Lycan

by John O'Brien

  “Will do. We’ll be on the way shortly.”

  “And Jack, it’s good to have you back. Lynn out.”

  Hanging up, I focus on the group. “Okay, we’re getting out of here. In case you didn’t hear, we’re running with Plan B: exfil via the Spooky. Gonzalez, do you have those coordinates?”

  Gonzalez nods.

  “Right,” I say, turning to Maria. “That includes you. You do everything anyone in this group tells you to, and you do it immediately. Understand?”

  Maria nods.

  “I mean it. I know you’re attached to that bag, but if you’re told you leave it, that’s what you do,” I state.

  Maria gives another nod.

  Gonzalez pulls up a map on her device, inputting the coordinates. Lynn downloaded satellite footage that shows our route heading northwest through the city and then onto rural roads through pastures and farmland.

  “Henderson, Denton…there’s an auto rental agency downstairs. We’ll need two vehicles seating four. It looks like we’ll be on rough dirt roads toward the end, so I better not see some Grand Caravans sitting in the lot when we’re ready. Take your gear with you and we’ll meet downstairs. I’ll drive lead, Gonzalez up front navigating, with Henderson and Maria in the rear. Greg, you’ll be driving the second vehicle with the others. You all should have the route downloaded. Seeing my command watch was taken, keep in mind that our comms may be compromised, so nothing on the airwaves. Bag up and wipe the rooms. We leave in fifteen.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we exit the elevators. Although it wasn’t a perfect parting sweep, we mostly removed everything that could identify us: clothes, garbage, towels, etc. The used towels we left outside the doors of other rooms on different floors, leaving them for the maid staff to pick up, along with the sheets and pillowcases. We left the garbage bags in a maid cart sitting in the hallway two floors below. All of the counters, mirrors, tabletops, water taps, toilet seats, and handles were wiped clean. Upon joining the Organization, our DNA and fingerprints were scrubbed from our military records, but there’s still no sense in leaving any behind.

  Henderson and Denton walk over to join us, keys dangling from their fingertips. Moving outside, we head toward the rental car lot. I keep my eye on the lot. There isn’t a ton of movement, only a couple of cars moving through, along with a resort bus pulling in from the busier street to the front.

  “I think that’s Miguel,” Maria says from behind.

  “What?” I ask, barely registering what she said.

  “I think that’s Miguel…a guard at the house,” she replies.

  I glance briefly in that direction, pretending to look for my car. Two Hispanic men are in a dark sedan, slowly cruising through the lot, the driver with his arm hanging down out of an open window.

  “Cartel…dark sedan. Keep your heads down and keep walking, pretend to just be conversing with each other like nothing’s wrong,” I mention.

  “Lynn says there’s a spike on the airwaves, some of them mentioning the resort,” Gonzalez informs me.

  “Fuck, okay, we’ve been made. Let’s get a move on.”

  We arrive at two vehicles, both sedans. But they’re Land Rovers, so I guess that’s better than a Prius or something with a sliding door on the side. We jam our bags inside and climb in.

  As we move out of the parking lot with Greg right behind, the dark sedan pulls in behind. Gonzalez and Henderson pull their modified M-4s from their bags and keep them ready. Gonzalez leans mine barrel down against the seat.

  “Tell Greg to keep up and relay the upcoming turns. Tell him to be ready for anything,” I tell Gonzalez.

  The main street running the length of the resorts is eight lanes wide. The double outside lanes running in each direction are meant to access the businesses while the inner two streets, each also two-laned, are there for through traffic. Both the outer and inner lanes are all divided by curbs and greenways with palm trees growing in the middle. Switching between the laned roads will be next to impossible beyond the openings specifically designed for that purpose.

  Traffic is fairly light, at least in the outer lane, which is our only option. A half block up the street, two vehicles are approaching, one in each lane.

  “Tell Greg to be ready, we’re going just in front of those two approaching cars.”

  I glance in my rearview, looking past Greg’s Land Rover to see if the men get out from their sedan or for weapons to emerge through open windows. They remain in place. My guess is that they’re tasked to follow, unwilling to engage six people at once with only the two of them.

  The two approaching cars are about at the entrance. I punch the gas, swerving out onto the road with a squeal of tires. Greg follows, nearly clipping one of the front bumpers of the approaching cars. We race down the street. Periodically glancing behind, I see the dark sedan try to maneuver around the two blocking vehicles, swerving from side to side.

  We pass by our original resort, yellow tape hanging limply from where it had been drawn tight to encircle the scene of the shooting. Thankfully, there aren’t any police cars in the lot.

  “Greg says they shot at one of the cars and are approaching quickly.”

  In my rearview, I see the car speeding to catch up, quickly nearing the rear of Greg’s vehicle. We’re in the right lane with an opening between the avenues coming up. It’s a right angle and not meant to be taken as an exit but rather designed as a curving entrance to our set of lanes.

  “Next left. It’s going to be sporty, but tell Greg to keep up.”

  Our road is actually curving to the right, the entrance street, making the turn more than ninety degrees. At the last moment, with the sedan quickly moving upon us, I stomp on the brakes and turn the wheel. The Land Rover Evoque slides sideways, its wheels protesting the maneuver, blue smoke pouring from the melted rubber. Still sliding, the merging lane comes into view. Stepping on the accelerator, the wheels grab and we shoot through the break, the backend swerving from side to side before finally straightening out. We shoot across the other lanes of traffic, narrowly missing a panel van.

  “Is Greg still with us?”

  “Yeah, barely.”

  “And the other car?”

  “Skidding to a halt and trying to turn around.”

  We continue down a side street, hemmed in by two-story white stucco buildings, all of which have a variety of antennas and small satellite dishes sprouting from the top. Heavy iron bars cover windows; beat up Toyota and Ford pickups dominate the vehicles parked at curbs. Two blocks away, cars pass in and out of view from a crossing street, obviously a major avenue.

  I take the next left, the tires chirping again, and enter a cobbled street. Apartments line one side of the road. On the other is a concrete wall complete with a wide steel door blocking the entrance to a courtyard of some sorts; perhaps a loading dock.

  The important thing at this juncture is to lose line of sight with our tail and keep it that way. If we can manage that, then any calls regarding our position will be pure conjecture. At the next intersection, I take another left. So far, the sedan hasn’t been seen. Hopefully, they’ll think we stayed on the boulevard and speed down that way in the hopes of catching sight of us. The avenue we’re on angles back and merges with the road where we started, heading the other way. Once on the street, we slow down to glide along with the other vehicles, not wanting to draw undue attention.

  “Let Lynn know we’re en route.”

  “Already handled,” Gonzalez replies.

  The street we’re on is the quickest way to our destination, but it also leads directly to the airport. I’m sure that’s one of the places the alerted cartel will guess we’re heading, so that environment is to be avoided at all costs. Of course, it’s also imperative that we vacate the immediate area as quickly as possible—I’m equally sure the cartel is converging on it.

  Since they’ve lost a direct line of sight, if they’re smart, they’ll have placed eyes along all of the major avenues leading out. Takin
g back streets will slow us down and keep us in the area longer, but will be more likely to avoid any prying eyes. However, there are only three routes out of the city: one each to north, south, and east. All they truly have to do is place people along those routes and at the airport, and they’re sure to locate us. The problem is that they now know our vehicles, but we don’t have time to locate and “borrow” others, nor am I eager to start carjacking now. With all of those factors in mind, it’s best we attempt to scoot through before a cordon can be fully set.

  Turning on another avenue, we pass by the shopping mall where Maria and I left the cartel’s vehicle. On the other side of the mall, we enter countryside, which is odd considering we’re still in the middle of the city. Dense brush and overgrown fields line both sides of the road, directly offsetting the primly cut lawn and palm trees growing in the median separating lanes of traffic.

  Without further incident or sighting, we hit the main highway heading east, just outside of Ixtapa. However, that freedom doesn’t last long once we’re on the highway. Greg calls that we’ve picked up two tails. We weren’t fast enough, and now they have our location and direction of travel.

  We enter the town proper, a dense construction of brick and stucco buildings separated by cobbled streets leading off the main road. A wide center median with uncut grass, a haphazard assortment of trees, and a dirt footpath down the middle serves as both parking lot and sidewalk. It’s definitely a different atmosphere and look from the resorts of Puerto Vallarta.

  “The next left is ours,” Gonzalez says. “Lynn reports they’re twenty minutes out.”

  It’s going to be difficult to shake this tail. Once we turn, we’ll be on dirt roads with few exits. Plus, the dirt trail we leave will make it fairly apparent where we’ve gone. If we have to wait very long, that will allow any others responding to the cartel’s radio calls time to catch up. I would use the Spooky’s capabilities, but that certainly raise a few eyebrows that we’d rather see kept low.

  “Greg says we now have three in tow.”

  “We’ll think of something en route,” I state.

  We turn, immediately hitting a dirt road that winds around a section of the community: more brick and stucco buildings, some with concrete steps leading to the rooftops. Then, we’re suddenly surrounded by overgrown fields, several with thin cows standing lazily in the heat. The plants and trees along the side of the road are tan, covered in thick layers of dust.

  This road seems busier than the highway, with several midsize pickups coming the other way. We pass a white school bus with blue trim and a semi of the same color, the trailer a high-sided open one like they haul corn in. Checking in with Greg, I learn the three trailing cars are still with us, each with at least two people inside.

  The road descends slightly and opens up to a river, the wide blue water rushing through three culvert pipes running under a single-lane gravel crossing. I can’t really call it a bridge, and it really doesn’t span anything. It’s more like a ford. I can imagine them having to rebuild it every year after heavy rains.

  Another semi, painted the same as the previous one with the same type of trailer, is parked along the river. On the other side, the road rises between tall embankments and makes a sharp turn.

  “Tell Greg to stay close. We’re speeding up to create a thick dust cloud. Standby and prepare to engage on the other side if the terrain is right.”

  Accelerating over the gravel crossing, the car jostling from potholes, we come to the other side. I hug the right side of the dirt road in case there’s another semi, as there seems to be more than a few that travel this road. Where I thought the bus was a school bus, I’m now thinking it’s to take workers out to the fields beyond.

  We hit the far side, the suspension of the rental being put through its paces. I nearly lose Greg in the rearview due to the dense dust rising from our passage. Tall embankments continue on both sides of the road as we continue our climb out from the river bed. With the dust, corner, and high ground, it really is an ideal location.

  “Notify the others,” I tell Gonzalez. “We’re braking hard and stopping here. Henderson, Denton, you have the high ground by the vehicles. Henderson left, Denton right, you have the lead car. Greg, McCafferty, track back along the high ground to the left. You two will have the second vehicle. Gonzalez and I will take the right and third car. Take angles to avoid crossfire.”

  Gonzalez repeats the order over the radio to the click of Henderson and Gonzalez chambering rounds.

  “Stay low,” I tell Maria, and then to Gonzalez, “Braking now.”

  We’re thrown forward as the car comes to a sudden stop, the wheels skidding on the dirt. Jamming the shifter into park, I grab my carbine and throw open the door. Dust rolls over the vehicle, me, and everything else before continuing up the road. I can’t see much as I race up the plant-choked embankment. The plan is to catch the tailing cars in an enfilade of fire from all angles. The dust will create confusion, the only thing they will know for sure is that incoming fire is plastering them. If they manage to return fire, they won’t really know where to aim.

  At the top, there’s a rickety shack that looks like it was built with driftwood, complete with a red satellite dish on top. Chickens are scratching and pecking in a dirt yard surrounded by wire, completely oblivious to what’s about to happen just feet away. In the midst of the dust cloud, I hear the sudden braking and skidding of wheels on the dirt, followed by the crunch of metal on metal. In their hurry to catch us, the lead car saw Greg’s parked car too late. The second and third car follow suit, crashing into the ones in front.

  The sound of an air horn punctuates the stillness following the multiple crashes. Turning, I see a semi halted in front of my parked vehicle. The driver is just going to have to wait—I have other things to attend to right now.

  Through the dust, I see the darker shapes of the vehicles. Settling behind a gnarled old tree, I bring my carbine to bear and begin firing bursts into where I can barely make out the side doors of the third car. Shattering glass and the metallic pinging of rounds punching into thin steel follow our muffled shots, along with yells and screams from those coming under a firestorm of bullets.

  As the dust begins to settle, those in the cars become more visible. One man in the third car is hunched behind an open door, holding a carbine but not daring to peek above a shattered window. Another is running down the road, his weapon lying in the dust several yards behind. I take aim on the one fleeing, squeezing off a burst. He’s flung forward to the ground, and I direct my attention back to the man by the door, in time to see him absorb several rounds from Gonzalez. His body twitches from the multiple impacts, screaming as each one hits.

  The scene clears, the dust having spread and settled. The windshield of the third car has several large holes, and blood is splattered on the remaining glass. Our heavier caliber bullets coming from above at an almost perpendicular angle smashed right through the metal and windows. The driver is leaning against the interior door, his head lolling out of the open window. The man by the passenger door is squirming in the dust and moaning, the stock of his carbine visible where it lies under the vehicle.

  The second car is a mess of bullets, shattered glass, and bloodied bodies. One man is lying partially out of the open passenger door, his shirt soaked in red, blood dripping down to the road in long strings from his downturned face. He never had the chance to get fully out before he was pummeled.

  By the lead vehicle, one man lies facedown, stretched out on the road with his arms and legs spread. Another lies on his back in a similar position behind the open passenger door, his body riddled and his face blood-splattered, his body and clothing covered by a thin layer of dust. The dirt around his body is stained a deep red, his life spilled onto the dirt road.

  Footsteps crunch as Gonzalez crouches next to me. She takes aim at the groaning man, who is rocking back and forth in a fetal position, and fires a single muffled shot. The bullet strikes the man in the side of his
head, his body stiffening and then relaxing.

  “Sir, Greg and Henderson call clear on the first and second vehicles.”

  “Injuries?” I ask.

  “None,” Gonzalez answers.

  “Very well, verify and load up. See if you can grab a radio or two. It’ll be worth noting what frequencies they’re using,” I say rising.

  “Hooah, sir.”

  Beginning my descent to the road, I stop and turn, giving her a look and shake of my head. “You know that’s not necessary, right?”

  “Oh, but it is, sir.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you love it.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I reply.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, where are you going, sir?” Gonzalez asks.

  I point up the road to where the man who fled the scene is crawling down the dirt lane, one slow, agonizing struggle at a time. “To take care of my bad aim.”

  “Oh. Well, make sure you’re home by midnight,” Gonzalez calls.

  I’m in league with children, I think, not bothering to reply, just shaking my head.

  Scrambling down the steep bank, trying not to trip on the vines and roots everywhere, I reach the road. Glancing briefly at the driver and passenger, I see they are most clearly visiting their afterlife. There’s only the sound of the idling vehicles.

  Pushing down the road, which has become remarkably clear of traffic as if people in these parts have a sixth sense of when to clear out, I trace after the man crawling down the middle of the road. Blood is soaked into the dirt near where I shot him, a long trail marking where he dragged himself.

  Watching him as I close in, he reaches one arm forward, grunting with the effort. With a deep moan, he pulls himself another foot. I wonder if he thinks he’s going to crawl all of the way back to town. Is he even thinking beyond the next pull? Does he have an eventual destination in mind or is he just crawling away from the pain and destruction of his body?

  As I come to stand over him, I have an inkling to ask him where’s he’s going or perhaps to just let him crawl onward in his pain. Who knows what terrible harm this man has done to others in the past? What tragedy has he brought to families, their wailing cries of grief rising from numerous houses? All for the sake of helping an enterprise deliver drugs to those who can’t really help themselves.