The homestead that was his target was in a rural town nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Madre del Sur, in the mountainous southwest part of Mexico. It was an undeveloped town in a location no doubt desired by the owner because outsiders stood out.
Carl pivoted and stepped over to the door, then squatted down in front of the boy. He raised his face shield and gazed into the boy’s hazel eyes. “You speak my language very well.”
The boy smiled at the compliment. “Someday, mi papa is gonna take us to Los Estados Unidos.”
“Yeah? What part?”
“Los Anheles.” The boy pronounced the City of Angels by its Spanish translation.
Carl restrained his knee-jerk response that the American Dream wasn’t all it was cracked up to be and that if you were brown, Mexican, Muslim, Asian, gay, or of original Native American heritage, then the Dream didn’t apply. But in his next thought, he admitted that wasn’t entirely true. In his life before becoming the American Terrorist, he’d carved out a pretty successful real estate career thanks to the American Dream. That had all changed when the TER—Terror Event Response—Agency came for him on that fateful day in November. Fast-forward eight months and he was discussing his feelings on life and death with a young Mexican boy.
“You want to know what it’s like to watch someone die?”
The boy nodded.
“Well, it depends on who’s dying. I watched my son die, and it was the worst thing a person can ever have to watch. A month later, I watched some of the men who killed my son die, and it was the greatest feeling ever.” He tapped his semiautomatic rifle. “Especially since I was the one who killed them.” Then he stood and turned toward his objective.
“Take no unnecessary risks, Zero. And no more reckless engagements.” Agent Palmer’s clinical voice teased his inner ear through his tiny earpiece. Whenever she wanted to seem all business with multiple listeners on the comm net, or when she was displeased with him, she called him by his numerical designation instead of his name. He was Zero, she was One, and the rest of his mercs also had assigned numbers.
“What you call risky behavior, I call mixing things up and being unpredictable. It keeps me alive.”
“I’m not denying the value—”
“Agent Palmer, you’re not going to win this argument with me today. Now feed me intel on my target.”
Her response was tinged with frustration, and he knew why.
“Wait for backup, Zero! That battle suit doesn’t make you invincible. Merc Three has secured the evac site and choppers are inbound. Six and Sixteen are en route to your location.”
Carl’s team had infiltrated Mexico as tourists. It was the same method he’d used on his mission to rescue the president’s daughter so many months ago. He had minimal support from his mercs and no military backup, but he had a supreme advantage.
He looked down at the black hard-shell combat armor that completely covered his torso and limbs. Purchased on the black market from Peru SWAT, it was constructed of a series of interlocked metal-ceramic plates specially designed to resist penetration by all standard small arms fire. It could even deflect all but direct, close-range, armor-piercing ordnance. Any impact would hurt like hell, of course, but he would still be fully functional in a firefight.
He stepped from his cover between the two buildings, lowered his Kevlar combat helmet’s acrylic face shield, and made a beeline to the entrance of the ranch house across the street. He put the stock of his PDW—Personal Defense Weapon—to his shoulder and sighted along the barrel as he walked. Compact, magazine-fed, and self-loading, the PDW was his favorite lightweight urban street fighter.
Merc Three’s voice came over the comm. “Jesus, Boss! What are you doing?”
“I’m going in, with or without intel.”
For the third time in a month, he was going into solo combat in a foreign country, Mexico, a US ally. Though combat was probably a mischaracterization of his mission. He was going to assassinate the last surviving member of a powerful Mexican political cartel, the Triad. Those were the people Rainman had employed in the kidnapping of President Shirley Mallory’s daughter and in the subsequent attempt to murder Mallory, the first female president of the United States. It was the group ultimately responsible for the murder of Carl’s son.
Merc Three said, “Well, Boss, perhaps you and Miss Government Agent can put aside your little domestic dispute and get your fucking heads in the game! If you die, the mission ends.”
Palmer said, “Copy that.” She paused a moment, then added, “Dammit, Carl, wait for Three to arrive.”
“Negative,” he said. “Intel, please.”
She sighed. “The overhead drone shows four hostiles approaching the courtyard fast from the west side of the house, your right. Two more are approaching from the east side. Distance, ten meters. ETA to visual, five seconds.”
The homestead reminded Carl of northern New Mexico architecture. The house was earth-colored adobe—real adobe, the two-foot-thick kind made of mud, grass, and chicken wire, not the thin kind made of two-by-fours and synthetic stucco. He passed through the open archway in the adobe courtyard wall, his attention laser-focused on the man he would find beyond the front door, and pulled two square grenades from his utility belt. He pulled the black tabs and tossed one after the other so they both landed just beyond the east and west corners of the house. The battle armor restricted full range of motion, but his aim was true, and debris blasted from the explosions on both sides of the building.
Agent Palmer said, “Two survivors on your right.”
Carl stopped, pivoted, and snapped off two headshots from six meters distance at the two wounded security guards that stumbled into view. He continued toward the door and grabbed another grenade from his utility belt. He stopped, tossed the grenade, and leaned forward in anticipation of the blast. The explosion annihilated the entire doorway and debris pinged against his armor, then he charged through the smoke. His thumb found the selector switch, and he flicked it from single shot to triple shot.
Agent Palmer said, “Infrared shows one tango approaching your position from the right, forty-five-degree sightline.”
Carl shifted to the right, but no one was there. He only saw the stairs, so he shifted his aim upward and fired at the same time the gunman halfway down fired at him. The man sprayed bullets everywhere but only one hit Carl in the chest, pounding him back two steps.
“Fuck!”
“Status, Zero?”
“Damn, that hurt.”
He desperately wanted to massage the sore area but couldn’t because of the armor. He looked upward again and found his triple tap had splattered the gunman’s blood on the wall and the man had rolled the rest of the way down the stairs. Carl checked the body. He was most definitely dead, but he looked barely old enough to be called a teen.
“Three tangos approaching your left, ninety degrees, seven meters.”
He didn’t want to risk shooting down the hallway and missing one or more of the approaching gunmen. Then he’d find himself in an extended gunfight that would be challenging even with Agent Palmer’s surveillance drone assisting. He pulled another grenade and tossed it around the corner. He heard a warning shout barely half a second before the explosion, then more debris blasted across the foyer in front of him. Carl followed his PDW into that hallway and fired three single shots at the wounded men. Three more headshots at point-blank range.
“Your path is clear to the living room at the rear of the house. Infrared shows eight tangos there.”
“Copy that.”
Carl moved quickly, knowing the grenade explosions would draw the local police. The first wave probably wouldn’t have any weaponry that could stop him, but he didn’t want to create an international incident for President Mallory. She could disavow any knowledge related to an incident involving the American Terrorist—that was part of his agreement with her—but he didn’t want to use that capital just yet. As if reading his mind, Agent Palmer updated him.
>
“Radio chatter indicates local law enforcement has been called. You have seven minutes to conclude your business.”
Conclude your business…government speak for terminate another human being…do to them what they tried and failed to do to me but instead did to my son. Seven minutes was plenty of time for that.
Carl walked into the glass-enclosed entertainment patio. Sliding glass doors were open and stacked to the left side of the twelve-foot opening. Three opulent white wicker sofas decorated the room, adorned by a dozen huge silk pillows. Fruit, sandwiches, and a variety of drinks sat on the glass and steel coffee table in the middle.
His target, Federico Gonzales, sat in the center of one sofa, surrounded by seven people. Two were kids, five were young adult men and women.
Pointing his assault rifle at the man’s chest, he said, “President Shirley Mallory sends her regards.”
“I’ve been expecting you.” Gonzales spoke clear English with a strong accent. He made a shooing motion with his hands and said something in Spanish, then everyone started to get up.
“Stop!” Carl’s command instantly froze everyone in mid-motion. “Sit the fuck down!”
He heard Palmer’s hesitant voice in his ear. “Zero, what are you doing?”
Gonzales said, “It was not enough for you to kill my daughter and my mother. Now you have to kill my entire family? My grandchildren too?”
“If my son hadn’t been a casualty of your scheme, I might give a shit about your family.”
“Zero, don’t do this,” Palmer said. “Terminate your target and leave the others alive. They are not your enemy, not the mission.”
It had taken a lot of arguing to convince President Mallory to authorize what amounted to an assassination mission into Mexico to terminate the Triad. With the Triad and their military general dead, and with former Vice President Walter Breen—aka Rainman—in hiding as the most wanted man in the covert world, Carl was about to close the book on a political conspiracy that reached to the highest levels of the US government.
What would he do after that book was closed? How would he live without his son? Mark, murdered at age thirty, had been collateral damage in large part because of the man sitting in front of him, and Carl found himself hating the family members of that man because of what he’d taken from Carl.
The Triad leader seemed to sense Carl’s anguish. “Please, I give you my life. In all that is holy and decent—”
“Your life is mine to take, not yours to give. And there’s nothing holy or decent about me anymore. Your people saw to that.”
“Then let me buy the lives of my family with critical intelligence you need. You have an informant on your team, a high-level informant. I can give you the identity of that informant in exchange for the lives of my family.”
Carl saw deceit and treachery in the man’s eyes, or at least he imagined he saw those qualities because it made it easier to hate the man. Still, he knew the man would do or say anything to grasp the elusive hope of preserving his and his family’s lives a little longer. Problem was, Carl didn’t believe him. He had faith in his team but knew the moment he got complacent or overconfident would be the moment he’d lose the war. And there was no way any of his mercs could be a traitor. No way any of Agent Palmer’s limited government team could be a traitor. All had been in combat with Carl and all had risked their own lives. They were all vetted.
Except the new mercenaries. And the new government agents.
“Zero, you have two minutes to evac. Use the south yard exit.”
Carl nodded at the man and lowered his weapon. Even if he did have the name of a traitor, Carl knew he wouldn’t get that name right now, so he said, “I’ll contact you in one hour for that name. If your intel is not true, we’ll have this discussion again…minus the discussion.”
Then he walked out the rear all-glass door, walked six paces, and stopped. When he looked over his shoulder, Federico Gonzales was still watching him. Carl glared at his enemy for a few more seconds, then turned and continued his retreat. He only made it a single step farther before his breath rasped in his throat and he growled. All the hatred, anger, and pain of the past few months boiled to the surface of his consciousness again.
“Motherfucker…”
“Carl?” Agent Palmer said quietly.
He turned and faced Gonzales again, this time pulling out his last grenade. He pulled the tab. The man’s eyes widened and he extended his arms, palms outward, imploring Carl not to throw the grenade.
Agent Palmer, clearly still watching him on drone telemetry, said, “Carl, don’t do it! Stick with the plan.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the plan,” Carl said. “And those people around him are not innocent. They understand the business he’s in and what he does to people. They choose to benefit from his murderous deeds, so they deserve no mercy.”
Merc Three added, “Don’t do it, Boss. There are children –”
He released the tab and with a backhanded flick of his wrist, tossed the grenade back into the glass-enclosed patio. Then he turned away as the device exploded. Glass shards pinged harmlessly off his armor and the heat of the fiery blast washed over him. He took one final look at the patio and watched the roof cave in, then he turned and walked away.
Agent Palmer gasped. “Carl, what have you done?”
“I have completed my final act as the American Terrorist. I’m done.”
Now he had to figure out how to live with everything he’d done, everyone he’d killed.
He had to figure out how to live without his son.
He had to decide if he even wanted to live without his son.
I should have saved the last grenade for myself.
Chapter 2
“Hey!”
Former Special Agent Lenore Cummings tensed when she heard her cell phone ping. It was the distinctive default notification from the Signal secure texting app. Since her discharge from federal service more than six months ago, she’d communicated only through the secure app for both text and voice, and she required the same of her daughter and mother. Carl Johnson, the American Terrorist she’d unwittingly gotten involved with, had set her on the path of paranoia for good reason.
“This isn’t over,” Carl had said so many months ago. “They’ll come for you again if they think we’re connected in any way.”
The cell sat on the fake granite counter beside her chopping board. She stopped her food prep and looked at the screen. She didn’t recognize the number.
“Need your help” was the text message. Then the phone pinged again.
“Hey!” the cell said. The next message was “Please.”
She rinsed her hands and dried them. The third ping came after a pause, and she sensed the sender of the texts was unsure of himself or herself. “Niece in trouble. People say you know someone who can retrieve.”
People…who were these people? The someone was Carl Johnson, so she knew it was a trap. She pushed the phone aside without answering the text but before turning back to her veggie-chopping task, she noticed her mother watching from the kitchen archway.
“Is that trouble?”
“I’m not going to answer it.”
“Maybe you should. Ignoring trouble won’t make it go away.”
“No, Ma. It’s not like they can’t find us whenever they want. We can’t hide. We just have to be prepared.”
Lenore had a family, so she couldn’t just disappear. They had a new home. She had bills. Her daughter had to go to school. Ma had hobbies and friends. No, they couldn’t hide, and she refused to live in fear. She looked at her ma and tapped the sidearm she wore all day whenever she was awake.
“Hey!” She looked at the phone and the eyes of a pretty teen girl gazed back at her. The girl looked about Lisette’s age.
“My niece, Tiara, 13.” Lenore looked at her mother and waited for the phone to ping again. “I’m LE.”
She didn’t know anyone with the initials L-E.
“Ca
n’t file missing persons report for 24 hrs.” Of course, Lenore knew that. “Can’t go get her myself. No backup.”
“Huh…” Lenore looked at her ma. “He’s a cop.” L-E stood for law enforcement.
There were many reasons a police officer couldn’t mount a rescue of a family member on his own, and that’s why he had no backup. There were reports to be filed, investigations to be initiated, authorizations to secure, and operations to plan. All that took time. If the captive was a family member, well, that was an obstacle in and of itself. She texted her demands back to the unknown officer, if that was, in fact, what he was.
“Name.”
His response was immediate. “Diego Contreras.”
“Badge number.”
He gave it.
“Selfie.” She wanted to know what he looked like, so she could match his face with the inquiry she was going to make.
Officer Contreras’s face filled her screen.
She called a contact at the local Bureau office she knew would do a quick personnel background check for her. She’d been forced out of the FBI but had associates at the office who still regarded her as the competent agent she’d always been. It was an unspoken protocol between active and retired agents. A professional courtesy between brothers and sisters. As long as she didn’t ask for classified information, they’d help her.
The officer checked out, so she texted him a location with a short ten-minute window. If he didn’t show up, then he was on his own. He said he’d be there.
Lenore looked up. “Ma, can you finish up here? And make sure Lisette finishes her homework, okay? I should be back in an hour.”
Her mother nodded. “You’re doing the right thing. You have to be sure. You can’t wait for them to come.”
In the Signal app, Lenore dialed a number from memory, a number she knew she could only use once.
Carl Johnson’s voice was all business. “Talk to me.”
“This…this is—”
“I know who you are.” Of course, the man would recognize her voice. It had been months since she’d seen or spoken to Carl, once an enemy then a savior, but she immediately felt calmed by the caring tone of his voice. “Sitrep.”
American Terrorist Trilogy Page 68
