by Joe Nobody
Looking up at BB, he said, “I don’t think it’s going to start. What now?”
The old ranger knew their streak of good luck couldn’t last forever. “I suppose I could block the road with the pickup, but they’ll probably just ram right through. We need something heavy and wide to block their egress.”
Zach glanced around, looking for something, anything, he could use as a roadblock. The van had been the perfect solution, but now its ancient motor wasn’t going to cooperate. “Can we tow this beast?”
Glancing back and forth between his pickup and the heavy truck, BB tried to judge the distance. One of the front tires was flat on the bigger truck, but they only had to move it a few blocks. “Can’t hurt to try,” he finally shrugged. “I don’t see another building we can pull over.”
The two lawmen scrambled to connect the ropes, Zach taking the job of trying to steer the lifeless wreck. “Make sure you put it in neutral,” BB advised, climbing into his pickup’s cab.
Again, the back tires smoked as BB gave the Detroit V8 the gas.
Sitting in the cab of the delivery truck, Zach felt the frame move a little, then some more, and then the ancient workhorse was rolling. “Yeah! Go BB! Go!”
It took all of the Texan’s considerable strength to turn the unassisted wheel, the flat rubber and lack of power steering making the sweat pop on his brow. But they were rolling.
Once the heavy van was on pavement, the ranger’s task became a little easier. After a few minutes, and a couple of muscle straining corners, he was cutting the wheel hard to turn their mobile roadblock sideways across the pavement.
“We did it!” he yelled, climbing down from the cab. “Now we’ve got their sorry asses pinned. Let’s get ready for a little turkey shoot.”
BB pulled the truck into a back alley and out of sight – just in case things went wrong and they needed their own escape pod.
The two rangers then hustled to pocket the rest of their ammunition and weapons.
Zach took the north side of the road, BB the south with the van between them. The younger lawman chose what had once been the offices of a factory, the frame of a window providing an excellent field of fire while the heavy block wall would protect him from incoming lead.
BB’s ambush hide was a waist-high mound of dirt that somehow had been deposited in an empty lot. The more experienced ranger always liked being able to move during a gunfight, and the open spaces surrounding the dirt mound gave him a lot of options.
After 20 minutes, Zach began to worry that Vincent had found another way out of their trap. At 30 minutes, he fought a strong urge to leave his post and go check on the activity around the yacht.
“What the fuck are they doing?” he yelled across the street to his partner.
“It’s that little lady he’s got on his arm,” BB shouted back. “Don’t you know it always takes women forever to pack?”
Zach appreciated the older man’s use of humor to relieve stress. It was another 10 minutes before the two lawmen finally heard the sound of approaching engines.
Ducking low behind his cover, the ranger checked his spare mags for the Nth time and flicked the safety off of the carbine. His job was to take out the lead vehicle. BB would pepper the rear-most unit so they could pin anything between. It was to be the classic ambush.
Four SUVs came roaring up the street, their speed indicating that Zach wasn’t the only one who thought things were taking too long.
Just as the rangers expected, the convoy stopped well short of the blocking delivery van.
Zach and BB had anticipated such a move, selecting their positions perfectly. Centering the red dot on the point vehicle’s radiator, the ranger began firing as fast as he could pull the trigger.
Sparks and puffs of splintering metal announced he was on target, round after round tearing into the SUV’s engine compartment.
The driver did what he was trained to do, hitting the gas in an attempt to steer through the kill zone. Problem was, there wasn’t any place for him to go.
As the lead unit passed his position, Zach sent another series of lead pills into the doors and windows before turning his attention to the second target in line.
BB was pelting the rear guard of the cartel parade, slamming the heavier, Russian caliber bullets into the motor and front wheels. That driver decided to try and back out of the hailstorm of death, squealing the tires in reverse while attempting to execute some sort of fancy spinning turn.
The maneuver did nothing but expose the sides and rear to BB’s relentless barrage. Evidently, the old lawman had managed to kill the thug behind the wheel because the SUV kept moving in reverse, eventually going off the road and slamming into a utility pole with bumper-crushing force.
The cartel shooters weren’t amateurs. Within seconds, they realized the trap, many of the henchmen probably having pulled similar ambushes at some point in their criminal careers. Concluding they couldn’t drive out of the kill zone, they decided to attempt escape on foot.
Doors were flying open on three of the four SUVs, men appearing with guns drawn as they scrambled for some sort of cover. Zach began to hear, feel, and see incoming fire pointed in his direction.
The ranger ignored the shooters, his attention drawn to the third vehicle. It remained idling in the street, its occupants seemingly uneager to hop out and join the building firefight.
“That’s where Vincent and Ghost are riding,” the ranger whispered. “Gotcha.”
Zach centered on number three and began nailing the black Chevy as fast as his finger could work the trigger. After putting at least 10 rounds into the engine bay, he then moved his aim up to the windshield. That was his first indication that something was wrong.
The glass should have cracked, puffed, and splintered like the other escorts, but this one was different. Shot after shot impacted the glass in front of the driver, but no holes appeared. The ranger adjusted his aim and went for the passenger door window, and was shocked to see the same results.
“Bulletproof glass?” he hissed. “Bullshit. That crap is only in the movies.”
The ranger dropped his aim again, putting the door’s dark paint behind the red dot. While holes did appear, it was obvious that he was striking some sort of enhanced material.
Now Zach was beginning to worry. At least eight cartel enforcers had escaped their SUVs, the ranger assuming they would continue to run for their lives. But would they?
Deciding Vincent’s armored ride wasn’t going anywhere, Zach began sweeping for the bodyguards.
It saved his life.
Around the corner of a building the assassins came, spreading out in a skirmish line and firing on full automatic.
Zach ducked just as concrete and mortar shrapnel exploded all around his head, dozens of incoming rounds peppering his position. The goons hadn’t been running away; they’d been regrouping.
While he kept his head down, Zach could hear the heavy pop, pop, pop of BB’s Kalashnikov hammering away from across the street. To the ranger’s ear, it sounded like the old timer was having his own issues.
Zach chanced rising up and sending four quick shots at the approaching gunmen, sure he wasn’t going to hit anything, but hoping he’d at least slow them down. He was surprised at how close they had managed to advance already.
Evidently, his move pissed Vincent’s boys off, another avalanche of hot lead slamming into the spot where Zach had just been. Larger chunks of brick rained down on the ranger’s head, the block walls only able to absorb so much punishment.
“Time to retreat,” he announced, knowing that the white hats had probably just lost their best chance at catching Ghost and El General. Now, his thoughts turned to surviving the encounter.
Leaping to his feet, Zach snap-fired a few rounds and darted through the old factory. He’d scouted the place briefly and knew there was a loading dock at the far end.
He was halfway across the junk-strewn main space when the cartel gunmen announced they too had entered
the premises, unleashing a thunderous, sweeping spray that chased the ranger’s retreat.
Zach dived behind a pile of old scrap iron, bullets pinging and popping all around the pile of debris. The volume of fire was so intense; he thought the walls might collapse from the vibrations and impact.
The men pursuing the ranger were pretty good. While their marksmanship left him uninspired, they were skilled enough to keep one of their four weapons firing at all times, never taking off the pressure while reloading.
They continued to advance, walking upright and blasting away. Zach knew he had to chance exposure, finally lifting his head, taking an extra half a second, and centering his optic on a man’s chest.
Two 5.56 NATO rounds tore into the thug’s sternum at just over 3,200 feet per second, the long, tublar body tumbling as they struck flesh, ripping and tearing ribs, lungs, and muscles before exiting out the already-dead man’s back.
Zach hit the deck and rolled as another blizzard of pain launched in his direction. In a single motion, the Texan spun around, stood to his feet, and scurried half bent at the waist, trying to keep the garbage heap between the hunters and his carcass.
The ranger harbored a dim hope that seeing their comrade cut nearly in half would slow his pursuers down was quickly diminished. The cartel enforcers came harder now, seemingly motivated by their friend’s demise.
Zach took the opportunity to slam home a fresh magazine as he ran, zigging and cutting through the rusting hulks of whatever machinery was left behind. Vincent’s hellhounds were breathing hot on his heels.
The ranger managed the back of the building, pulling hard on a metal door. Fresh air and bright sunlight met Zach as he rushed out into the street, but that was no consolation. There wasn’t any place to hide. No cover.
His brain began screaming for the Texan to run like hell, to put distance between himself and the chasers. Some instinct overrode his survival voice, taking no more than a microsecond to realize he’d be gunned down less than 50 feet from the exit.
Zach began walking backward, his weapon on his shoulder, aimed at the door that had just banged shut behind him. He had a little surprise for the first guy who stuck out his head.
The door flew open, the ranger’s finger pulling the trigger instantly. No one came out. “Nice,” Zach whispered. “They must have watched old Westerns, too.”
Now, he was stepping backward as fast as he could. Distance was life. If he could just make the corner.
Again, the door opened; this time, a hunk of metal flew out. Zach pelted it with two shots before he realized it wasn’t a body. Then they came in a rush.
How all three managed to squeeze through the door, shooting at the same time, defied physics and was a mystery Zach didn’t stick around to solve – he was too busy running.
He could feel the rounds snapping by his head as he made the edge of the factory, the building’s façade erupting as at least a dozen rounds chased the fleeing lawman.
Zach hadn’t managed more than 10 steps when he realized another SUV was parked ahead, men with weapons pouring out of the doors.
I am so fucked, he thought, trying to get his carbine to aim at what he assumed was cartel reinforcements. No wonder Vincent hadn’t scrambled to get out of the kill box – he knew help was on the way.
Pinned between the two groups, Zach finally managed to center the red dot as he skidded to a halt. His finger was putting pressure on the trigger when something flashed familiar … a head of long, dark hair. He knew that hair.
Sam’s face came into his mind just as the new arrivals launched a salvo of their own, all four of the riflemen unloading at the men behind Zach.
Surprised, the cartel hunters stumbled, fell, and danced death’s jig as Sam’s associates engaged with withering accuracy.
Zach, regaining his composure, jogged up to his partner with a look that indicated he was trying to decide if she were a hallucination or not.
“About time you got here,” he spouted with a sly grin. “I had resigned myself to dealing with these assholes all by myself.”
Sam’s fists flew to her hips at the audacious greeting. “Why … you…. From where I stand, Ranger Bass, you were about to get sliced and diced all by yourself. And you are not welcome … asshole.”
A man appeared beside the two rangers, tan, fit … his demeanor carrying an air of authority. While his Hawaiian print shirt and golf shorts made him look like a tourist, Zach’s mind said, “military.”
“Zach, meet Captain Billy Riddell, Republic of Texas Marines.”
The two men nodded, a battlefield obviously not the place for handshakes and the exchange of business cards.
“Captain Riddell was in charge of the training that day at Langtry. He and his men took some of their accrued leave for a short vacation in Mexico. I came along to see if I could help,” Sam explained.
The ranger had a million questions for his partner, but the sound of gunshots a few blocks over stopped the interrogation. “BB!” Zach barked, cursing himself for forgetting his partner.
The ranger started to run in the direction of the gunfire, but Sam put out her hand to stop him. Riddell explained, “My gunny sergeant and a few more of our boys are helping your partner, Ranger. No need to be concerned.”
Zach’s eyes darted back and forth between his partner and the Marine officer. “It’s okay,” Sam reassured. “They were chasing down a couple of stragglers. BB is just fine.”
Nodding with relief, a vision of the third, bulletproof SUV popped into Zach’s mind. “Vincent!” he snapped, again commanding his legs to move.
“Where was he?” Sam asked, holding him back.
“He’s in the third car of the convoy. We disabled three, but El General’s ride was up-armored.”
“There were only three vehicles in the kill zone, sir,” the Marine reported.
Zach looked at Sam with wide eyes, urgency in his voice, “Come on! He’s headed back to the yacht. We can’t let Ghost and that asshole get away!”
Somehow, they all squeezed into the rental unit, gun barrels and Sam’s crutch pointing every which direction.
As they drove toward La Rosa’s mooring, Zach spotted BB standing next to his pickup, shooting the shit with a bunch of what appeared to be tourists armed with M4 carbines. The captain had his men jumping into action in a second.
They all rushed to La Rosa, Vincent’s dinged, but still-functioning Chevy Suburban sitting at the foot of the gangplank.
Two men appeared at the top of the yacht’s rail, their weapons spraying at the Marines as the brave young assaulters spread out and then began to concentrate their return fire. One of the cartel defenders went down, the other choosing to retreat.
Up the gangplank rushed the Marines, pouring onto La Rosa’s main deck and establishing a beachhead in seconds. BB didn’t want to be left out and was soon scurrying to keep up.
Sam, with her crutch under one hand and a .45 pistol in the other, started to follow. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Zach asked.
“I flew all the way down here to end this thing. I intend to see it cleaned up … personally.”
Zach could see she wasn’t going to be denied, and given the fact that she’d just saved his life, decided to stay back and cover his partner as Sam limped up the incline of the ramp.
The Marines were spreading out now, four 2-man teams moving with well-coordinated, disciplined movements as their captain shouted orders and gunny made damn sure they were followed.
“Clear,” came a voice, another echoing further down, “Clear on the bridge.”
“Head for the lowest deck,” Zach advised. “There’s a swim platform down there… maybe Vincent’s going to try and scuba to freedom.”
Shots rang out as another Cartel bodyguard tried to defend the ship. He didn’t last long.
It seemed to be taking hours to sweep the massive vessel, the Marines not wanting to leave any threat to their rear. Zach hung back with Sam, the lady ranger doing
her best to keep up despite a gimpy limb.
While he would have never said it aloud, Zach was impressed with her determination. Finally, the main decks and superstructure were cleared.
As the captain was dispatching a team to the engine spaces and another to the forward stores, a single shot rang out from the stern of the ship.
The gunny did a quick headcount, turning to his commander and saying, “Not one of ours.”
Everyone rushed toward the solo gunshot.
Zach was envisioning finding Vincent dead, the ranger guessing that the cartel honcho would kill himself before being captured. It then occurred that perhaps there was only one scuba tank aboard, and Ghost had done Texas a favor and killed the drug lord himself.
The two lead Marines burst into the water garage, closely followed by Zach and the rest of the boarding party.
There was Vincent, his body draped in an awkward position over the seat of a jet ski. There was blood soaking the back of his shirt, leaking from a crater in the back of his skull. Weekend was standing, staring blankly at the dead man’s face, a smoking pistol at her side.
Zach walked up and gently removed the weapon from her limp grip. He could hear her whispering, “You son of a bitch, you son of a bitch,” over and over again.
Zach took her chin and made eye contact, “Where is Ghost? Where is the other man?”
She actually laughed, an evil tinkle echoing off the hull. “He betrayed this fucker when the helicopter went down. He stole the launch over an hour ago.”
Looking out the open bay of the water garage, Zach scanned for any sign of the escaping terrorist. He knew it was hopeless. Ghost was long gone.
Sam stepped up beside her partner as if to help him search the horizon. When Zach finally looked down, it was clear he was feeling beaten. “I can’t believe that guy got away … again. What in the hell does it take to catch that madman?”
“We’ll get him, Zach; I promise. He just got lucky is all. We’ll get him.”
Sam and her Marines had flown down on a private plane, courtesy of a grieving father who had lost a son in the massacre.
