Wrecker: A John Crane Adventure

by Mark Parragh

  Tate wheeled his tool cart over. It rattled across the cement floor.

  “See, I am going to ask you some questions,” he said, “but this is why we don’t start there. You still think you can talk your way out of this. We’ve got to level set first so we’re all on the same page, know where we stand.”

  He opened a drawer, rifled through the tools inside, and finally came out with an eight-inch half-round hand rasp. Yeah, that was the place to start. Hurt like hell, lot of visible damage, but it was all surface. Nothing that would put Stratton down before he had what he wanted from him. After that, the pliers, the awl, and the tin snips for when he got a little more serious.

  He flipped the rasp and caught it, and Stratton blanched. “Jesus, man,” he said. “Jesus.”

  He walked over and checked Stratton’s hands. The men who tied him to the chair did it right. His fingers were wrapped around the ends of the arms and had nowhere to go. Of course, hands weren’t the best place to start. People were accustomed to hurting their hands; they said they were “getting their hands dirty.” Now, snipping off fingers, that would have an effect. But that was later. The scalp was a good place to start with the rasp. Lot of blood, but he wouldn’t be able to see just how bad it was, so he would picture it. And, of course, you got down to bone a lot faster there.

  “Come on, come on, we don’t have to do this,” said Stratton, and the fear was cracking through his voice now. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  Tate smiled at him. “Like I said, I don’t want to know anything yet. When I do, you’ll know.”

  Then he got to work and felt the rush as the blood spattered his white coverall and the screams echoed off the cisterns.

  When he was done, he stripped off the bloodstained coverall and put his watch back on. It had been a little over an hour. The wreckage of Detective Stratton slumped in the chair, his breath a wet gurgle.

  “Get rid of him,” he told the men who had quietly watched him work for the last hour. He added a waving gesture to take in the plastic sheet, the coverall, the bloody booties. “And burn all this.”

  He headed upstairs and found Esteban waiting for him in the game room. Esteban was the cartel’s ranking man here, the one in charge of the soldiers, the one who reported back to Lalo when there was a problem—a problem like this one.

  Esteban was a tall, lean man in his late thirties, with jet-black hair he wore oiled back and a nasty scar next to one eye. He twirled an unlit cigarillo around his fingers because Tate didn’t want smoking in the house. As Tate came in, he crossed his legs with a flash of the silver trim on his boots, and said, “So?”

  “So Martin, the guy who tried to escape. You remember how he kept claiming his father was a big-deal businessman back in Texas? Turns out he wasn’t bullshitting us. This guy works for the father. He’s had him and a couple other detectives running around Mexico, looking for his son ever since he went missing.”

  “Including this man who sunk your boat?”

  Tate poured himself a shot glass of tequila. He was still coming down from it, and the liquor mixed nicely with the last of the adrenaline rush.

  “No, strangely enough. He knew a couple others. I got names and descriptions. But he didn’t know John Crane. It’s not the first time someone’s sent a PI looking for a lost loved one.”

  “But it’s the first time they’ve come here,” said Esteban. “How did he find this place?”

  “He doesn’t know. The father sent him, but he just gave him the location. But he did know that they’re putting together a rescue mission with a bunch of hired guns.”

  Esteban leaned forward, concerned. “How many hired guns?”

  “He thought maybe half a dozen. Not much.”

  Esteban stood up and stuck his unlit cigarillo back in his shirt pocket. He shook his head. “That’s not good,” he said. “A half-dozen mercenaries we can handle, but Lalo won’t like that this location leaked. He’s going to want to know how.”

  “They don’t know anything,” Tate said. “They don’t know the kid’s dead. They don’t know my name. The guy was fishing. That’s all. For all we know, they could be sending people to look at every big hacienda in Durango. Let them send their mercenaries. We’ll bury them out back with the detective, and that will be the end of it. All they’ll know is they don’t want to mess with us.”

  “We need a show of force,” Esteban agreed. “I’ll talk to the boss. See about getting some more guys up here, some heavy weapons.”

  Tate heard a muffled gunshot from outside, and that was the end of Mr. Stratton. Tate smiled. When his friends came on their useless rescue mission, they’d get the same welcome.

  CHAPTER 34

  There were eight of them, plus Crane himself, sitting on bench seats in the cargo bay of Jessie’s Short. Crane had met them at El Paso just before they took off. They were ex-military, and not impressed that Crane wasn’t. He didn’t talk about himself, and certainly didn’t mention the Hurricane Group. But apparently Sawyer had let slip that Crane came from some kind of civilian intelligence background, and word had gotten around. They weren’t thrilled to have Crane along, and especially unhappy with the idea that he was in charge. But they needed a command structure, and Jessie had made it clear up front that Crane had the knowledge and the plan, and they were to follow his lead.

  Now they were high over the Mexican mountains, the Short droning through the night toward Tate’s compound. The men were cracking bad jokes and bragging about past exploits, the sort of thing Crane had seen soldiers do to build rapport when they hadn’t fought together before. Everything was last names—Hicks, Buskirk, Alvarez—except for one named Fralin who everyone called “Major.” Crane gathered he was the leader of the group.

  Crane sat in the back, talking with Finney, the sniper who was recently back from Afghanistan. He cradled a Barrett MRAD with a long scope and night-vision optics and discussed with Crane where he should set up. Crane showed him video from the drone overflight and pointed out the location he’d noticed.

  “Yes, sir,” said Finney. “That’ll work just fine.”

  “Any concerns about the range?”

  “No, sir. This weapon will punch through level-three body armor at nine hundred meters. Unless they’re driving tanks, I can put them down.”

  “All right, leave securing the airstrip to us,” Crane said. He traced a route across the hills with a fingertip. “As soon as we’re on the ground, move out. Notify us when you’re in position. From there, you’ll know what to do.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find some way to occupy my time,” Finney said with a grin.

  The others were armed with suppressed M4 carbines, probably because they’d trained on them in the military. It wasn’t Crane’s favorite weapon, but it would do here, where combat was likely to be at short range. For himself, Crane had chosen an F2000, a compact NATO bullpup rifle that would be usable in the tight quarters he expected in the building where the hostages were kept. For backup, he had the Sig Sauer MHS pistol he’d taken from Orly Wilde.

  The plan they’d worked out was simple. They’d be landing in the dark a couple hours before dawn. Even so, they couldn’t assume surprise under the circumstances. They’d eliminate any resistance at the airstrip and leave Jessie there to hold their beachhead. Then they’d move as quickly as possible to the compound. Ideally that would be in trucks they’d take at the airstrip. They could move on foot if they had to, but that would slow them down going in, and especially going out when they’d have to herd a group of frightened civilians a couple miles back to the airstrip.

  But there was a building across the runway from the warehouses that looked like a multi-vehicle garage to Crane. He was confident they’d find something there that they could use.

  Either way, as they approached the compound, they’d split into two groups. “Major” Fralin would lead five of them in a feint toward the main house and the barracks Crane had identified. Crane hoped the defenders would take the att
ack for an assault by a rival cartel. Meanwhile, Crane and the other two men would go into the walled-off building in the far corner of the compound and free the hostages. They’d get them out and onto a truck, and then both teams would withdraw and meet up on the dirt road back to the airstrip.

  What Crane hadn’t mentioned yet was that he’d be diverting at that point for his side mission to retrieve Jason Tate.

  From the cockpit, Jessie’s voice crackled over the speakers. “Beginning descent,” she announced. “We’re on the dirt in ten. If you have a reason we can’t go as planned, say so now.”

  Nobody did. “All right, then,” she said. “Get ready to move.”

  The landing was dark. The airstrip wasn’t lit, and Jessie had turned off the Short’s lights and was flying with night-vision goggles. Crane and the others put on their own goggles, shrugged their packs on, gave their weapons one last check, and got ready to move.

  The Short came in hot. It hit the ground and kicked up dust, rolling in fast with the cargo ramp already lowering. The moment it stopped, Crane leaped out the back, followed quickly by the other mercenaries. Finney immediately set off into the scrub brush, heading for his sniping position. Crane scanned the buildings, familiarizing himself with the layout he’d seen from above in the drone footage. Here were the warehouses, probably stacked with cocaine, heroin, or meth. There was the garage. The five bay doors were all closed, but Crane was still hopeful there would be a truck behind at least one of them. At the far end of the garage was a smaller building scaled for people.

  Just as Crane looked toward the building, a door flew open and three men charged out, bent over low as they ran. Crane caught a white shirt, a submachine gun held in one hand. Then the gun opened up, and muzzle flashes flared bright in his goggles.

  The mercenaries had already been moving in on the building. The one in the white shirt was cut down immediately, and then the one behind him. The third man quickly stopped, dropped his gun, and threw his hands in the air.

  They’d been on the ground less than two minutes, and they were in command of the airstrip. Two men questioned the prisoner while the others fanned out to check the rest of the facility. Crane slipped into the garage by an access door at the end of the building. He saw no movement inside, but he did find a pair of heavy pickup trucks and a GMC medium-duty flatbed with wooden fencing on the bed. It would be perfect.

  He got the bay door open and the lights on. The keys were on hooks on a pegboard. Crane was working out which keys went with the flatbed when one of the men, Buskirk, hurried in.

  “Prisoner says they’re expecting some kind of VIP,” he said. “That’s why we didn’t get more of a reception. They thought we were her at first.”

  “Her?”

  “What he said. Doesn’t sound like he’s too clear on who she is. He says they were just supposed to keep an eye on the warehouses, and when this mystery woman landed, call up to the hacienda and then stay out of her way.”

  “And she’s supposed to be getting here now?”

  Buskirk shrugged. “That’s kind of vague too. Sometime in the next twenty-four to forty-eight. He says he thought we were early, but they didn’t really know what to expect, and none of their own planes were scheduled in, so they figured we must be her.”

  Crane checked his watch. It was not quite five in the morning. He had a hard time imagining Tate’s mystery visitor showing up this early. If all went well, they’d be back in the air and gone inside of an hour.

  “Tell Jessie,” he said, and tossed Buskirk the keys. “Then get this thing moving and let’s mount up.”

  Within a few minutes, they were underway, standing in the back of the truck and holding on to the battered wooden fencing as they bounced over the packed dirt road. Finney was in position now. His voice crackled in Crane’s earpiece.

  “Activity on the ground,” he said. “They definitely know something’s going on, but they look confused. They’re setting up a fire team at the rear gate. Looks like six men. I’ve got targets. Standing by.”

  When they were a few hundred yards from the gate, flood lights clicked on and bathed the road. The gate was open. It was set in a large stone and wood arch with the lights mounted on the top. Crane saw figures hurrying to swing the barred iron gates shut. Gunfire erupted from behind the stone wings on either side of the road.

  Crane thumbed his mic. “Finney, keep those gates open!”

  The mercenaries returned fire over the roof of the cab as Buskirk floored it and the truck lurched forward. Crane saw one of the men on the gates go down, and then the other a moment later.

  “Two down,” Finney said in his ear. A moment later, he added, “Three.”

  The muzzle flashes coming from the gate slowed and then stopped. The truck shot through the gate, and Crane got his first look at the grounds. He mapped the layout to the aerial and satellite images he’d seen. There was the garden with its fountains and hedges. There the garage. There the western wing of the main house and the building that apparently served as barracks for the cartel soldiers. He saw figures running near the barracks. As he watched, one was cut down. Finney again, proving very useful, indeed. Crane thumbed his mic again.

  “Finney, any activity at the target building?”

  “No, sir,” Finney answered. “Lights went on a minute ago, but no activity outside. Looks like they think you’re going for the main house.”

  Good, Crane thought. That was the plan. Now they’d reinforce that idea.

  As they pulled through the compound, Buskirk slowed the truck, and most of the mercenaries leaped down and scattered into the night. The gunfire was a steady crackle now, and Crane could hear shouting in Spanish. As soon as the men were clear, Buskirk hit the gas again, and they lurched forward. Crane readied his F2000 and glanced over at the man who would be going in with him. His name was Stokes, and apparently he’d been a marine. That was all Crane knew about him. Stokes nodded back at him.

  The truck rounded a corner of the house and sped toward the smaller building where the hostages were kept. Crane heard the others calmly giving tactical orders and reports over their radio channel.

  “Get ready,” Buskirk said, his voice tight. Then, “Go!”

  Crane sprang down from the truck bed and hit the ground running. Stokes was right behind him. They were a few yards from one end of the building. To Crane’s right was a walled yard that he guessed the prisoners used for outside exercise. Around the side of the building to his left was a loading dock. Buskirk was taking the truck there. He would secure the area and get the rollup door open. Crane and Stokes were approaching a door on the end of the building. They would enter that way, free the hostages, and lead them out to the dock.

  Two lights on the corners of the building flooded the area around the door. Stokes put them both out with quick shots from his suppressed carbine. Crane fell into a crouch beside the door. He pulled a pick gun from a leg pouch and quickly snapped the tumblers and twisted the lock open.

  He and Stokes crouched on opposite sides of the door, backs against the wall. Crane reached over to turn the knob and push the door open.

  There was no reaction, no spray of bullets. The inside was dark and quiet. Through his goggles, Crane saw bright green lines—workbenches, equipment racks. Nothing that looked alive, nothing that moved. He signaled to Stokes and then spun and quickly moved through the door, leading with the F2000’s muzzle. Behind him, Stokes moved through the door and took up a new position.

  They were in.

  CHAPTER 35

  The workshop was still and silent as Crane and Stokes moved through it. They heard gunfire from the main building and quick, snapped commands through their earpieces. But here they moved slowly, quietly, looking for anything that might present a threat or give away their position.

  Crane passed down a row of storage racks lined with plastic bins labeled in black marker on masking tape. Power supplies, handset batteries, cooling fans, antenna assemblies. He reached the end of the ro
w and glanced over to see Stokes at the end of the next row over. They nodded to each other and moved on to the next section.

  At the far end was a drywall partition, and behind that, a carpeted room with a desk, cheap chairs, and a closed door that had to be the stairway to the basement. That was where the hostages would be. Either they were locked in their rooms, or the guards would have collected them in the common area at the bottom of the stairs. Crane saw light beneath the door.

  He and Stokes crouched at opposite sides of the door and considered how to breach the lower floor. It wasn’t a great tactical situation. The stairs were the only way in or out—obviously the builders hadn’t worried about fire codes. It was a choke point, but worse, it was one that would let the guards downstairs cover the door while making it very hard for them to get through without exposing themselves to fire. The drone hadn’t provided enough detail to tell Crane how the stairs were built, but he was guessing they were of open plank construction, meaning someone might even be able to fire on them from behind.

  Tactical doctrine counseled against pushing the fight under these circumstances. They were supposed to secure the perimeter and bring in the hostage negotiators. But there was no time for that. They needed to get in and out in the window the others were creating for them.

  “Flashbang and pie?” Stokes whispered.

  “Flashbang, anyway,” Crane answered. Slicing the pie meant traversing a corner in stages to sweep successive sections of the area beyond it. But the stairway would limit the area of the room below that they could see until they moved down the steps, and that would put them at risk.

  “Boss won’t like it if we shoot his boy,” said Stokes.

  Crane nodded back. “Let’s try not to do that.”