Blood Lies - 15

by Richard Marcinko

  “Stop, stop,” said Mrs. Kandinski. “We need to see if he has a gun.”

  He didn’t have one on him, but there was a Beretta pistol with some extra magazines in the glove compartment.

  “They’re going to the Leterris’!” yelled Mrs. Kandinski, spotting the others.

  “Let’s go!” yelled Big Mike, leading the way.

  II

  Veronica hadn’t heard Junior’s radio transmission, but she had seen the first pickup truck through a window on the second floor of the community center. By the time she got outside, Saul and company had already begun their ambush. Starting toward the gunfire, she had just crossed the street when she heard the other pickup trucks coming down the road. Running to the porch of the nearest unit, she crouched down, some eighty to a hundred feet from the road as the procession came into view.

  The wise thing probably would have been to retreat and assess the situation. And she thought of that—for about three seconds. Then she fired the submachine gun, lacing the back of the first pickup with lead.

  The pickup veered to the right; the one behind it slammed on its brakes. The men in the second truck dove out of the bed, scattering for cover.

  The MP5 is a fantastic weapon, but like any tool, you have to be somewhat familiar with it to use it well. Only a small portion of Veronica’s bullets had found their marks; more importantly, she had shot through the entire magazine. Fumbling with the unfamiliar mechanism, it took her nearly a half minute to reload. That may not sound like much, but it gave the motley group of cartel thugs, some of whom were wearing old army or police uniforms, time to regroup. She started to panic a bit when she saw two running toward her, Bushmaster A4s in their hands. She raised the gun and fired, dumping bullets into them until it once more clicked empty, which doesn’t take particularly long with an MP5. Her shots were true; one of the men had his neck practically sawed off by the 9 mm ammo. But once more she needed to reload, and the process went no smoother the second time. Veronica barely got the mag back in the gun when a fresh counterattack began, this one coordinated. Bullets came at her from two separate angles, and she realized she had to retreat. She rose, gave two quick bursts—she was learning—then ran to the back of the building. There she spotted two Mexicans running down the hill in her direction and managed to surprise them. One fell, the other retreated.

  At that point, the math involved finally dawned on her. She had two more magazines, not counting the nearly empty one in the gun. Her only real option was to retreat and find more ammo.

  Right about then she realized the radio wasn’t working. Somewhere along the way, the plastic grommet where the speaker/mic wire fed into the body had cracked, and the wire pulled loose. A piece of molded plastic, probably worth less than a nickel, had failed, and killed the unit.

  * * *

  Shotgun and I, meanwhile, were getting blow-by-blow descriptions of the battle from Junior. After failing to ambush Veronica behind the building, the Mexicans retreated and regrouped behind the community center. Junior watched as their leader organized them, posting a watch and mustering men to take down the building. It was the first sign of intelligent leadership we’d seen from them.

  I didn’t like it at all.

  I drove the truck across the rock-strewn ditches and fields into the development, doing my best to avoid shattering the axles before finally reaching the paved street. Whether by instinct or sheer luck, Veronica managed to reach us just as we got there.

  “There’s forty of them, maybe more,” she said between breaths, practically collapsing against the truck. “I killed a few but there are too many.”

  “We heard.”

  “I lost track of Saul,” she said.

  “They’re in a house up that way.” Junior had watched them go into the Leterris’. I opened the truck door. “Go up there and get them out of here.”

  “You don’t want them to fight?”

  “They’re not going to make it. Get them to the border.”

  My plan had depended on using the community center as a kind of Fort Apache with an escape hatch. We could have fought a delaying action there, with the option of leaving if things got too tough. Without the ability to retreat, holding out anywhere else in the development would be suicidal, given the cartel’s numbers.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Veronica.

  “I’m going to divert their attention. Shotgun, you go with her,” I added, stopping him as he started to get out of the truck. “Make sure they get to the border.”

  “Dick.”

  “That’s an order. I’ll hook up with you later.”

  I grabbed one of the Minimis and a grenade launcher from the back, then stuffed ammo and grenades in the pack. Then I humped through the backyards and up the hill toward the community center.

  It was like running an obstacle course. The fields where the units hadn’t been completed were strewn with debris—bricks, rocks, pieces of metal, wood, you name it. Farther up, walls separated yards. They were mostly low, but they still took time getting over. I felt like I was running a steeplechase.

  My one real advantage was that the cartel thugs were a motley crew. They were still clearing the community center when I arrived, and had left a small force outside—six men in total, according to Junior.

  The first thing I wanted to do was eliminate the trucks. If I couldn’t drive, why should they?

  The trucks were on the north side of the building, jumbled at the side of the road. I crossed to the south, moving up behind the condos opposite the building until I got close. Then I went to an end unit and kicked the back door in.

  “Where’s my breakfast?” I yelled in Spanish. “I want coffee!”

  No one answered. I cleared the place as quickly as I could, moving room to room, submachine gun ready to do any talking I deemed necessary. There was no furniture or curtains, but I still went room to room. The last thing I needed now was an ambush because I got lazy.

  Downstairs clear, I went up the stairs. The Minimi is not a good weapon for working your way through a building. Sure, it fires a lot of bullets, but the long barrel is awkward in narrow spaces. The extra weight doesn’t help either. By the time I was finished, my shirt was soaked with sweat and I was fantasizing about frosty cold ones on a well-shaded veranda.

  The front room had a good view of the trucks. I swung off the ruck and lined up six grenades. I positioned the machine gun so I could grab it quickly, slid a magazine on top of the ruck for reloading, and took one last head count of the opposition.

  Still six guys, still four trucks.

  “Let’s play Pin the Grenade on the Pickup,” I said, firing the first round.

  The grenade shattered the glass, hurtling toward the truck.26 The projectile rocketed into the bed of the truck, setting off an explosion that blew hot shrapnel into the gas tank. In the next moment a small flash of fire consumed the truck.

  I reloaded and fired again, this time aiming at the pickup farthest away. My shot went a little low, and the grenade hit about ten feet shy of the truck. If it damaged it, I couldn’t tell from where I was.

  Practice makes perfect. I got the cab on shot number two.

  By now the cartel baboons had realized I was popping their pickups. Bullets flew through the window as I reloaded. I popped my head up, got my bearings, then ducked down as they peppered the sill. Turning over on my back, I held the launcher up and fired blind—not recommended, admittedly.

  I doubt I hit anything, but the gunfire slackened immediately. I rammed in another grenade, rose, and fired. This one went way high over my target, slapping into the side of the security building. Concrete splinters and dust sprayed everywhere: an impressive explosion that accomplished exactly nothing.

  I pumped another grenade out at the third truck, hitting it near the driver’s side door. As it hit, I spotted more thugs coming out of the security building. The men who were already outside were pointing in my direction.

  Time to leave. I fired one last round, th
en ducked without seeing where it went. Bullets began raining plaster down from the ceiling as the thugs shot up the house. I grabbed my stuff and ran.

  I tripped as I reached the landing, slipping on a loose carpet. I tried grabbing the rail but it was no good. I slid down on my side, bashing the few intact bones left in my body. Fortunately, I was on an adrenaline high. I can’t say I didn’t feel any pain, but I didn’t feel enough of it to stop.

  At this point, my mission had essentially been accomplished. I’d disabled at least three if not all of their vehicles, and given them plenty to concentrate on while the others got away. I myself could go east, and either hook up with Shotgun and the others, or indulge my inner billy goat and go over the hill to the quarry. There, Chet could grab me in one of his helos.

  But Murphy had other plans. And along with perfect timing, Murphy also has a wicked sense of humor.

  * * *

  As I ran out the back of the unit, I glanced over my left shoulder, worried that the thugs might try and ambush me there. As I turned back, something loomed in front of me. I saw it too late to do anything but bull into it; in the next instant, I realized it was a man.

  Not one of the cartel goons, but a resident of the condo next to the one I’d used to shoot at the trucks. I hit him off-balance and we tumbled over each other, sprawling on the dirt.

  It was Mr. Leferd, the man with Alzheimer’s.

  “Margaret?” asked Mr. Leferd when we hit the ground. “Is that you, Margaret?”

  I thought I’d knocked him senseless. I picked him up off the ground. He was wearing his pajamas.

  “Margaret, what happened to the red slippers?” he asked. “Are they in the refrigerator?”

  “I’m not Margaret,” I told him. “Are you OK?”

  He blinked at me. I could hear bullets pinging at the front of the building.

  “They’re selling weed-whackers half-price off at Sears,” he said.

  “Let’s go check them out,” I told him. “Come on.”

  I bent down and put him over my shoulder.

  “Put me down,” he protested. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

  “We have to get out of here.”

  “We need to go to Sears.”

  “We’re going.”

  I ran through two backyards, trying to figure out what to do with him. There was no way I could carry him all the way to the other end of the complex. I was already straining. I decided I’d have to leave him in one of the units. I carried him to one with a back porch, but just as I was about to kick down the door, there was a loud explosion up the street, at the unit I’d been firing from. The baboons had shot an RPG into it.

  Still carrying Mr. Leferd, I ran across the street, hoping the goons wouldn’t be able to see me from where they were. I crossed to the back of another set of units until I came to a clump of small trees. It wasn’t exactly the White House bunker, but it was the best cover I could find. I practically collapsed there, exhausted from the run.

  “Junior, what’s my sit rep?” I asked over the radio.

  “They’re attacking that unit you were firing from. You OK? Who’s that with you?”

  “Murphy.” Mr. Leferd gave me a look as if I were the one who was crazy—I think he thought I was talking to myself. “Did I get all their trucks?”

  “Affirmative. They’re on foot. Maybe a dozen of them firing on the unit. Won’t be long before they assault. They don’t really seem that organized, though.”

  Thank God for that.

  “Tell me if they start coming down the street.”

  “OK.”

  I looked at Mr. Leferd. There was no way I could carry him all the way up to the other condo. We might be able to make it on foot, but we’d be going so slow the goons were bound to catch up. I needed to stash him someplace safe.

  Wyoming, maybe.

  “Come on,” I told him. “Get on my back.”

  He blinked at me. “What are you saying, Margaret?”

  “Get on my back,” I told him—though when I said it, I added a few more words.

  “No way.”

  Never hit your elders, right? There’s a rule to be broken.

  I scooped him over my shoulder and trotted to the back of a nearby unit. He seemed to have gained twenty pounds since I last put him down.

  I broke the window on the back door and let us in. The place was empty and clearly vacant. I led him to the bathroom.

  “You’re staying in here, do you understand? Sit in the tub.”

  “You want me to take a bath?”

  “I want you to sit in the tub. It’s the safest place.” I figured the porcelain would add a little protection. “Don’t move until I come back.”

  “But, Margaret, what about Sears?”

  “They’re delivering,” I told him. “I need you to stay here.”

  I grabbed the belt from his bathrobe and threaded it around the handle on the sliding door to the tub. It wasn’t much, a weak leash that could be easily undone, but it was the best I could do.

  “Stay here, you understand?” I said sternly. “Those are real guns.”

  “I want a commercial strength weed-whacker. Not electric.”

  Someday, I will find a way to get even with Murphy.

  * * *

  On the other side of the complex, Shotgun and Veronica drove the pickup through a pair of backyards, cutting across the dead ends to get to the unit where Saul and the others had hidden themselves. Shunt had managed to track down the phone number and called the unit; unfortunately the call had gone into a voice mailbox. Shunt hung up and tried again. Once again, no one answered, and Shunt erred on what he thought was the safer side by hanging up without leaving a message.

  Inside, Saul thought the phone call was some sort of trick. The gunfire and explosions sounded much closer than they were. He and the others thought, not unreasonably, that the baboons were about to lay siege to the place. They prepared to make a last stand, placing furniture in front of the doors and windows, and hunting desperately for things to use as weapons. The place was empty, and there was nothing suitable—probably a good thing, since it gave them an incentive to conserve their frugal supply of bullets when Shotgun knocked on the door.

  “Yo! Saul!” yelled Shotgun, crouching near the steps to the front door. “It’s me, Shotgun. Are you OK in there?”

  Smith, watching guard, called to Saul.

  “Saul?” yelled Shotgun again. “Hey. We came to get you out.”

  “Prove you’re who you say you are,” demanded Saul.

  “Come on, Saul. We gotta get out of here.”

  “Prove you’re Shotgun.”

  “How?”

  “What’s your favorite fast food?” asked Saul.

  “God, that’s a tough question.”

  “It’s him,” Saul told the others. He opened the door.

  * * *

  Leaving Mr. Leferd, I crossed the road and ran up the hill toward the community center. Black smoke curled out of the condo where I’d been. There were shouts, instructions to the men pressing the attack, but I wasn’t close enough to see what was going on.

  What I was close enough to see, though, were two goons coming out from the back of the community center, M4 lookalikes in their hands.

  Pushing my foot underneath my haunches, I tried to get into a comfortable shooting position without moving enough to attract their attention. But rather than coming toward me, they stopped after a few yards and reversed course, walking in the direction of the SUVs I’d disabled during the night.

  One of the men veered right, walking toward the front; the other continued to the SUVs. Curious, I moved up along the back of the building, staying low enough that the scrub and brush between us would keep me hidden if he turned around. The baboon removed a jack from the back of the security SUV and went to work raising the vehicle off the ground. By the time he had the tire off, the second guard came from the front, rolling a tire from one of the destroyed pickups.

  N
ot a bad idea, I thought.

  “Junior, how many tires are left inflated on the trucks?”

  “Oh—good idea. Stand by.”

  He had to swing the Bird through a wide arc, tilting it at a good angle to see. This took a while; by the time he had an answer, the goon was back for the next tire.

  “Just this last one—they’ll end up two tires short,” he said.

  Two was all right—there’d be spares in each SUV.

  I put the machine gun and the grenade launcher down and pulled off my pack. Knife in hand, I snuck forward, angling to keep the vehicle between me and the baboon jacking it up.

  Ideally, I might have waited for him to get all the tires on, but I figured it was easier to take the cartel goons one at a time. He was so intent on his work that I not only reached the truck without being seen, but got right next to him before he looked up. By then, it was too late. I swung my knife around the front of his body as I grabbed him from behind. The angle wasn’t perfect—I was more on the side than behind him—but I’d gotten him by surprise and struck him fast enough that the only sound he made before falling into my arms was a guttural peep. I gave the knife a sharp and quick run against his throat, jerking the blade deep against his windpipe and whatever else it could cut. His right elbow smacked hard into my side as I pressed. I pushed again, rapping my left fist against the side of his skull as I cut.

  He went limp. Blood spurted everywhere as I dropped him.

  I ducked down and waited for the other man to appear.

  “Damn tire lugs were too tight,” he said, rolling the tire in front of him.

  I got him across the skull with the tire iron. He fell against the other SUV, stunned. I hit him again, then used the knife to finish him.

  There’s a certain smell that comes from an artery or vein when you slice it. It’s a terrible smell. You have to steel yourself against it, or it makes you sick.

  I changed the tire myself. I’ll tell you this: it looks pretty damn easy on NASCAR. Martin Truex will drive No. 56 into the pit and suddenly there’s a swarm over the wall. Jack goes under, tire off, tire on—Truex is back on the track.