The Medina Device

by T. J. Champitto

  Down the trail, Trip mustered everything he had and rose to his feet. He lifted his machine gun and marched unafraid onto the dirt road, flashing a hail of rounds into the trees. He paced further toward his enemy.

  Under the protection of Trip’s assault, Cam surged onward up the trail. He jumped in the Range Rover and threw it in drive, his foot dropping on the gas pedal as the SUV fishtailed through a flurry of bullets, finally coming to a slide in front of the old Chevy. He stared out at the insanity around him as rounds shattered against the glass windows. They’re bulletproof, he thought with a grin.

  “Trip, let’s go!” Michael yelled.

  No response.

  “Trip!”

  Nothing. Michael peered over the hood and saw Trip stretched out in the mud. He catapulted around the truck and dropped to his knees, then began a quick check of his teammate. As more gunfire pounded their position, he grabbed Trip’s arm and yanked the limp body up and around his shoulder, then dumped him into the back seat of the waiting Range Rover.

  Michael hurried back to the ossuary and lifted it from the pickup to the SUV and dropped in into the back hatch. He leapt into the Range Rover as Cam hit the gas. They sped down the trail with adrenaline coursing through their bodies, the ping of bullets ricocheting off the back window. Seconds later, the Range Rover turned a corner and disappeared into the thick forest.

  “Is he okay?” Cam yelled over his shoulder.

  “I don’t know,” his brother quietly replied, wrestling to get a look.

  “Is he okay?”

  “I said I don’t know!”

  Michael rolled Trip onto his back as the Range Rover careened around another sharp corner. The SUV raced downhill through the slippery trail, rallying to get as far away from the ambush as possible. Blood ran from Trip’s nostrils and mouth, all the way down to his neck. His teeth were stained in it.

  “Trip, stay with me,” Michael begged.

  “I can’t feel my legs,” Trip finally replied, struggling to speak.

  “You’re gonna be okay.”

  “Tell Elena I’m sorry,” he attempted through labored breaths.

  “You can tell her yourself.” Michael ripped the poncho and Kevlar vest off his friend, then tore through the black shirt.

  Blood sprang up from two holes in Trip’s neck. Putting pressure on the carotid artery, Michael reached for the other side with his left hand. There was an exit hole and a light pulse.

  “I need you to relax your breathing, buddy. We’re gonna get you to a hospital.”

  Trip stared blankly into the air, surrendering to the pain. “I wanna go home.”

  Michael gripped his friend’s hand tightly. “Cam, What do I do? I don’t know what to do!” he cried.

  “You know what to do, Michael. Put pressure on the wound.”

  “I’m trying…it’s…it’s too much. We need to help him!”

  “He’s dying,” Cam whispered from the front.

  Then, following a few painful seconds, Trip’s pulse stopped. Michael sat in a state of momentary shock—numb to the reality around him.

  “He’s dead. Trip’s dead,” he coldly announced.

  Cam clenched his teeth and closed his eyes tightly. With a heavy sigh, he worked the steering wheel through the winding turns and rugged terrain of the trail.

  Michael forced himself back into combat mode. He gathered a couple rifles from the floorboard and began reloading them with fresh clips. He placed the poncho over Trip’s face and climbed over the back seat to get into shooting position.

  Cam blazed the Range Rover down the mountain with ferocity. There were no words to utter, no emotions to feel. The mission was still in progress and they couldn’t afford to be distracted from their objective—surviving San Jose de la Zorra.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Range Rover slowed to a crawl. The gunfire had stopped and they were now a mile from the ambush site.

  “The first strike team,” Cam said with a heavy breath. “They hit us from the south, then disappeared when the second team attacked from the north. Those were two different teams.”

  “Yeah,” Michael agreed. “So where are they now?”

  Cam tried to think, searching for a logical answer that would give him insight into his enemy’s next move.

  “The first team that hit us from the south, they’ve slid down the mountain to cut off our escape route. This trail is the only way out.”

  “Great, so we’re driving into a trap,” Michael replied.

  Cam peered over his shoulder at the poncho laid across Trip’s face. In the heat of battle, there hadn’t been time to take it all in—to wrap his mind around the fact that his friend had just been killed. He’d been trained to dig in and keep fighting, to turn everything else off. For the sake of the mission.

  But that moment had passed. Post-traumatic stress now coursed through his veins.

  This isn’t happening.

  He brought the SUV to a stop in the middle of the narrow road. Tree limbs and vines hung over the trail ahead of them. To his left was a small creek running along the road. It was only a foot deep, littered with river rocks and debris. Cam slowly crept the Range Rover off the trail and down a small ditch into the creek. The tires climbed each rock as it made its way through the shallow water.

  “That first attack team is down the trail somewhere,” Cam repeated. “Looks like this creek veers off, maybe it’ll take us to the bottom of the mountain unnoticed.”

  “Who the hell were those guys?” his brother asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Rook’s guys are dead. Trip’s dead. And all we have to show for it is some goddamn ancient box. We don’t even know what it is!” Michael was losing it now.

  “Keep it together,” snapped Cam. “We still got work to do.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ, Trip,” Michael said through a deep exhale. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He placed his hand on the poncho over his friend’s face and began to cry.

  “C’mon, Michael. Stay with me. Don’t lose your shit, man.”

  The SUV steamed through the creek bed, sliding further and further down the mountain, and more importantly, away from the main trail. Soon, they were completely engulfed by thick, lush forest.

  A few miles away, at the trailhead of the mountain, a heavily-armed platoon waited patiently for their prey. The crackle of a radio brought the strike force to life.

  “Alpha Two, they should be to you by now. What’s your status?” a voice snapped through the handheld radio in one of the soldiers’ hand.

  “I got nothing,” the man replied.

  CIA Agent Brent Carson stood further north, at the top of the mountain in front of a shot-up Chevy pickup. He tightened his jaw in frustration and raised the radio back to his mouth.

  “We’re about to work our way down the trail, they should’ve reached you by now. Get your team back into the village and secure all exit routes out of town. We’re hunting a black Range Rover and they’re being slowed down with a dead body. The two survivors are not to exfil with our asset, do you understand?”

  “Copy that,” Alpha Two called back into the radio.

  Few at the CIA knew Carson’s real identity. It was buried deep within the archives of the Black Budget Committee. He’d seen every corner of the world through a thirty-five-year service to his country. Carson had helped overthrow governments, pioneered countless paramilitary ops, and tortured and killed jihadists, diplomats and foreign spies. He began his CIA career on the battlefields of Afghanistan during the Soviet invasion, helping the Mujahedeen covertly move Stinger mis
siles through the country. And after all that, he’d failed to move one little box from Peru to San Diego.

  The three cowboys were proving to be more skilled than he’d given them credit for. Their evasion here today warranted respect, even from a polished veteran like Carson.

  He stood in the road and peered through his deep brown eyes at the footprints next to the Chevy C10. The ground was riddled with shell casings. The smell of gunpowder and gasoline hung in the air. With the sweltering sun high above him, Carson reached down at the fresh blood dripping from the bumper of the pickup truck. He rubbed it between his fingers and smelled the iron within its cells. He noticed a dark puddle in the dirt at his feet and a trail of blood that led through the muddy terrain to the point where Trip’s body had been pulled into the Range Rover.

  “Get a sample of this,” he said, gesturing to the bloody steel bumper of the C10.

  One of his operatives immediately produced a small plastic bag and a cotton swab to gather a blood sample. Carson walked to the middle of the road and glared down the trail into the wilderness. I’m going to take pleasure in hunting these animals, he thought.

  . . .

  The sun was now directly over them. It had taken nearly an hour to inch their way down the mountain creek. The black Range Rover, now covered in mud and dust, came to a stop just before a small, wooden bridge that crossed the water. The density of the trees ended just ahead and in the clearing, Cam could make out a small farm surrounded by a picket fence.

  “Stay here,” he insisted as he cut the engine.

  “We need to get Trip out of the car,” Michael said.

  “We’ll take care of him. I promise,” Cam assured as he got out and snuck forward through the shrubbery, methodically making his way toward the tree line.

  He retrieved a scope from his thigh pocket and slowly panned across the property—into the windows of a small, ill-conceived farmhouse sixty yards away. The place was abandoned. Considering the amount of traffic in the main village earlier that day, Cam suspected the owners had gone into town for supplies. He turned back to the SUV and motioned to his brother with two fingers.

  Michael exited the Range Rover and pulled Trip’s body from the seat. He threw his friend over his shoulder and maneuvered his way to Cam. The brothers continued down the dense tree line and into the open meadow. Once they reached the farmhouse, Cam entered first and began a room-to-room check.

  “Clear!” he yelled moments later from the back of the farmhouse.

  Michael barged in and laid Trip’s body down on the kitchen table. The men pulled off their gear. The metallic clanking of guns, ammunition, scopes and knives slammed against the counters, echoing through the house. While being placed on the table, Trip’s face had been slightly exposed. Bloodied, dirty and bruised, he looked like most KIAs Cam had seen on the battlefield.

  “How the fuck did this happen?” Michael asked.

  “I have no idea,” admitted Cam. “They either traced us from North Coronado or we were sold out.”

  “Sold out by who?”

  “I don’t know, maybe the old spooky bastard who wasn’t here today,” Cam implied.

  “Rook! You think Rook double-crossed us?”

  Cam thought through the logistics of a double-cross. “Probably not,” he determined. “I don’t think he’d just kill his own guys like that. All four of those Knights are dead.”

  “Then who, Cam?”

  “I said I don’t fucking know!” the older brother yelled. “We did steal this thing from the CIA, remember?” Cam took a sharp breath and ran his hands over the back of his head. “We went too far this time.”

  “You think?” Michael snapped back sarcastically. “Our best friend is lying dead on a table in the middle of nowhere!”

  “He’s not the first.”

  “No! You’re right, he’s not! But this whole thing was for a cause. We don’t do this shit to get killed. We do it for—”

  “I know exactly why we do this, Michael!” Cam fired back. “Don’t ever think you have to remind me! But we all knew the risks involved, now get it together!”

  “Fine, but what are going to do with him? We can’t drag his body back to the states.”

  “Trip is coming home with us,” Cam firmly stated. “We don’t leave our brothers behind. End of story.”

  “How the fuck are we going to get him back across the border unnoticed? Are you out of your mind?”

  Cam lunged at his brother and gripped his collar with intensity. “This kid has no family, Michael! We’re all he had, and we’re not leaving him here!”

  The two brothers exchanged dead stares before Cam finally let go and backed away. A long silence filled the room, tensions ran high.

  “We’re only thirty miles from the US border,” Cam finally pointed out. “We’ll bury Trip once we cross. I can get somebody out here to pick us up.”

  “How long?”

  “Three, four hours, tops. But we need to put the call in.”

  “It’s Mexico,” Michael reminded him. “Landlines everywhere.”

  “Sounds about right. You need to dump the Range Rover outside of town. I’ll meet you back here in two hours and we’ll hike Trip’s body and the ossuary to our extraction point and wait for our ride.”

  “And who’s our ride?”

  “An old friend—a contractor taking time off in LA. I’m sure he can exfil us before sundown.”

  “Can we trust him?” Michael asked.

  “We don’t have a choice.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Carson sat idly in the back of a nondescript, gray van parked outside the only bank within eighty miles. The van served as his mobile communications post and was equipped with radio systems, a satellite feed and four monitors. On his left-most screen, Carson stared at grainy, hours-old satellite footage of the Range Rover descending the mountain, escaping his team’s chokehold.

  Three and a half minutes into the footage, the SUV drifted off the trail and disappeared beneath a canopy of trees. Carson pulled a printed map from the floor and quickly identified the small creek that ran along the road. His finger traced it all the way to the base of the mountain.

  A voice ripped over the radio: “Alpha One, this is Alpha Two. We just found the Range Rover abandoned on a bluff just west of town. Over.”

  Carson reached for his handheld radio. “Copy that. Any sign of the asset?”

  “Negative, sir.”

  Carson closed his eyes, searching for serenity. “Burn the vehicle. And get the drones airborne. Run alternating sweeps up Route 3. They’ve slipped through the net, they’re running.”

  “Roger that. Alpha Two out.”

  An old delivery van rumbled across the hilltop and eventually came to a grinding halt at a run-down vegetable stand, just north of San Jose de la Zorra. The sun was now setting over the Baja Peninsula. The driver leaned over the steering wheel and squinted into its glare. There was no sign of life for miles.

  A quick check over his shoulder revealed a small outcropping of trees, nestled like an island in the barren wasteland of the Sierra de Juárez foothills. The stout American gently pulled the box truck off the dirt road and around the vegetable stand. It came to a stop near a small patch of pine trees.

  Hours earlier, Cam had made his way to the village to call for help while Michael ditched the Range Rover. They met back at the farmhouse and, in separate treks, hiked both Michael’s body and the ossuary more than three miles each way to their current position—a total of thirteen miles on foot through the rugged landscape of northern Mexico.

  Cam’s distress call had gone out to Brad Mitchell
, a former SEAL who served with him in Afghanistan. The two had been in bar brawls, combat patrols and firefights together. A trusted friend was coming to the aid of his former teammate.

  As the truck came to a stop, the tall, muscle-bound soldier lunged out onto the dusty terrain. Cam emerged from the brush to greet him.

  “This your idea of fun?” Brad Mitchell quipped, hoping to lighten the mood.

  It didn’t work.

  Cam waved him back to their hide, revealing what was clearly a body draped in burlap. Brad’s heart sank.

  “Jesus, Cam,” he whispered. “What the hell happened?”

  “We need to get him in the truck and roll outta here,” Cam replied.

  Together, the three of them hoisted Trip’s body from the ground to the bay of the delivery van. They went back for the ossuary and secured it next to the body. Michael climbed into the passenger side as Cam checked his pistol and crouched in the back next to their cargo.

  The engine started with a jolt and the old truck careened around the vegetable stand back onto the dirt road. They wove through the mountains to Route 3, then fled north.

  Following a short ride, the delivery truck arrived at a border crossing just outside Tecate, Mexico.

  The vehicle gently rolled up to the gatehouse, its headlights illuminating the dusty night air that hovered over the ground. A Mexican border agent held out his hand, signaling the truck to halt. With a machine gun hanging from his shoulder, the guard approached.

  Brad struggled to roll down the window and greeted the soldier. “Hola, amigo.” His Spanish was excellent for a Gringo.

  “A dondé vas?” the guard sharply asked.

  Brad handed him a fake passport. “Phoenix,” he replied.