by Justin Bell
Orosco nodded.
“Come in from the west?”
Lamar and Jarvish both turned to look where Orosco was pointing.
“If we hit it quick, that could work. Cars are all there, we could disable their getaway first, then hit the truck second.” Lamar was scouting the parking lot and behind him Orosco nodded.
“You’re reading my mind.”
Lamar gunned the engines and brought the LAV back to rumbling life.
“Everyone ready?” Orosco asked, turning back towards the rest of the vehicle.
“Strapped and ready!” Vasily barked back.
“Good to go!” reported Agent Fields. Fields had been an agent with the FBI for only six months before the detonations but did not hesitate in volunteering for this operation. Born and raised in the heart of Texas, the mere thought of a Mexican Cartel expanding into her precious backyard had risen her ire.
“Dang, the cartel pukes done ticked off Ginger! They’ll be regretting that!” Agent Leslie brayed, his voice barking like an angry mule in the tight confines of the vehicle.
Fields turned, a lock of her red hair spilling out over her shoulder, and punched Leslie hard in the arm. “Y’all gonna tick off Ginger, smart guy!”
“Yeah no one wants an angry Fields with her fire selector set to automatic,” replied Vasily. “Make sure you keep the business end of that bad boy pointed at the cartel, would ya?”
Fields winked at him and nodded. “Be my pleasure!” Her thick Texas drawl combined with her tactical load out still produced quite the contradiction in Orosco’s mind. Southern Belle and FBI field agent decked out in tactical gear and an automatic weapon were two puzzle pieces that did not fit well together.
The LAV barreled from its spot on the ridge and roared over a thick lump of pavement, jostling the commandos inside, and Orosco could feel the vehicle angling left.
“Lamar, what’s our ETA?” he shouted up to the driver.
“We got two minutes, bossman!” Lamar shouted back.
“You heard the man!” Orosco barked. “Two minutes! We’re hitting from the west and crashing this party. We’ve got twelve armed cartel goonies down there, so work smart and work fast, got me?”
All throughout the LAV weapons clacked as the operatives checked their magazines, set their fire selectors, and made sure optical scopes and tactical lights were firmly bolted to their weapons.
“Once we stop, Fields and Leslie, you hit out the right-side door. Vasily and I will hit the left side. Trask and Blaydon, you hit the back doors. Lamar and Jarvish, you pop out the front and give us some long distance cover. Be prepared for fast evac if things get hot!”
A resounding echo of affirmative voices cascaded around the small group within the armored vehicle as it tore forward towards the distribution center. Orosco could once again feel the LAV pitch around a corner to the point where the shocks dipped and the heavy armored assault vehicle tipped to one side.
“Making the approach! I have eyes on the truck!” said Lamar. Orosco leaned out from his seat and looked out of the windshield, confirming what the driver had reported. A large, unmarked semi sat idling in the long parking strip outside of the distribution center. The parking strip would have been a lot full of cars, but the warehouse and routing company had gone belly up several months prior, and the detonations had done nothing to accelerate any new buyers. The loading ramp of the truck leaned against the pavement and two other men were wheeling crates on a hand truck. He was too far away to see their eyes, but he suspected they were wide and bewildered—just how he liked it.
The LAV screamed past the front entrance and up around to the right, hugging the grass, then came around to the left, getting some space between the vehicle and the chain link fence. The engine roared loud and long in the dark night as the armored vehicle swung sharply around, popped the embankment, then tipped forward, pounding down over the grass. Orosco could hear the muffled shouts of the people down below as the LAV slammed through the chain link fence, tearing it apart, snapping it off its posts, and sending the thin metal tangling around the angled armor surface of the vehicle. It scraped and scattered from the roof as the LAV made one more lunging surge down toward the bottom of the short hill. Up ahead men with weapons scattered like roaches under a sudden bright light, and the blunt grill of the Streit vehicle crunched into the left side of one of the cartel trucks. Metal and plastic imploded and windows shattered as the momentum of the armored vehicle picked up the car and threw it roughly on its roof, scraping and sparking along the pavement, before it caught and flipped back over, popping two tires.
The impact smashed the rear half of a second car, sent it spinning like a Detroit steel tornado, spraying broken plastic in a wide arc. Rending metal sounded from a third car as the hood crumpled and the vehicle sent it skidding backwards, the rear end swinging around.
Lamar clenched the wheel and wrenched it to the left towards the front of the semi, slamming on the brakes and bringing the rear of the LAV around.
“Go go go go!” Orosco shouted, slamming his side door open as Leslie did the same on the other side, spilling all four of them out onto the parking lot. Fields hit the ground in a crouch, her boots slamming pavement, and had her M4 up in firing position, tracing the movements of one of the cartel gunmen as he stumbled backwards to take cover behind the truck. She opened up with a swift, controlled burst and he lurched backwards, slamming against the truck, then slumped sideways leaving a smear of red in his wake. She swiveled and fired again, throwing a second gunman off his feet and back onto the pavement, his legs stabbing up into the air.
“On your eleven!” Leslie barked, moving in behind Fields and aiming his own M4 above her left shoulder. He punched three single shots into the upper chest of a third gunman, throwing him to the ground.
Orosco’s feet slammed on the pavement on the other side of the LAV and he twisted left as he ran, firing sporadically with his own automatic. A cartel cronie took a burst in the upper chest, sprawling backwards over the crumpled form of the smashed car, and Orosco shifted again, tracking a second man and firing again, drilling him with an automatic burst. The gunman’s jacket splayed out under the barrage of 5.56 millimeter and he dropped to the ground.
Return fire chattered from the darkness, dancing sparks along the angled roof of the LAV, scattering ricochets up into the darkness as Vasily moved forward, firing a handful of times until another gunman went sprawling.
A boot slammed the back door, swinging both rear hatches open with Trask and Blaydon springing out, weapons barking, their tight grasps holding the guns steady as they thrashed in their firing grips.
More shots echoed from the dark behind the semi, striking the windshield of the armored vehicle. They hit with scattered pop pop pop sounds, punching divots in the bullet-proof glass but not shattering it. Jarvish slammed the passenger door open with his left shoulder, leaning out with his rifle and fired back towards the shadows, sending bullets careening from the hood of the truck.
“We’ve got two or three on our two!” shouted Orosco. “Behind the semi! I’m on ’em!” He let his barrel drop and charged forward.
“Orosco, hold up!” Vasily yelled as the team lead charged off towards the truck, his huddled form getting dimmer in the surrounding darkness.
Gunfire spat out from behind the truck and Orosco angled left, narrowly avoiding the oncoming barrage, and he adjusted and fired, all shots swinging wide of their targets. He halted his progress and lurched forward, his finger slamming the trigger, but the weapon clacked on an empty magazine.
“Stupid!” Orosco yelled at himself, then back-pedaled as a gunman emerged from the truck, two hands clasped around a small submachine gun. Orosco could see it all happening in slow motion: he was standing there, exposed, with no cover, his weapon dry, and the cartel criminal was pointing what looked like an MP5 directly at him. For a moment, he thought he could see the twitch of his finger, hovering over the trigger of the weapon, getting ready to pound down and
unload nine millimeter death into him. He froze, not able to move as he could see his own imminent death in the eyes of the man facing him. The cartel gunman narrowed his glare, his lips twisting into a slanted, satisfied smile, showing two rows of yellowed teeth, and Orosco was close enough to see them all. Behind him, two more of the cartel criminals drifted out around him with weapons in their hands, preparing to cover for the first.
A series of swift pops to Orosco’s right unfroze him and he jerked awake, shuffling in the other direction, as Fields came up with her weapon raised, firing rapid single shot rounds. The first two glanced off the sloped hood of the semi, spitting sparks, but the third struck the gunman in the jaw, snapping his head back and sending him sprawling back into the shadows.
Ducking and finally moving, Orosco removed his magazine, dropping it to the ground, and replaced it with a second, slamming it home, then lifting the weapon right as a second gunman fired what looked to be a MAC-10 submachine gun.
Orosco felt the hammer kick to his chest, lifting him from the ground and sending him scrambling, the pain scorching the right side of his torso, and sending white hot tendrils of agony through his arms and legs. He hit the ground back first but managed to hold onto his M4, spinning it towards the shadows and firing. The gunmen wheeled back as Fields and Leslie came up on the semi, with Vasily sprinting up around on Orosco’s left. All three of them converged on the last two gunmen and opened up, cutting them both down in a swift crossfire.
“We’re clear!” shouted Fields as she stood by the front hood of the semi.
“Clear here, too!” screamed Jarvish from back by the LAV.
“Clear on the south side!” shouted Trask.
Orosco inhaled ragged, painful breaths as he lay on the asphalt, pressing his hand to his chest. He could tell the skin wasn’t broken—the armored plate had saved his life—but his chest ached as if a horse had reared back and kicked him with both feet, and his lungs barked with each rasping intake of breath.
“What the hell was that about?” yelled Fields as she stormed over towards Orosco. “Trying to get yourself killed?”
He peeled himself from the pavement, drawing in another deep, stabbing breath of air, his arm shaking as he pushed himself into a kneeling position. Had he been trying to get himself killed? He didn’t think so, but he’d be lying to himself if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He still remembered standing at the edge of the roof, looking out over southeast Houston towards the burning embers of Galveston—the burning embers of every single member of his family—and thinking about how easy it would be to take that one last step.
“Good shot, Ginger,” Orosco mumbled.
She rolled her eyes and turned away, storming back towards the LAV as Vasily approached and extended a hand, helping Orosco to his shaky feet.
“Seriously, you all right, boss?” Vasily asked and Orosco nodded.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Hit the truck, see what they’ve got.”
“Trask, Blaydon, Lamar, and Jarvish are already on it,” Vasily replied as they walked towards the large semi. Rounding the truck, they approached the platform which was working its way down towards the pavement. Jarvish stood on it, shaking his head.
“What’s the story?” Orosco asked. “What’s in there? Guns?”
Jarvish shook his head. “No, no guns. Some weird metal contraptions. Nothing I’ve ever seen before. You sure about this intel, chief?”
Orosco slung his M4 over his shoulder and vaulted up into the back of the truck without waiting for the platform to reach the bottom. He walked into the darkened cavern of the truck and saw shelving reaching from the floor all the way to the straightened ceiling of the truck, and plastic wrapped bundles filled about half of the shelves. Walking towards one of the shelves to his right, Orosco removed the wrapped bundle and set it on the floor, crouching next to it and working some plastic wrap free.
He sat there, in a low crouch, his eyes narrowing on the item he was looking at, and the blood in his veins ran to ice cold. While he hadn’t seen anything like this before first hand, he’d remembered the way Brandon Liu had described items just like this and knew he was looking at the titanium housing for the suitcase nukes. The same type of housing recovered from the site in Boston, and the same type of housing that was driving Liu’s entire investigation.
Was Las Balas smuggling them into the country? Or was something else going on here?
He had to get in touch with Liu.
By reflex, Orosco reached back into his back pocket, pulling out the modified smart phone. Looking back towards his team, he saw they were milling about at the foot of the truck, so he powered on the phone and keyed up the home screen, his heart slamming as he waited to see if Liu had sent him a message.
The screen faded to blue.
A small envelope icon appeared in the top task bar with the number “1” next to it. Orosco thumbed the message icon.
Sorry for radio silence. I’m on the move. Will have more shortly. They are listening. BE CAREFUL.
Orosco’s eyes darted back towards the foot of the truck, making sure nobody else was coming close. Fields and Vasily stayed where they were, talking, and other members of the team had scattered to clear the scene.
Orosco thumbed some buttons. Acknowledged. Intercepted cartel shipment of titanium housings. He looked up and around, eyeing the shelves. Enough for probably half a dozen suitcase nukes. Don’t know the origins yet. Be careful, let me know what I can do.
He sent the message and slipped the modified phone back in his pants pocket, out of sight, then walked to rejoin his team, trying to think of what he was going to say and how he could explain the importance of what they’d just found without blowing Liu’s investigation wide open.
Things had just become interesting.
***
The sun continued its descent against the backdrop of a darkened sky as the RV sat idle in the grass several hundred yards away from the makeshift barricade and the line of law enforcement vehicles all along Interstate 74. Looking in each direction, the Frasers couldn’t see an immediate stopping point for the makeshift border patrol.
“We can’t just sit here,” Rhonda said, leaning against the RV and looking out towards the flashing blue lights running all up and down the highway ahead of them.
“Me and Brad can head one way and see if there’s a break in the fence,” Max said.
“Dad and I can check another,” Winnie finished. “It would be good to get out and stretch our legs.”
“I’m not sure I like this,” Rhonda said, looking at Winnie, then back at Max. “It’s dangerous out here. You might not think so because of all the police, but I don’t trust anything here.” Her eyes darted towards Brad, but she made sure they didn’t linger there. “Not anymore.”
“We can take care of ourselves, mom,” Max said. His new contoured holster pressed tight to his back and the memory of his eight shot speed loader brought some measure of comfort.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Phil said. “You and Clancy are still hurting, you should stay here. Angel can watch over you two. The rest of us can spread out and see what we can find.”
“Max are you and Brad up for that?” Rhonda asked, turning towards the boys. “Your hip is still—”
“My hip is fine, mom,” Max replied in a trademark whine that came exclusively with children of twelve years of age. Rhonda smiled a bit, comforted by the fact that no matter how much Max was forced to grow up by these new surroundings, he could still come across as an entitled child.
“I’m okay, too, Mrs. Fraser,” Brad replied, then hesitated for a moment. “I mean Rhonda.”
She smiled and nodded, appreciating the fact that he remembered what she’d asked him to call her. “Okay. But I want you back before it gets too dark, okay?” She looked back over to Phil and Winnie as well. “That means you, too, Phillip.”
“Yes, mom,” Phil replied, stepping towards Rhonda and giving her a gentle squeeze. Her sh
oulder pinched with a small stab of pain, but she didn’t let on. Rhonda watched them walk off, her eyes shifting from one boy to the other. Brad had become distant. On edge. While Max was his typical high strung self, something about the two of them working together seemed to capture a good balance. Max lightened Brad up, and Brad’s seriousness seemed to ground his friend. As much as she was hesitant to send them off alone, working together, the two formed an unusually tight bond—a bond tighter than the sum of its parts.
Greer came up next to her, walking gingerly, one hand resting on the holster at his right thigh.
“We’ve got things covered here. Don’t worry about us.”
Phil nodded. He and Winnie drew back, turned, and walk off towards the east while Max and Brad wandered the other direction.
Rhonda stood there, flanked by Greer and Menendez, watching her children fade into the darkness, willing them to turn around and return to her.
They didn’t, and she remained standing there for a long time after they disappeared from view.
***
Max walked along the tangled snatches of grass running alongside route 24, off towards the clutches of trees. He and Brad kept Interstate 74 in view, or the flashing blue lights along the perimeter of it, anyway. Coming up on a small stump, Max stepped up onto it, wincing as the pain in his hip flared and stabbed, then jumped off, landing in a clumsy crouch in the tall weeds. Brad circled around the stump, walking straight and serious.
“So, you holding up okay, Brad?” Max asked, thinking that a few weeks ago, Brad would have jumped off the stump right behind him and would have tried to jump higher.
“I’ll be fine,” Brad replied but stopped talking there.
“You didn’t want to stay with your grandparents?”
“Nope. Boring there. Nothing but old people smells and bad…bad memories.”
“True that.”
