Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  "There's no signal." He pointed to the cluster of buildings ahead of them, "We have to make it over there and find help. Keep going just a bit longer."

  "I've had it."

  Raider took his supporting hand away from the man's arm, and the director fell to the ground. "Okay, you're on your own. Good luck with your Mexican friends."

  In a second, the man was on his feet and jogging toward him. "Wait, I can make it. Don't leave me."

  They sprinted the five hundred yards to the outskirts of the town, and all the way bullets peppered the ground around their feet. He mentally shrugged.

  There’s nothing we can do if we’re hit.

  They were within a hundred yards of the town when realization hit home. His hopes of finding help and a way to beat Pablo Cuevas's killers were gone. It was a town, no question, but not the kind of town that would offer landlines, or cops. They were running toward a ghost town, one of the many abandoned places in the Nevada Desert that came and went as the reason for their existence petered out. Maybe there'd been a gold strike, or hopes of discovering an oil well, but now the rotting shacks were no more than an illusion of safety.

  A bullet sliced through the skin of his arm. Kennedy stumbled as another chipped bone from his ankle, and he screamed aloud in pain.

  "I'm hit. I'm hit. Help me!"

  "Nearly there, live with it for a few seconds more."

  They reached the first of the shacks, and he dragged the shrieking, protesting man behind cover. He jerked around, as he heard movement from inside the decrepit building and snatched out his automatic. But he relaxed when a large bird screeched a shrill protest and flew out of a huge hole in the roof, disappearing into the clear blue sky. He looked inside, but one side of the shack had vanished, probably rotted and fallen down.

  "Keep going," he shouted, "We can't stop here."

  Raider ignored the babble of protest and kept running. Now he was almost dragging the other man along with him. He was limping badly, and for a moment, he considered throwing him on his shoulder. Except that would slow them down even more. They turned a corner, and the entrance to a mineshaft loomed in front of them. It was a chance, a slim chance. As he dragged Kennedy toward it, he felt the vibration from his pocket. Some freak of atmospherics had transmitted a signal to his cellphone in that very spot, and he'd received a text message.

  He dragged it out on the run and smiled. A message from Joe Nguyen, his Vietnamese former SEAL buddy. 'I just arrived at LA International. If you can spare an hour, we can catch up over drinks. Call me.'

  If his cell had received a text, he reasoned it could send a text. The Mexicans were still minutes away, and he quickly typed a message and pressed send. If Joe received it, well, maybe he'd call the cops. If not, it would probably all end here. The idea of dying didn't worry him. He'd lived with the risk of death for so long it was almost second nature. However, the idea of dying at the hands of a bunch of Mexican thugs rankled.

  Especially in the company of some Hollywood asshole like Kennedy, that’s too much. No way! No fucking way!

  "Go to the head of the mine shaft, quick!"

  "We'll be trapped."

  "Just do it. Unless you want to deal with them yourself."

  He mumbled another objection, but he obeyed. They reached the entrance, and Raider looked around for the means to make a defensive position. It took him a couple of seconds to work out they had one chance. A slim chance, to be sure, but it was better than no chance. He got to work.

  * * *

  "Where did they go?"

  Diego was breathing heavily as he caught up with Manolito Valdes, short and slim, with the build of a long distance runner. It had been hard work, pursuing the two gringos across the desert. Already he was regretting his diet of pizzas and tequila, washed down with several bottles of ice cold Carta Blanca.

  "I haven't a fucking clue," he wheezed, "Gimme a minute. I need to catch my breath."

  He sat down on a creaking, wooden veranda. As he did so, the other two men ran up. They were both newcomers. His boss had hired them for the job, and so far, he wasn't impressed. They were muscle, no question, big, tough men who would beat another man to death without a second thought. However, it wasn't just their bodies that were solid muscle. It was their brains as well. Tank brains.

  "Ramon, you and Emilio circle around the back of the town, and make sure they don't escape that way. Work back toward us, and flush them onto our guns."

  The two tank brains nodded and jogged away, holding up their Mac 10s ready to fire. Diego watched them go, and then looked down at the pistol in his hand. A big Colt .44 Anaconda, a large bore handgun. It was the short, four-inch barrel model, which was less than accurate except at very short-range. It wasn't a problem. When one of the heavy Magnum bullets even winged the target, it was enough to bring them down. When they were down, a couple more shots were more than enough to finish the job. It never failed.

  Manolito came toward him, clutching the AK-47. It was a stupid weapon, Diego always thought. Any cop that saw him carrying an AK was bound to start shooting first and asking questions afterward.

  "What're you doing?"

  He glared at Manolito. "I sent the other two to circle around back and drive them toward us. All we need do is wait here and fill 'em full of holes when they show up." He held up the pistol and grinned, "Time for Ma Colt to earn her pay."

  He sneered. "They ain't gonna find 'em, not the other side of town. I know just where they're hiding. There's an old mine shaft about a hundred yards from here, just around the corner. Their footsteps go right inside. We've got them."

  "You're sure?"

  "See for yourself. They're in there, no question."

  Diego felt his fatigue melt away, and he got to his feet. They could finish this job and knock off the Hollywood bigshot who thought he could welsh on a deal with Pablo Cuevas. It would teach the rest of his customers to pay up fast. He thought about the other guy, the driver. He didn't look much, maybe some out of work beach bum earning a few bucks. A pity he had to die; he was just in the wrong place, in the wrong job, at the wrong time.

  Too bad!

  He followed Manolito, and they reached the entrance to the mineshaft. It was in the center of the town, as if the mine had come first and the town had grown around it. Footsteps went all the way across the sand and disappeared into the dark entrance. He stopped and considered how to make the approach. If either of the two men they were chasing had a gun, they could be waiting for them. Which meant when they walked inside the shaft, they'd be backlit against the bright sunlight. An easy shot for anyone half-decent with a pistol.

  "I don't like it. It could be a trap."

  "A trap?" The other man chuckled and ratcheted a round into the breech of his AK, "It's a trap all right, and those two suckers are caught in it. Sure, they'll be waiting inside the darkness, ready to pop a shot at us when we walk in. So I'll empty a magazine into that place. Then we walk in and finish off anything that's left alive." He chuckled. "Which isn't very likely."

  Diego smiled with relief. "I like it. Let's do them."

  Manolito positioned himself at one side of the entrance, and the other man covered the other. Both of them were out of sight of anyone waiting to ambush them from inside. Diego gave him a nod, and Manolito leapt out and pulled the trigger. The quiet of the abandoned town was shattered as thirty 7.62mm rounds hammered into the darkness of the mineshaft. Jagged flashes of gunfire lighted up the shaft, but neither man saw a body fall. Maybe they were hit by the first burst of bullets.

  * * *

  He could smell them; two Mexicans, one overweight, fleshy and sweating profusely in the desert heat, the other skinny, carrying the AK-47. He was wary of the automatic rifle, although no less concerned about the .44 Magnum the fat man carried. Each exuded an unpleasant odor of garlic, stale booze, perspiration and, chili spices.

  Nasty.

  He'd taken up a position at the side of the rotting timber hut that protected the entranc
e to the mineshaft, after laying a false trail of footsteps. The Mexicans had fallen right into it, but they were faced with a problem. They weren't about to enter the mine together. The thin man blazed away with the Kalashnikov, emptied the clip and reloaded, then walked forward into the mine. The fat man waited outside with his handgun raised. Although the Mexican outside was a cheap hood, he'd clearly done this kind of work before. He was wary and nervous, glancing around constantly, as if he suspected something wasn't right.

  Before he could position himself to take the first shot, shoot the man with the handgun, and then down the second man before he had a chance to bring the AK-47 into play, Kennedy moaned in pain. Immediately, the fat man whirled to search in the direction of the noise. Seeing nothing, he skirted around the side of the structure where they waited, which left him with no choice. He dived out and shot the man twice. A double tap to the head, just as they'd trained him. He went down without firing a shot, but now the man inside was alert to a problem.

  He dragged the body next to Kennedy, went back, lay on the ground, and waited. The barrel of the assault rifle poked out of the darkness, and then the man stared out, looking for the threat. He saw none, and he stepped out quickly. Raider fired, but something made the Mexican man move at the last second. The bullet ripped a chunk from his ear as he jerked away. He swung the rifle around to chew his opponent into little pieces, but this time Raider made certain.

  He went for a heart shot. The Mexican was moving real fast, and the slug took him in the side, just above his kidney. He screamed in agony and almost dropped the rifle, but then he dropped to one knee and gripped it more tightly. Raider fired again, and again. This time the two 9mm bullets finished him, and he slowly toppled to the ground.

  "That's fucking fantastic!" Kennedy shouted, running out and in his exultation forgetting the pain to his ankle. Raider scooped up the AK-47, aimed in his direction, and fired a short burst. The director shook in fear, and his pants darkened as he emptied his bladder. His jaw fell open when he realized he was still alive. Raider pointed behind him. Two bodies lay only ten feet away, two big, heavily muscled Mexicans.

  "Jesus Christ!"

  "Mikhail Kalashnikov."

  "You what?"

  "Mikhail Kalashnikov. The guy who invented this rifle, the one that just saved your life. Not Jesus."

  "Yeah, I get it. We're in the clear."

  He was about to agree when they heard a helicopter coming in fast. Kennedy smiled.

  "Hey, it looks like someone called the cops. At long, fucking last."

  "Maybe."

  Something about the arrival of the helo didn't seem right. They'd turned up mighty fast, too fast.

  "Fucking A, I'll wave to them and make sure they know where..."

  "No. First, we need to get under cover and make sure they're friendlies."

  "But they're cops..."

  "How do you know?"

  The man was shaking his head in puzzlement when Raider scooped up the two Mac 10s, grabbed his arm, and dragged him out of sight. They huddled in the shelter of a derelict building that had once been a saloon bar. The helo landed out of sight, the engine cut, and there was only silence. Then they heard voices. Mexican voices, speaking Spanish.

  Do local cops speak Spanish? A few, maybe, but not that many!

  At least this time, he was better armed, an AK-47 with a partially full clip, his Sig Sauer, the Colt Magnum, and the two machine pistols.

  He waited for the new arrivals to come into view, but they were careful, and only one man showed himself. He was good, darting from cover to cover, shadow to shadow, making a clean shot difficult. The brief look Raider glimpsed of him was of a man who was lean and hard, not an obese Mexican. He wore camouflage pants over soft desert boots, and a combat vest stuffed with spare clips. He carried an M4-A1, which confirmed his initial assessment. Whoever he was, the guy was military, and he was sure to be a far tougher proposition than his Hispanic pals were. The four men whose blood even now leaked into the sand.

  He watched and waited, but these men made no sound. Save for one, the sole Mexican. From the way he shouted orders, it was clear he was the boss. The Jefe.

  "Find them, find those fucking gringos and kill them. I give a bonus to the man that kills them both."

  Someone answered with an East European voice.

  Russian?

  "You already pay us, Senor Cuevas. We'll get them for you and finish the job."

  "Make sure you do."

  Raider heard a grunt, and then another man flitted past in the shadows. He wondered if they knew where he was hiding with Kennedy. Probably not, the sand was all churned up, and it would be impossible to say who was where. This meant they'd have to go from building to building, a difficult job. Even for pros like these men.

  He squinted through a crack in the timbers, trying to locate the enemy. Two of them appeared with their backs toward him. For some reason, they thought he was somewhere else and were concentrating on a wrecked stable fifty yards away. It was too tempting a target. If he could waste these two, it reduced the odds by almost half. He took careful aim with the Sig and fired twice. He'd have preferred to double-tap both of them, but he had a tiny window before the other professionals reacted.

  They both pitched forward; one man screamed, and then there was silence. He knew what would happen next. He grabbed Kennedy and threw him to the floor, holding him there as bursts of automatic fire ripped through their hiding place. A hailstorm of slugs ripped holes in the rotten timberwork just above their heads. He dragged the director into a back room, where they would be out of sight until the gunmen came closer. The firing stopped, and although he couldn't see them, the occasional moving shadow testified they were drawing nearer.

  He looked at Kennedy. "This isn't looking good. Can you use one of these things?"

  He showed him a Mac 10. The man shook his head.

  "I've never fired a shot in my life. Well, I did some acting when I was younger, but they weren't real guns."

  "Too bad. There're still three of them out there, and at least two of them know their business. I need you to create a diversion."

  "But I…"

  "Shut up." He thrust the machine pistol at the hapless director, "The safety is off. You just pull the trigger, and bullets come out the other end. Just be careful where you point it."

  "What, er, what do I shoot at?"

  "The enemy."

  Kennedy was useless, but he was all he had. Whichever way he played this, it was going to be a gamble. Raider checked the magazine in the Colt; four bullets remained. He tucked the Sig Sauer in his belt and began crawling forward. Back to the front of the wooden building, where random gunshots were still making holes in the timber walls. He turned to Kennedy.

  "As soon as I whistle, start shooting."

  "Shoot at what?"

  He sighed. "I told you, the enemy. They're in front of us. Don't worry about hitting them, just fire single shots in their general direction. I'll take care of the rest."

  Assuming they fall for it. If they don't, he won't have anything to worry about. He'll be dead. We'll both be dead.

  He kept moving, snaking forward on his belly to avoid the incoming shots still peppering the building. He found what he was looking for. At one side they'd built a stone fireplace, and he huddled in the narrow opening, so the brickwork protected his body. He took a last look around, tried and failed to identify the exact position of the enemy, then whistled.

  Kennedy opened fire, at first shooting a long burst that emptied half the rounds from the 32-capacity clip. He failed to take into account the force of the shooting, which caused the barrel to tilt upward. The rounds slashed through the timber building a couple of feet over his head. The last few peppered the roof. Raider heard him curse as he searched for the selector, found it, and started firing single shots on semi-auto. His shooting was more measured as he got the hang of it, and a succession of single, well-spaced rounds cracked out toward the enemy.

 
All too soon, he ran out of ammunition. The click of the bolt falling on an empty chamber was loud in the deserted town. Raider heard voices talking outside, a command snapped out, and feet began running toward him. He was waiting for them, but even so, they almost took him by surprise. The flimsy door crashed inward, and two shadowy figures dived into the building. As they hit the floor, they fired repeatedly to overwhelm anyone waiting inside.

  One bullet chipped brickwork from the fireplace, a second creased his hair, and from the sting he knew he'd have problems with blood trickling down over his eyes. He was in shadow, and for the first split second, they didn't see him. It was all the time he needed. The Colt .44 Anaconda roared. He put a bullet in each man, following it up with a second shot in them both. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber; the Colt was empty. He tossed it aside and grabbed for his Sig.

  "Drop it, put your hands up."

  It had to be Cuevas. It was clear the Mexican was no stranger to gunplay. He'd used the hired gunmen to divert attention while he slipped in unnoticed. He stood in front of Raider with Mac 10 pointed at his guts. Kennedy innocently walked forward, his weapon pointed at the floor, assuming it was all over, and Cuevas smiled.

  "Mr. Kennedy, it's so nice to see you again. Put the gun down."

  "I can explain everything," the director croaked, as he tossed the machine pistol to the floor. Raider winced, expecting the weapon to go off, sparing the Mexican the trouble of killing them, "It's empty," he explained with a helpless shrug.

  "If you want to say your prayers, I'll give you a little time before I kill you," Cuevas said. He sounded as if he was enjoying it.

  "How about three months?" Raider asked him.

  The expression was stony. "How about three minutes? Time starts now, Kennedy. Stand next to your amigo. That's it yes, stay behind him. He is a tricky one, I think." He looked at Raider, "Military?"

  "Parks Department."

  "Is that so? You find this funny, hombre?"

  "Not really. But if this is all the time I have left, I don't see any reason to be miserable."