’re on Salazar’s payroll, they know their chances. Once you start on them, most of ‘em will run.”
“And the cops?”
“Yeah, I know, but take ‘em first. They’re the ones who allow this to happen.”
“Copy that.”
Talley stared forward. He caught sight of Carl Winters a few yards away, working on plating his charges.
“Carl, you are carrying the Beowulfs?”
Winters looked up. “That’s an affirmative.”
“You see that big, ugly old machine, three quarters of the way down the room.”
“I see it.”
“Okay. The hostiles are sheltering behind it. They’re much too comfortable behind there, so put ten rounds through it, that should bring ‘em out. We’ll do the rest.”
“Copy that.”
Outside, Nolan and Merano watched the big group of men moving toward the warehouse. They were pushing the cops to the front, patting them on the back; these were their heroes. They’d make short work of these Gringos who came south to ruin their livelihoods. The cops smiled back, basking in the glow of unexpected praise. They held their riot guns ready and marched on, until the two snipers fired; four bullets, four kills. The cops went rolling in the dirt, one of them screaming in pain from the bullet that had just missed a vital organ. Vince fired again and finished the job. Then they went to work on the ringleaders, who were shouting at the increasingly nervous crowd to keep going and kill the foreigners. Two men went down, then three, two more, and the crowed was running. On the open ground in front of the warehouse, all that remained were bodies.
“Bravo One, this
is Bravo Two. Hostiles have dispersed, you’re clear.”
“Copy that, Bravo Two.”
Brad watched the snipers at work, furious that he wasn’t an active part of the operation, until he heard the sound of an engine in the distance, a big, powerful, noisy engine. He tapped Nolan on the shoulder.
“Truck coming.”
The Chief looked around. A massive semi tractor-trailer was bearing down on the warehouse. The vehicle looked old and battered, the bright red paint mixed with patches of rust and dented steel to almost look like some kind of weird camouflage.
“What’s your assessment?” he asked Brad. “He doesn’t look innocent. I reckon he’s aiming at us?”
The Seal shrugged. “It ain’t nothing good. That’s for sure. He’s coming at us like a bat out of hell.”
“Use the Beowulfs, Brad, and see if you can hit the engine or something important. Vince, try and take out the driver. We want to stop that mother before he gets here. That trailer could be carrying anything, but my guess it would be soldiers. Stop ‘em now before they get any nearer.”
He called up Talley on the commo. “Boss, trouble coming in. Big tractor-trailer. Could be loaded with reinforcements, even heavy weapons, probably both. We could do with some help from another Beowulf out here.”
“Copy that, Chief. I’ll send Carl out.”
“Make it quick. We want to stop him before he gets any nearer. He could drive straight into the warehouse and cause a lot of misery.”
“He’s on the way.”
Vince was shooting at the cab of the semi, trying to get a hit on the driver, while Brad sent bullet after bullet hammer into the charging vehicle. Nothing seemed to stop the behemoth in its mad charge toward them, and to the warehouse. Then Carl rushed out, kneeled in the road, and put his rifle to his shoulder. He started shooting, and more of the big, heavy Beowulfs smashed into the truck. Then there was an explosion as at last, the bullets found a vital part of the mechanics. The truck slewed across the road, tilted on two wheels, and slammed back on the road. It was less than fifty yards away, and Vince Merano was able to use his sniper skills on a target that was not jinking across the street. The driver was flung back as the heavy 7.62mm slugs smashed into his head and body, and the semi driven by a bullet-riddled corpse for the last few yards of its journey. The rear end snaked around as it jack-knifed, and the rig slid along several store fronts, destroying them but bringing the truck to a stop. For a few moments, there was silence. Then Nolan heard more shooting as Talley’s squad poured on fire to the remaining hostiles inside the warehouse. The firing increased in intensity, and the interior of the building was lit up with muzzle flashes. Simultaneously, the rear door of the trailer clanged open and men started to drop out. Nolan, Merano and Rose sniped at them, and a score of bodies were flung into the dust and dirt of the roadway. But another group, maybe twenty more, hurried around to shelter behind the truck. It was their turn to come under fire as the new arrivals started shooting, and they came under fire from a score of automatic and semi-automatic rifles and pistols.
“Boss, we’ve got more trouble. Twenty hostiles arrived in that semi.”
“Copy that. We’ll finish up here and join you. Carl is about done.”
Less than a minute later, Nolan saw Talley’s squad hurry out of the warehouse and watched them as they darted over to join his group.
“What’s the situation?” Talley asked.
Nolan nodded towards the semi. “We whittled them down apiece, but there’s still twenty behind that truck.”
“Okay. You men with launchers, get ready to hit that truck with everything you’ve got. As soon as the last grenade has gone, we’re getting out. The Federals will come a running before much longer. I guess the local cops will be pissed as well, losing four of their own people.”
He made a last sweep of the street and then nodded at the four Seals with M203 launchers. “Fire! Everything you’ve got.”
The four launchers went to work, and grenades flew through the air whilst the rest of them poured on gunfire to add to the misery of the Mexicans. Carl and Brad fired round after round; the Beowulfs smashed through the thickest steel of the semi-trailer, and some of them found targets in the men who were sheltering behind. A few tried to run and were picked off by Nolan and Merano, shooting coolly and methodically with their Mk 11 SWS rifles. The street was a blazing hell of hot steel as the intense fire ripped apart the hostiles. A few threw up their hands and tried to surrender.
“Boss?”
“Finish ‘em.”
During a lull in the firing, they heard the sound of police sirens heading towards them, and the ‘whump, whump’ of a Federales Bell 412 helo.
“Time to get out of Dodge,” Talley shouted. “Cease fire, let’s go.”
As they retreated through the dark streets, they could sense that eyes were watching them from behind shuttered windows. But no one was on the street, not a soul stirred. They weren’t certain who had arrived to bring a welter of death and destruction to the streets, where it was almost an everyday occurrence. But they were certain that this was something new, and something they hadn’t experienced before. A force that was almost elemental in its raw power to destroy and kill. Carl Winters almost casually thumbed the button on his remote detonator, and the warehouse behind them exploded with a deafening roar; flames shot into the sky lighting up almost half the town. The Federales Bell helo had almost reached the site, and they grinned as the Mexican pilot veered away in a panic-stricken maneuver to avoid the massive explosion that sent a jet of smoke and flame two hundred feet into the air. He tipped his craft almost on its side and swerved violently to avoid ramming into a church spire.
They slipped through the streets, finding their way along little used alleyways and back-doubles until they reached the border fence. Five minutes later, they were on American soil, staring at the neutral face of a uniformed Border Patrol officer who’d come to check them back in. It was a courtesy from the local law enforcement people, except one man didn’t see it that way.
“What the fuck’s this? Ain’t you got anything better to do than hassle our tails?”
Roscoe Bremmer stared angrily at the uniformed officer, who held up his hands.
“Hey, whoa there, buddy. I’m not asking to see any ID. I’m here to help.”
“What the fuck do we want your help for? Haven’t you seen what we did across there? We’ve taken care of business, and we sure aced those mothers. That means you can go on back to your nice comfortable desk and leave the serious business to the experts. Fucking amateurs.”
As he spoke, Roscoe placed his hand on the man’s chest and pushed him out of the way, and then he strode past. The man opened his mouth to shout an angry retort, but Nolan stopped him.
“I’m sorry about him, officer, he’s new and something of an asshole. We’ll deal with him later. I just want to let you know that most of us appreciate the courtesy just fine.”
The man nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, okay. But that black boy will get himself into trouble if he goes around shooting off that big mouth of his.”
“I hear you. I’ll tell him he’s not in Kansas now.”
“I guess you mean Detroit,” the officer fired back.
Nolan nodded. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
The Blackhawks were waiting to take them back to Coronado. After the debrief Nolan climbed into his Camaro and drove home. He was only a couple of blocks away when he smelled smoke. Some poor bastard’s house was on fire. He drove nearer, and then with a sinking feeling in his guts, knew that it was his house. There were three appliances drawn across the street outside, and firemen were playing hoses on the burning remains of his home. He thanked God the kids had gone away with their grandparents. Then a familiar figure came across to him.
“I’m so sorry, Kyle. I heard about it on the scanner, so I came out to take a look.”
Nolan gave Carol Summers a nod. “Do they know how it started?”
She paused
for a moment and looked back at the house, or what was left of it.
“It was arson.”
“Jesus Christ, Carol. Of course it was fucking arson! I asked how.” He almost choked as he spoke.
Why do I always get off on the wrong foot with this girl?
She was dressed as usual in jeans, a blouse and a tailored jacket to hide her gun. She was so petite that the gun always looked incongruous on her. Carol’s short brown hair was slightly awry, and she hadn’t touched in her makeup in a while. Her freckles were more pronounced than ever, as was the tiny scar on her face that seemed redder in the reflection of the fire.
She was annoyed by his anger. “There’s no need to take it out on me. I came out to see if there was anything I could do.”
He realized his behavior was as bad as Roscoe Bremmer’s had been to the Border Guard. She didn’t deserve it. But neither did he deserve having his family home burned down. “I’m sorry, Carol. It’s just, you know, a shock.”
She nodded. “Yeah, it’s terrible. A couple of guys were seen running away as the blaze started. The Fire Chief just gave us his initial findings. It was probably a fire bomb of some kind, and likely thrown through the living room window.”
Nolan felt an icy chill course through him. “They thought they were going to kill me and the kids.”
“That’s sure the way it looks, yeah.”
A man in a suit came up to them and nodded at Carol. “This is the house owner?”
“Yes, Chief Kyle Nolan, he’s Navy. Kyle. This is our Chief of Police, Max Weller.”
The man shook his hand. “I’m sorry about this, Mr. Nolan. We’ll do our best to find who are responsible. Believe me, we’ll haul their asses down to my jail as soon as we have a name.”
