“You go first, then,” Jonathan said to Boxers. “Tristan, hold up. Let the Big Guy go, and then you follow. I’ll cover from up here.”
“Look out!” Tristan yelled, and he brought his rifle to his shoulder.
Jonathan spun around firing. With all the good guys accounted for, everybody else out there with a heartbeat was a bad guy. He actually didn’t see any targets, but he wasn’t going to argue with the kid.
“Hurry!” Jonathan said, but when he turned, he saw that Boxers was already shoulders-deep into the tunnel opening. He was carrying Maria like a child now, more hooked in his arm than slung over his shoulder.
As soon as the Big Guy’s head disappeared, Tristan dropped to his knees and climbed backward into the hole.
A shadow moved inside the rubble of eleven-seventy. And then another. People were gathering for an assault. If they all rushed at once, he’d never have a chance. And if they all rushed before he and his team were at the bottom of the ladderway and had started moving horizontally, all the bad guys would have to do is stick a weapon down the opening and pull the trigger. If they weren’t hit by direct fire, then they’d most certainly be torn apart by ricochets and fragments.
On the front side of twelve-seventy, people were working at the lock to the front door.
Jonathan fired a long burst through the sheet metal front wall to give them something to think about, and then he turned and fired another burst through the opening they’d blown in the back wall.
“We’re clear!” Boxers yelled from the bottom. “Twenty-eight rungs.”
As Jonathan backed toward the opening in the floor, he let the M27 fall against its sling and he ripped open two of the big flaps on the front of his vest. Each held a fragmentation grenade. He lifted one out, and in one continuous motion, he pulled the safety pin with a sharp twisting motion and tossed it through the hole he’d blown in the concrete. It incited exactly the panic he’d been hoping for, people yelling and pushing to get out of the way.
Out front, someone took a shotgun to the lock on the door as Jonathan dropped chest-deep into the tunnel entrance.
Compared to the other explosions of the night, the grenade blast wasn’t much to listen to, but the effect of a bajillion high-velocity fragments on human tissue and psyches could not be overstated.
With a second grenade clutched in his right hand, the pin pulled but the arming spoon clamped tight, Jonathan waited for the tactical entry through the front.
As soon as they kicked in the door, he lobbed the grenade into the opening and dropped out of sight.
Captain Palma had never experienced this level of combat, never fully understood the level of carnage that a few people with weapons could inflict on greater numbers. In his experience, his opposing force caved at the mere sight of his soldiers. The few who dared to fire on him were quickly dispatched.
But this enemy—these men—were killing machines.
And the grenade had all but wiped out his force. It had landed in the perfect place at the perfect time. He’d just gathered his men to coordinate entry with the larger team in the front when the tiny bomb sailed through the blasted hole and skittered across the floor.
There’d been pushing and shoving, but when it exploded, it left no one standing, including Palma, though he was one of the lucky ones. Three of his men had literally been torn apart by the blast, in the process absorbing more than their fair share of the kinetic energy and fragments.
Palma himself felt burning stabs in his neck and face. While a wipe with his hand produced a smear of blood, and he could feel the torn margins of his skin in two places, he didn’t believe his wounds to be life threatening.
He’d barely processed the fact that he was still alive when a second grenade ravaged the front entry team.
All around him, the world had devolved into chaos.
With his own squad too wounded and demoralized to continue, he could only imagine how little interest he could muster from the local emergency forces to follow these murderers underground.
If someone didn’t follow, they would all get away.
If they got away, the life left for Palma wouldn’t be worth living.
As voices around him called for doctors and ambulances, he realized that he had no choice but to follow on his own.
The air in the tunnel smelled like wet dirt.
Tristan fought the blooming sense of panic just as he fought the urge to run ahead. None of them knew exactly where this passageway would end, but the smoothness of the floors and eight-foot ceiling height spoke of impressive engineering.
He wanted to talk about it, to ask questions, but that would just be more noise.
Noise to cover the horrible sounds that Maria made.
The Big Guy had resumed carrying her over his shoulder, so since Tristan was second in line in this underground parade, that put her face just in front of his. She smelled of blood and vomit, and she begged to be left to die.
“Please,” she whined. “It hurts so much.” She made a raspy, gargling sound as she spoke.
Every time the Big Guy adjusted her on his shoulder, she shrieked in agony. And apparently, even somebody as strong as the Big Guy had his limits, because he was slowing down.
“We need to keep moving,” Scorpion said from behind.
The Big Guy stopped and, as gently as possible, lowered Maria from his shoulder onto the ground.
“What are you doing?” Scorpion snapped.
“She’s gonna die,” Big Guy said, “unless we do something to stop the flow of blood. Look at me.”
The front of his vest shimmered crimson from his shoulder down.
“We don’t have time for this,” Scorpion said.
“Then just leave her,” the Big Guy snapped back. “Seems stupid to me to go through all this effort just to carry a corpse. Let’s see if there’s something we can do.”
“There’s a lot of ground left to cover,” Scorpion said.
“My point exactly. Now give me some light.” As he spoke, the Big Guy pulled up Maria’s shirt to reveal a gaping hole in her midsection, where stuff that was supposed to be tucked in was hanging out.
Tristan looked away.
Maria was going to die. Jonathan hadn’t realized that her wound was so extensive. Or maybe he had but hadn’t wanted to believe it. Either way, they couldn’t just leave her here.
“Thank you,” Maria said. Her voice was a thready shadow of what it had been. “This feels much better.”
“We’re not done yet, Maria,” Jonathan said. “We’ve still got a long way to go.”
“Leave me,” she said.
“We don’t leave people behind,” Jonathan said.
“Please.”
“Absolutely not.”
Her eyes had taken on the grayish hue that meant she was bleeding out. She forced a smile. “I am dying, am I not?”
It was a question to which Jonathan had pledged long ago to always give a truthful answer. “Yes.”
“Then let me die here. This hurts less.”
“This isn’t a time for heroics,” Jonathan said. He put his arms under hers to lift her, but she wriggled free. The effort made her yell, and Jonathan jerked away.
“I am not a hero,” Maria said. “The Lord in Heaven knows that I am not a hero. I am a coward who fears pain. Please let me die here.”
“But if Hernandez gets ahold of you—”
“Dead is dead, Mr. Scorpion,” she said. “In Mexico or in the U.S. With you or with Felix. It really does not matter. I am already paralyzed. My heart is racing. It won’t be long.” As she said that last part, she winced against a slice of pain. “Could you leave me a gun though? Just in case. I seem to have lost mine.”
Jonathan shot a look to Boxers. If they left her a weapon, she’d use it to commit suicide.
“It’s not for me,” Maria said, reading his thoughts. “But if they come, maybe I can spend my last moments fighting. I can spend them helping the people who tried so hard to help me.�
�
Boxers cleared his throat. “She’s right, Scorpion.”
Anger flashed. He shot to his feet. “We do not leave people behind.”
“She’s not our PC,” Boxers said matter-of-factly. “And if we don’t listen to her, we’ll unnecessarily risk losing the one who is our PC.” He shot a glance toward Tristan.
“Oh, no,” Tristan said. “Don’t make this about me. Don’t leave her to save me.”
Jonathan wanted the answer to be different from what it had to be. “Tristan,” he said. “Give your weapon to Maria, please.”
“Like hell!” Tristan said. He wasn’t going to have something like this on his conscience for the rest of his life. They’d all suffered through this together. He had no more right to live than she did.
“It’s the only way,” Scorpion said. “I know it sucks, but it’s the only way.”
“And we don’t have time to dick around,” Boxers said. “If you make me carry you, I’ll do it, even if I have to knock you senseless first.”
How could this be happening? How could it be right that out of all of his friends and the chaperones and now Maria, he would be the only one to come home alive? What had he done that was so important that he deserved that? What could he possibly do with the rest of his life to earn that kind of sacrifice?
Scorpion reached for Tristan’s weapon, but the boy twisted away. “No!”
Scorpion reached again. In the wash of the flashlights, there was tenderness in Scorpion’s eyes as he reached to unclasp the weapon from its sling.
Tristan twisted away again. “No,” he said, softer this time. “I’ll do it.”
He unclipped the rifle from its sling and knelt next to Maria. He laid the weapon on her lap. “Be careful,” he said. “The safety’s off.” That done, he stripped four magazines from the pockets of his vest. “In case you need these, too.”
Maria placed her hand gently on his cheek. “You’re so handsome,” she said. “Have a good life, Jaime.”
“I’m Tristan,” he said.
She smiled and took his hand in both of hers and kissed it. “Then have a good life for Jaime.”
Tristan scowled. “Who’s—”
“Gotta go,” Jonathan said.
The familiar grip fell onto the collar of Tristan’s vest, and he found himself being lifted away.
“Scorpion,” Maria said in that fading voice. She beckoned for him to come closer.
Scorpion bent and brought his ear to her lips. He listened for a moment then turned to the rest of them. “Big Guy, get going with Tristan. I’ll catch up.”
Something awful snagged in Tristan’s gut. “Why?” he said. “What are you going to do?”
“Come on, kid,” Big Guy said. He gave a gentle tug on his arm.
As he allowed himself to be escorted along, Tristan pressed the Big Guy for insight. “He’s not going to kill her, is he?”
“I don’t know what they’re talking about,” the Big Guy said. “But I guaran-damn-tee you that it’s not that.”
Palma moved as quickly as he could in the darkness of the tunnel. Not wanting to reveal his location with a flashlight beam, he kept his left hand in contact with the wall and trusted that the floors would remain clear of obstacles.
He wished he could move faster, but he knew that the girl had been wounded, and that would make them move more slowly than they normally would. And since they were in the lead—and didn’t know that he was following—he was betting that they would illuminate their way with flashlights. In this level of darkness, even the faintest light would shine like a beacon.
In fact, he saw that very beacon right now. It was more a distant glow than a light beam, but down here, it had to be man-made. The glow was projected from a source of white light, and it wasn’t moving. It was distant, but in the darkness, it was impossible to tell how far.
Palma dropped to a crouch and brought his weapon to his shoulder. He sensed that he’d entered a trap. The classic booby trap involved an irresistible enticement to draw the victim in close, and an illuminated light seemed like just such a thing. Who would be stupid enough to sit still with a light on? For all they knew, there were dozens of armed men following them. The light only made sense as a trap.
Harris and Lerner had night vision. They wouldn’t need light at all, would they?
Or maybe in the absoluteness of the darkness here in the tunnel, there wasn’t enough light to amplify.
His nerves sent the sensation of a thousand ants crawling up his back and neck. This had to be a trap.
Yet what were his options?
He could risk it and perhaps meet his death, or he could abandon the chase and meet his death for certain, at the hands of Felix Hernandez and his torturers.
He advanced with excruciating slowness, doing his best to keep a low profile while remaining absolutely silent. He remained pressed against the left-hand wall, and despite his fear of losing his night vision, he kept his sights trained on the glow. If people were there, they would cast a shadow. Or the light would move.
But there were no shadows and nothing moved.
As he neared the source of the light—he could see the distinctive circular outline of a flashlight beam on the ceiling now—he slowed even more, to perhaps ten feet per minute. It took forever, but he needed to be sure this time. His prey had been one step ahead from the very beginning, and in here, there simply was no room to make a mistake.
Finally, he was near enough to see the silhouette of a person slumped against the wall. Closer still, he saw that it was Maria Elizondo, and she lay perfectly still. From ten feet away, even in the dim light of the flashlight, he could see the blood-soaked T-shirt.
Palma smiled. In fact, he nearly laughed out loud.
With Maria dead, he could now live. Felix wouldn’t be happy about it—in fact he’d be furious when he learned that he’d lost his opportunity to torture her—but under the circumstances, given all the destruction, Palma would be able to make him understand. He’d decide later whether it would be prudent to share the detail that Palma himself had killed her.
He needed to be certain.
Palma considered shooting her again, this time in the head, but he decided not to. That much noise in such a confined space might push Harris and Lerner over the edge. Palma didn’t care about them anymore. Maria was the key to his personal survival.
But he still needed to be certain.
And certainty came with risk.
Still moving slowly and silently, Palma slid his Mini Maglite from its loop on his belt. With his rifle at his shoulder and his finger poised on the trigger, he raised the light high over his head and switched it on. If Harris and his team were lying in wait, the bright light would wash out their night vision, and maybe, for a second or two, Palma would have the advantage.
But the light revealed nothing.
Then this made sense to him.
They knew Maria was dying, so they’d left her here. She was afraid of the dark, so they left the light for her.
Palma dared to rise to his full height now, and he approached Maria’s body more easily.
She lay slumped to her right side, her face down and away from him. He tapped her nearest hip—her left—with the toe of his boot, but she didn’t move.
He watched her chest carefully for signs of breathing, but again he saw nothing.
Still, he needed to be certain.
Keeping his weapon trained on her head, he reached out with his left hand and pulled her into a more upright sitting position so that he could check her pulse.
So young and so thin, her torso weighed virtually nothing as—
Maria had tucked the hand grenade in her left armpit, with the pin pulled. Palma knew what it was from the ting! of the safety spoon flying away and arming the detonator. When the grenade rolled between his feet, he turned to run.
It didn’t matter.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The explosion registered more as a thump than a bang, but it
was loud enough to make Tristan jump and duck. “What was that?”
“Nothing for us to worry about,” Scorpion said. “Keep going.” Stealth no longer seemed to be an issue.
“It was an explosion!” Tristan said. “How can that be nothing for us to worry about?”
A look passed between the Big Guy and the boss. It didn’t linger, but it was significant, and Tristan caught it. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Come on, Tristan,” Scorpion said. For the first time, he appeared tired. Nearly spent. “Please just let it go and keep walking.”
“I think I have a right to know.”
“And I think you’re wrong. Please, just—”
“Maria just blew herself up, didn’t she?” Tristan didn’t know where that came from, or how it had occurred to him, but he was certain that that had to be it. “Was that what she asked you at the end? For a grenade to blow herself up?”
Another look passed between the two men. Big Guy said, “What can I say, Boss? The kid’s good at connecting the dots.”
Tristan pulled up short. “Dots! Dots? That’s what she was to you? She gets too heavy to carry so we just leave her to die and then she gets reduced to being a dot? Oh, my God.” Out of nowhere, Tristan felt flushed, like he needed to sit down. It was as if someone had hacked away the final chunk of mortar in the dam that held his emotions together. The reality of it all was more than he could bear.
Suddenly, there wasn’t enough air to breathe. He sank to his knees, and pressed his hands to his face, a last desperate effort to keep the tears from coming.
He saw Maria’s beautiful face, so alive, and then so agonized. He saw Allison lying dead on the floor of the bus, and Mrs. James being forced to do such awful things only to be shot down by the terrorist she’d obliged.
Sobs wracked his body as he heard a wailing sound pealing from his throat. These were sights he’d see in his mind for the rest of his life. How could anyone live with that?
He thought of the man he shot, and of the excitement that gave him, and then he felt overwhelmed with even more grief. Overwhelmed by shame.
Damage Control Page 34
