He nodded.
An open pizza box, paper plates, and napkins lay on the counter next to the sink.
Since Delta Lead hadn’t reported seeing anyone but the briefcase crew enter the building, the gunmen who’d stormed out of the stairwell had been here first, which meant they were probably personal security. He had to wonder what kind of activity needed that level of firepower. A simple poker game? The man they’d questioned said they’d all brought cash. Perhaps that was reason enough.
There was no sign of a card game on this floor, so it had to be upstairs. He gave Delta Lead an update and said they were ascending to the third floor.
Nathan didn’t see any headlight intrusion, but a vehicle definitely raced toward the crossing.
Who’d be speeding through this neighborhood with their headlights off?
Knowing it might cost him his prey but save his life, he made a split-second decision to end his pursuit and find cover. The problem was, there wasn’t anything available except a power pole supporting the overhead electric line for the trains.
He sprinted to its metal form.
Good thing he did.
A white lowrider stopped in the middle of the railroad tracks directly in front of him. Its windows tinted black, it looked like a gangbanger’s ride. The only thing missing was obnoxious, thumping music.
Four armed men scrambled out of the far side and used it for cover. He wasn’t sure, but it looked like they carried compact Kalashnikovs. If this metal pole didn’t stop bullets, this could be a very short fight.
With no other place to go, he’d have to engage.
Using the side of the pole to steady his aim, he painted the laser on the biggest gunman, and squeezed off a round.
The man’s head jerked from the impact.
The remaining men dropped out of sight as he fired three shots through the lowrider’s windows.
He’d lost sight of Bustamonte, who’d either kept running down the tracks or joined his friends at the car.
It hit him suddenly, like an open-handed slap. Bustamonte hadn’t been fumbling with a gun; he’d been making calls. To make matters worse, the man clearly had been baiting him—likely the whole time—buying time for these guys to arrive at this exact location.
As pissed off as he was, he couldn’t let his temper get the best of him.
He adjusted his aim lower and pounded the vehicle’s doors, hoping to nail at least one more gunman. He fired the last five rounds of the magazine underneath the chassis.
In ideal conditions, with a magazine pocket on a holster, Nathan could reload his weapon inside of two seconds. But having to grab loose magazines from his waist pack added costly seconds to the process.
And the result was hellish.
At the same time he saw their flash suppressors ignite, a staccato roar of automatic fire reverberated off every hard surface within half a mile.
Completely pinned, Nathan tried to make his massive six-foot-five-inch hulk skinnier.
It didn’t work.
Despite being seasoned in combat, he found the hail of lead stretching his ability to remain calm. He was reminded of a scene in True Lies, in which Tom Arnold had used a streetlight to hide from automatic gunfire. Fortunately, this pole was considerably wider.
Amid the racket of rifle fire, deformed slugs screamed and howled as they ricocheted off the gravel.
Some of the bullets found the metal pole.
The moment of truth arrived.
The post vibrated from the impacts.
But no holes appeared.
He thanked the city of Santa Monica, ejected the empty magazine, and inserted a full one.
The roar of automatic fire ended, only to begin again.
If the cops weren’t already on the way, they soon would be and Nathan couldn’t be here when they arrived.
The mayhem continued as one gunman fired while the others reloaded.
The longer this went on, the more likely Bustamonte would escape and one of those AK rounds would find his flesh.
All he needed was a short break to return fire on the lowrider.
In situations like this, Nathan’s mind didn’t flash with childhood memories, reflect on regrets, or seek solace in self-pity: it shifted into high gear and analyzed every available option.
Ignoring the vibrating steel and the tortured gravel erupting all around him, he recognized an opportunity.
A control box sat ahead and to his right. He’d seen it when he’d ducked behind this power pole.
If he moved straight back by ten feet or so, he might have a chance.
The move would be risky. These guys seemed to have an unlimited supply of ammo. They’d switched to shorter bursts, but the barrage remained nonstop.
The decision made, he eased back from the pole.
The sensation of backing away from such a narrow source of protection felt insane.
Bullets continued to whiz past on either side of him.
Fighting every instinct he had, he kept stepping backward.
Crap! Something sliced his shin. A chunk of granite or a copper jacket fragment, not a bullet. The force of the impact hadn’t been severe, but it was going to leak.
He put it out of mind and concentrated on moving in a straight line. An inch of lateral movement would be disastrous.
He hated having his eyes exposed, but there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t wear protective goggles and use the NV at the same time.
A little farther . . .
There.
The control box came into his line of sight and the angle looked pretty damned close.
He painted the face of the cabinet with his laser and fired three controlled shots.
The barrage from the white lowrider ended.
It worked!
His slugs had ricocheted off the cabinet and struck the car, forcing the gunmen to duck for cover.
Wasting no time, Nathan charged forward to the pole again and used its form to steady his pistol. He took careful aim at an exposed pair of feet.
The bullet found its target and the man fell, exposing his entire body under the vehicle. Nathan wasted no time sending two more bullets under the lowrider.
Now wasn’t the time to show clemency.
He initiated another continuous barrage, firing a bullet every second, punching a dozen more holes in the lowrider. With a little luck, maybe he could get one of them to—
Run.
Just like that guy.
One of them bolted for the safety of the building to the north.
Based on the man’s size and clothing, Nathan felt confident it wasn’t Bustamonte.
He used the brief lull in the action to reload his handgun.
And brief it was.
The man who’d fled the vehicle reappeared at the corner of the building and opened fire with his AK.
All of the bullets missed high, a common mistake with Kalashnikovs. When the barrage went silent, he painted the man’s face and pulled the trigger.
The guy performed a flawless face-plant onto the concrete.
By Nathan’s count, that left one man—not including Bustamonte—still crouched behind the vehicle.
He needed an alternative to hiding behind this pole.
Once a Marine, always a Marine, he thought. Here goes. He stepped out from his cover and charged the lowrider, firing as he ran.
His aggression took the last gangbanger by surprise.
The guy left the cover of the lowrider and sprinted in the opposite direction from his fallen comrade.
Nathan stopped, took a knee, and steadied his aim. He only had time for a single shot.
In desperation, the man discharged his AK with one hand as he fled, but none of his rounds came close.
Nathan dropped him with a precisely fired round. The bullet must’ve severed his spinal cord because the gunman’s legs quit working, but not his upper half. He tried to reload his AK, but fumbled with the magazine.
Nathan squinted, and s
ent a bullet into the man’s head.
The next thing he heard were deep, throaty booms of a large-caliber handgun.
CHAPTER 21
At the top of the stairwell, Harvey turned to LG and whispered, “Same thing as before. We’ll clear the hall room by room.”
Harvey cracked the door and saw an empty corridor. No cameras were visible.
“Stay here and leave the door open a few inches. You should be able to hear if anyone enters the stairwell. You’ve got my six.”
LG nodded.
As below, the office doors weren’t locked but, unlike the second floor, these rooms didn’t even contain furniture. The men’s restroom was on the left side and he stepped inside. Sitting in the middle of the floor, a six-foot A-frame ladder sat directly below an open roof hatch. He reported his find to Delta Lead, returned to the hallway, and continued checking doors. Near the halfway point of the corridor, he heard something.
A man’s laughter from somewhere ahead, probably the next door on the right.
Who would be laughing at a time like this?
Gun up, he approached the door and heard jazz music emanating from within.
A thin line of light spilled under the sill.
He leaned in and placed an ear on its surface. More laughter erupted and he pulled back.
Incredible. Either that was a recording, or whoever was inside had no clue what had happened below. Granted, all the weapons were suppressed and the sound of breaking glass hadn’t been all that loud. If illegal activity were taking place in there, it made sense to have the room somewhat soundproofed.
Clearly, then, someone had tipped off Bustamonte by phone. He’d obviously abandoned the other poker players, leaving them behind as sacrifices. Pretty cold-blooded.
Just above the doorknob, there was a slot for a cardkey, like hotels used.
Moving slowly, he tried the knob.
Locked.
Harvey was tempted to kick it open, but knocking might be a better approach. Better yet, the man they’d intercepted probably had a cardkey to get back in.
He whispered into his boom mike, “Kilo Three, double-time down to the exit corridor and check the briefcase guy we intercepted. Search him for a cardkey, like hotels use. I’ll maintain position here. Don’t worry about being stealthy, just get down there and back as fast as you can.”
“On my way.”
He admired how LG never questioned orders or hesitated. Despite being recently traumatized and years into retirement, she’d proven herself to be a valuable asset. Her gaffe on the stairs had been her only tactical mistake. Not bad at all . . .
His thoughts went out to Nate, and he hoped his friend wouldn’t get too reckless in his pursuit. Reckless? he mused.
“I found a cardkey in the guy’s shirt pocket,” LG said. “On my way back up.”
He clicked his radio.
Twenty seconds later, LG showed up and quietly hustled down the hall to his position.
“We’re going to rush into this room simultaneously. I’ll tell everyone to freeze and show me their hands. If anyone makes a threatening or sudden move, they get a bullet. I seriously doubt Tomas would’ve abandoned his sister, but we need to be certain she’s not in there. If you see a woman, use nonlethal force on her.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Knowing Delta Lead could hear every word he said, Harvey chose his words carefully. “Kilo Three, do not use deadly force on any females in the room.”
“Understood,” she said.
He slipped the cardkey into the slot and lifted it out quickly.
The lock mechanism clicked and the tiny light blinked green.
Bustamonte’s handgun reports echoed off the buildings. Nathan had no idea where the bullets had gone, but the gravel didn’t erupt.
Caught in no-man’s-land, Nathan sprinted for the control box.
Problem was, he couldn’t see the source of the shots. The muzzle flashes had come from somewhere on the far side of the lowrider, he knew that much.
The hand cannon’s staccato booms ended at eight shots. Nathan logged the info.
Seeing no movement at the lowrider, he ran in a crouch to its punctured form and used the front end for cover, keeping his feet protected by the wheel.
He looked along the tracks and caught a lucky break: a glint of light next to a Expo line power pole. There and gone.
There it was again.
Whoever hid behind the pole was sloppy, exposing his hands as he reloaded the weapon. Bustamonte?
Nathan had his answer.
His prey stepped out from the pole and fired three more shots. The bullets slammed into the lowrider, making it vibrate.
He peered over the hood, saw Bustamonte hop the rail line’s fence and run away, heading west again.
Your little surprise party failed, Boosty. The next time you pull your phone, you’re getting a bullet in the ass.
This was the closest Nathan had been during the chase and he didn’t intend to allow the gap to grow bigger. He estimated less than one hundred feet separated them.
Nathan took off in pursuit, angling across the intersection. He saw headlights down the street, but they were distant. Not a factor.
Time to get serious.
Based on the eight shots and deep booms, he was fairly sure Bustamonte had a 1911 in .45 ACP. Heavy bullets, probably 230-grain full-metal jackets with a muzzle velocity of 850 feet per second. Subsonic, but packing lots of energy. The high-gloss nickel plating on Boosty’s gun might look impressive at indoor shooting ranges, but in a combat situation, it might as well glow in the dark.
This time, immediately after Boosty finished looking over his shoulder, Nathan stopped running, carefully raised his Sig, and squeezed off a shot, purposely aiming below the belt.
His target jerked.
Looking like half of a two-man potato sack race, Bustamonte limped around the corner of an industrial building.
Nathan initiated a burst of speed and reached the corner about five seconds later.
He stopped short and took a quick look.
The bullet arrived simultaneously with the flash, but Nathan had already pulled his head back. The slug slammed the corner and knocked a chunk of concrete free. Another crackling boom echoed around the neighborhood.
Nathan figured they had to be at least a mile from the dealership at this point. He hoped the police would converge to this area, buying time for Harv and LG to clear the dealership.
“Give it up, Bustamonte!” Nathan yelled. “Stop running or I’ll drop you.”
He stole another look and saw his prey limping through the landscaping strip next to the building.
He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.
Gun up, Nathan pivoted around the corner and eased along the wall. If Bustamonte turned to shoot again, Nathan might have to kill him. The separation was inside seventy-five feet and it wasn’t dark enough to remain unseen. The streetlights looked like small suns in Nathan’s NV. He was tempted to shoot them but decided to conserve his ammo. Based on everything he’d seen tonight, he couldn’t discount the arrival of more mercenaries or gangbangers.
He took advantage of a waist-high hedge and ran in a crouch. At this point in the game, Nathan needed to maintain continuous eyes on his prey. If Bustamonte tried to duck around the corner of the building up ahead, Nathan would drill him before he got there, then do his best to stop the bleeding.
He decided it was unwise to advance this close to the wall. If his mark managed to turn and shoot, the bullet could skip off the wall and find him.
Nathan stayed in the shadows of some trees and diverted over to the street where a smattering of cars were parallel parked. He stepped off the curb, entered the street, and used the line of cars to advance.
When he looked along the building, Bustamonte was gone.
The guy couldn’t have reached the far corner of the building in the time it took Nathan to divert over here. No possible way. Bustamonte could barely walk, let alone
run.
His prey must be hiding in the landscaping. There were several hedges growing perpendicular to the street.
Nathan darted to the next parked car and stayed low. Wounded men can, and often do, act recklessly. Losing eyes on Bustamonte didn’t spell disaster, but it put him at considerably more risk. Nathan didn’t think he’d been seen, but he wasn’t certain. Even for the best marksman, an iron-sighted pistol shot in low light was a tough assignment.
A single boom announced Bustamonte was still in the fight.
Nathan ducked when the rear window of the vehicle exploded. A second shot broke more glass.
Time to relocate.
In a crouch, he paralleled the street and found cover behind the next vehicle, a pickup truck. Although his NV worked great, it was a line-of-sight visual device and Bustamonte still couldn’t be seen.
Nathan pulled the thermal imager from his waist pack, powered it on, and gave the landscaping a quick scan.
Got you.
The device picked up Bustamonte’s heat signature easily. Glowing like a ghost, his prey lay in hiding behind the second perpendicular hedge.
“Give it up, Bustamonte. It’s over!” He fired a suppressed shot over Bustamonte’s head, which whistled off the wall beyond. “That’s a warning shot. The next one won’t be.”
In response, the man fired twice more, the slugs pounding the pickup’s bed. Apparently, Bustamonte had tracked his relocation.
Have it your way.
Making good on his word, Nathan fired into Bustamonte’s thigh.
What happened next could only be described as berserk.
His prey came up from the hedge and hobbled toward the truck, firing as he came. The bullets thumped and clanged into the sheet metal, forcing Nathan to duck for cover.
Screw this, he thought. Cantrell’s not getting a live prisoner after all.
The wail of an approaching siren, coupled with the suicidal charge of an utter nutcase, became the deciding factors.
He fired three rounds into the center of Bustamonte’s chest.
The result was immediate.
Bustamonte collapsed to the grass and rolled onto his back. In a pitiful display, the man tried to sit up, but couldn’t.
Nathan sprinted over and kicked the pistol from Bustamonte’s hand. As suspected, it was a nickel-plated 1911.
Right to Kill Page 17
