He was about to kill Ricardo—and there wasn’t a thing Laura could do to stop him. Ricardo had freed them, but he was going to pay with his life.
Laura screamed, “Nooooo!” and Cortez hesitated, turning his head toward her.
Ricardo finally succeeded in tipping up the rifle barrel. He pulled the trigger—
Cortez’s head exploded in a spray of blood and brain matter.
Just as outside in the courtyard, the entire world seemed to explode in a huge ball of flame that shook the earth and engulfed the night in fiery, ravening destruction.
Thirty-seven
Flaming debris was still falling from the sky like drops of fiery rain when Sonia lowered the helicopter into the courtyard at the rear of the mission compound. Tom was out of the chopper before its skids even touched the ground. Elliott, Van Sant, and Lambert were right behind him. The rifles carried by the four men were ready to fire, but for the moment, there were no targets.
Tom’s eyes widened in amazement as he looked toward the entrance of the rear wing and saw girls come pouring out of the open door. Most wore jeans and T-shirts; a few had lost their shirts and were clad only in bras above the waist. They were hysterical, panic-stricken, but somehow they were holding it together long enough to get out of the building.
Then he saw a girl bringing up the rear, prodding along the others, keeping them moving, her actions carrying an indefinable air of command. There was a man with her who appeared to be wounded. She had an arm around his waist, supporting him as they hobbled along. He carried a rifle in one hand.
The shock of recognition that went through Tom told him that he was looking at his niece. That was Laura herding the other girls out of their captivity, and somehow Tom wasn’t surprised. The family had a habit of doing what needed to be done.
Behind him, he heard Wayne Van Sant cry in a choked voice, “Michelle!” and knew that the man had spotted his daughter. Lambert shouted a name, too, but in the confusion Tom couldn’t make it out. Some of the girls were screaming, and not far off men shouted in angry confusion. The rest of the Night Wolves would be arriving at any moment, drawn by the explosion.
Tom and his companions had to hold them off until the girls got away. He ran toward the fleeing former captives and shouted, “This way! This way! Laura! Bring them this way!”
The girls had no way of knowing what was going on, but they had to see the helicopter and the Americans and realize that somebody had finally come to help them. Several of them ran desperately toward Tom. He moved aside and waved them past.
“Outside!” he told them. “Get outside the compound! Stay on the road!”
It was possible that the terrain around the mission was mined, but the road wouldn’t be, so the girls would be safe enough as long as they stayed on it. The way out was clear, because the rocket that had destroyed the machine-gun emplacement had also wrecked the gate. It hung crookedly open, and the girls had no trouble getting through it.
Van Sant and Lambert caught hold of their daughters and hugged them fiercely as both girls shrieked, “Daddy!” The reunion lasted only a few seconds, though, as the men then pushed the girls on toward the gate and told them to stay with the others and get out.
Tom was trying to reach Laura and the man with her. He had no idea who the man was, but he was dressed like one of the Night Wolves, in black jeans and T-shirt. And he was carrying a gun, so Tom didn’t trust him. But Laura wouldn’t be trying to help him if he was one of their captors, he told himself. Finding out the details would have to wait until later. For now, Tom just wanted them out of here while they still had the chance.
“Laura!” he shouted again. “Laura, over here!”
She stumbled toward him, eyes wide with shock. “Tom?” she cried. “Tom Brannon?”
He grinned at her. “That’s right, kid.” As she came up to him, he threw an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick hug. “We’ve come to get you out of here, so go with the others. Get outside the compound.”
She glanced around, sizing up the situation, and he was proud of the way she obviously took it all in so quickly. “Four men can’t hold off Guerrero’s army,” she said, “and one little chopper can’t carry us all. How are we going to get out of here?”
Suddenly, a sound like a huge rushing wind filled the night air, and spotlights lanced down from above, illuminating the ground outside the mission and the frightened girls gathering there. Dust rose in the air as giant spinning rotors lowered three big choppers from the darkness.
Tom’s grin stretched wider. “There’s your ride now!” he told Laura. The other three helicopters had made it across the border somehow and reached the compound in time.
The man with Laura straightened, pulling out of her grip. “Go!” he told her as he gave her a little shove toward the gate. “Get out while you can! I will stay and help this man and his friends.”
“No, Ricardo!” she said. “You’re already hurt!”
Tom could see now that the left side of the man’s shirt was sodden with blood. Ricardo leaned closer to Laura and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Go,” he said, and the word was almost a whispered plea.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she nodded shakily and started to walk backward. Then she turned and ran after the other girls.
Tom and Ricardo exchanged a glance. “Ricardo Benitez,” the young man said, introducing himself. “I work for the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency.”
“One of those deep-cover agents I heard about,” Tom said as the light of understanding dawned.
Ricardo nodded. “Sí. And you are—”
“Laura’s uncle. Tom Brannon.”
“You risked your life to come get her out of this hellhole?”
Tom nodded toward Ricardo’s wounded side. “You look like you risked your life to help her, too.”
A savage grin creased his strained face. “And to get back at Colonel Guerrero for all the evil he has done.”
“I hear you,” Tom said.
At that moment, Wild Bill Elliott trotted up and said, “Hear this, Brannon—we got trouble comin’!”
Indeed, with a burst of gunfire, armed men ran out of the rising dust and opened fire on them. Tom and his companions scattered, returning the shots. Tom threw one glance toward the ruined gate and saw that the girls were still straggling through it. One of them stumbled and almost fell, hit by a stray bullet. But another girl caught her and held her up and helped her out of the compound.
Then Tom didn’t have time to check on the fleeing former prisoners anymore, because he was too busy fighting for his life—and theirs.
Los Lobos de la Noche swept into the courtyard like a black tide, the soldiers of Colonel Guerrero converging on the rear of the compound and pouring lead into it. Four men—five counting Ricardo Benitez—and one woman—Sonia Alvarez, who fired a pistol from the door of the helicopter—stood little chance of stemming that tide for more than a few moments. But their hope was that those precious moments would be enough for all the girls to reach the other choppers and get the hell out of there.
Tom dropped to one knee. The butt of the rifle in his hands kicked against his shoulder as he fired steadily into the onrushing crowd of Night Wolves. Flying lead whispered all around him. From the corner of his eye he saw Wayne Van Sant go to a knee, too, but the former tank commander was hit. Van Sant stayed upright and continued firing, though. A few yards away, Craig Lambert’s face was pale with fear, but he stayed cool and the rifle in his hands continued to bark.
Wild Bill Elliott was grinning and didn’t seem to even notice when a bullet kissed his cheek, leaving a bloody streak. Just one more scar to go with all the others.
Ricardo had fallen, too weak to stand up any longer, but he was still conscious and still firing toward the members of the gang he had infiltrated for the DEA.
A small but noble band of men—and one woman—but unfortunately, Tom knew that they were about to get the shit shot out of them. They had minutes, perhaps even
seconds, to live.
Worth it if the girls got away, he thought.
But he wished he could see Bonnie one more time.
It was chaos inside the old mission. Most of the men who had come here tonight for the auction had brought bodyguards with them, so at the sound of the explosion, those hard-faced men jerked guns from under their coats, grabbed their employers, and thrust the men behind them. They were willing to shield those human vultures with their own bodies, which was proof positive that some men would do anything for money.
Willingham’s guards were trying to reach his side as the Englishman clawed frantically at Colonel Guerrero’s uniform jacket and cried out, “What is it? Oh, dear God, what’s happening?”
The irony of a demon in human form like Willingham calling on God was not lost on Guerrero, but he had no time to reflect on it. Instead, he shoved the Englishman away and grated, “Stay calm, Sir Cedric. Whatever it is, my men will handle it.”
But within moments, the sounds of gunfire began to penetrate the chapel. A battle was going on somewhere outside. Someone had dared to attack his sanctum, just as General Montero had warned him might happen. Rage filled Guerrero. How dare anyone do such a thing? He was Colonel Alfonso Guerrero, the leader of Los Lobos de la Noche! The yapping mongrels who nipped at his heels would soon learn the peril of their audacity!
He turned, again brushing off Willingham’s frantic hands. The man’s very touch made Guerrero’s skin crawl. He strode toward the doors leading out of the old chapel, intent on finding out what was going on. He wanted to supervise the destruction of his enemies personally.
He could tell now that the sounds of gunfire came from the rear of the compound. That was where the prisoners were held. The Americans were trying to free them. Guerrero paused suddenly, feeling as if a fist had just punched him in the stomach. Angelina was back there! He had ordered her taken to the cells and put with the others—to teach her a lesson!
And now there were explosions and thousands of high-powered rounds filling the air, and she was back there in harm’s way, where death might strike her down at any instant.
Cursing himself, his face grim, Guerrero broke into a run toward the rear of the compound.
It wouldn’t be much longer now. The five men had pulled back toward the helicopter, Tom going to Ricardo’s side to help him while Lambert gave Van Sant a hand. Elliott covered them as best he could. But as they came together, they all knew that this would be their last stand. They crouched behind rubble that had been blown off the wall, firing their rifles dry, slapping in new clips, firing again. But the Night Wolves were all around them, and within heartbeats they would be overrun and wiped out.
That was when Charles Long, Wally Chambers, Joe Delgado, and Frank Ramirez, all of them yelling at the top of their lungs, led reinforcements through the gate where the girls had fled, the rifles and pistols in their hands throwing slugs into the massed Night Wolves with deadly accuracy.
Elliott lowered his rifle for a moment and drawled, “Looks like the cavalry’s here,” as if there had never been any doubt in his mind that help would arrive in time.
There had been plenty of doubt in Tom’s mind, but he felt hope surge within him as he heard explosions from the front of the compound. At least some of the rescue force had gotten here and was carrying out the frontal attack as planned. Long, Chambers, and the others had come around to help back here. That wasn’t the way they had sketched it out, but Tom was damned glad to see them anyway. A good soldier had to be able to improvise, and even though in real life they were all civilians, tonight they were the best damned soldiers Tom had ever had the honor to serve with.
And now Tom and his companions joined in the charge as the reinforcements slammed into the Night Wolves. Vicious, hand-to-hand fighting filled the courtyard. When Tom emptied his rifle this time, there was no chance to reload it. He used it as a club instead, driving the butt into the face of a black-clad man who loomed up in front of him. Then he reversed it, burning his hands on the hot barrel but ignoring the pain as he lashed back and forth with it, shattering the stock. Night Wolves went down before the flailing frenzy, skulls crushed and blood sheeting over ruined faces.
Just like Davy Crockett at the Alamo, swinging Old Betsy as Santa Anna’s minions closed in around him, Tom thought crazily.
Only this time Santa Anna—Colonel Guerrero—wasn’t going to win.
Even though they outnumbered the Americans, the Night Wolves began to fall back toward the building. Some of them flat out turned and ran. Tom and the others pursued them, driving them along the corridor where the cells were located, catching up to some of them and dealing out the death they so richly deserved. Tom finally had to drop what was left of the rifle he had destroyed and pull the pistol from the holster on his hip. As he did, he caught sight of a tall man in some sort of fancy uniform, who had just run through the door at the far end of the corridor. Even though he had never seen the man before, Tom recognized him from Brady Keller’s description.
Guerrero.
The colonel took one look at the bloody melee filling the broad hallway, then turned and went back the way he had come. Tom started after him. A gun exploded practically in his face as one of the Night Wolves lunged at him. The bullet whipped past Tom’s ear, and the next instant he fired his own pistol and saw the man’s head jerk back as the slug slammed into his forehead and bored through his brain. Tom shouldered the falling corpse aside and ran toward the door where Guerrero had disappeared.
It was time to settle the score.
Thirty-eight
Some of the rescuers had pulled back outside the compound to cover the girls as they climbed into the waiting helicopters. Laura stood by the open doors of one of the big choppers, helping her friends climb up into the aircraft. Men waited inside the helicopters, too, reaching down with outstretched hands to grasp the wrists of the girls and haul them to safety. The loading proceeded quickly and efficiently, especially considering the circumstances. Finally, one of the men in the chopper where Laura stood leaned out the door and called, “You’re the last one, little lady! Come on!”
She hesitated, turning for a second toward the compound, where gunfire still racketed. Her uncle was in there somewhere, as was Ricardo, who had been wounded, perhaps seriously, while freeing them. She wanted to go back and see if she could help them.
But she knew that Tom and Ricardo would both be furious with her if she did, and she wanted to see her mother again, and despite everything, she was still just a seventeen-year-old girl. A very scared seventeen-year-old girl who wanted to go home.
She reached up, took the man’s hand, and climbed into the helicopter. The door slid shut with a clang behind her.
Less than a minute later, all three of the big whirlybirds lifted off, soaring high into the night sky.
Guerrero was filled with rage. The sight that had greeted his eyes when he entered the rear wing of the old mission was shameful. His men, his Night Wolves, were being routed by a motley bunch of Americans! He had never dreamed that he would ever see such a thing.
Not only that, but he had caught a glimpse through the struggling mob of Cortez’s body lying on the floor, obviously dead with most of his head blown off. That sent a spear of grief and anger thrusting through Guerrero. Eli had been his amigo, his segundo. Now he was gone.
That was just one more reason to crush the Americans, Guerrero thought. Cortez’s spirit cried out for revenge.
He would rally his men in the chapel, he decided. There he would also have the help of the bodyguards who had come with the bidders for the auction. That was where they would put a stop to this attack and teach the Americans a lesson.
That thought reminded him of Angelina, and he grimaced. He didn’t know where she was, but he hoped that she was all right. Those girls couldn’t get away; there was nowhere they could run outside the compound where he couldn’t track them down. He would find them, and he would find Angelina.
As he ran into the cha
pel, he heard explosions and gunfire coming from the front of the compound. The damned Americans were everywhere! He was caught between two forces, and most of his men had rushed to the back to deal with the threat there. That had been a mistake, one that might have doomed a lesser commander. But he would find a way to win yet, he told himself.
The Night Wolves on duty inside the chapel had stayed there, like the good soldiers they were. Guerrero called them together and placed them at the rear door. He gathered the bodyguards and over the strident objections of their employers, posted them at the front door.
“I say!” Willingham protested in his reedy voice. “My men are supposed to protect me!”
“They will be protecting you, Sir Cedric, by not allowing the interlopers in here,” Guerrero explained, barely able to hold onto his patience. If Willingham got on his nerves much more, he was going to take his pistol and put a bullet through the man’s brain himself, five million or no five million.
“I don’t see how you could have let something like this happen, Colonel! Who are those men?”
“Fools,” Guerrero said between clenched teeth. “Fools who will soon be dead.”
Tom heard footsteps behind him and glanced back to see Elliott, Long, and several other men following him. They looked as grim as he felt, and he knew they wanted a shot at Guerrero, too. He didn’t tell them to turn back. Everybody deserved a chance to make Guerrero pay for his crimes.
Again the role reversal with the Alamo struck Tom. They were heading for the interior of the old mission, the chapel where the place’s defenders would make their last stand. As they ran down a vaulted hallway toward a pair of heavy wooden doors, he slapped a fresh clip into his pistol.
Those doors swung open, and Elliott barked, “Spread out!”
The warning came just in time. Automatic-weapons fire sprayed through the corridor, knocking pieces of adobe off the walls. Staying low, Tom and his men returned the fire. Their coolly aimed shots took a toll, dropping a couple of the gunners and forcing the others away from the doors. Long tossed a flash-bang grenade. It bounced along the floor and through the doors into the chapel, where it went off with a burst of blinding light and deafening sound.
Invasion Usa: Border War Page 25
