Blood Lies - 15

by Richard Marcinko

  In real life it ain’t nearly so quick. The second lug stuck. I nearly bent the tire iron getting it off. I hate those overtorqued air guns.

  The third one was almost as bad. The fourth I could have taken off with my fingers. Go figure.

  “Shotgun and the old folks are getting out of the building,” Junior told me as I lifted the spare into place and began tightening the screws.

  “Good. What are the rest of these goons doing?”

  “Across the street, searching the buildings. They’re moving real slow, Dick. Real slow.”

  “Don’t complain. How many are there?”

  “I count twelve.”

  “That’s it?”

  “There may be one or two left in the building. I haven’t had a chance to count. I called the Border Patrol,” Junior added. “They’re sending some people to the fence area directly north of Angel Hills. I contacted the FBI, State—”

  “The State Department? Why?”

  “Dan Barrett told me to do that. He said it would avoid problems with Customs.”

  “What the hell was he thinking?”

  “He said—”

  “Forget it. You might as well call everybody. Get the National Guard, state police, everybody.”

  “I’m on it. Chet Arthur’s helo should be in the air in a few minutes.”

  “Tell him to get close, but stay back. Then run the Bird south and make sure the terror camp is clear.”

  “Uh—”

  “Do it.”

  “How are you going to get out of there?”

  “I’ll worry about that.”

  What I had in mind was this: I’d put the other tires on the SUV, drive down to the condo where Mr. Leferd was, grab him, drive down to the south end of the development and cut across the hill and get back to the terror camp, assuming it was empty. I could rendezvous with Chet there.

  I signed off and went around to the other side of the truck, sliding the jack in under the chasis. I was lining up the little slot in the jack head when I heard someone approaching.

  I pulled out my PK.

  “Are you done?” he yelled in Spanish from the other side of the truck.

  “Eughhh,” I yelled noncommittally.

  “What is this!”

  This was one of the goons I’d killed. I jumped up, ready to shoot, but he’d already ducked behind the far side of other SUV. The last thing I wanted was a running gun battle between the SUVs, but that’s what I got. He had an M4 lookalike with him; he fired it as I ducked around to the front end of the SUV. I waited until he had stopped, then went across the space between the vehicles, hoping to turn the corner on him. But he retreated to the back of the truck, leaving me without a target when I turned. I feinted as if I was going back; he saw me through the glass and fired.

  Throwing myself down, I crawled until I could see him under the vehicle.

  Two shots later, he sprawled out in the lot, wounded, but still alive and clinging to his gun.

  By now the search of the units across the way had been completed. Somehow in the course of the search, a fire had started in the end unit. It spread to the next two houses, burning through the attic. In America, building codes generally call for fire walls between condo units, making that sort of thing difficult if not impossible. There were probably building codes here as well, but payoffs and shoddy work are routine, and there was no firewall here. Flames spread easily, and finding plenty of dry fuel, began leaping skyward, high over the nearby buildings.

  Junior’s estimate of how many people were left in the building was short—very, very short. For as I bent down to make sure the man I’d shot was dead, four or five more goons started coming out the door. I fired, chasing them back inside.

  With only one tire to go, I got back on the jack and hoisted the SUV upward. As I went to grab the tire iron, I spotted one of the more adventurous cartel goonies trying to sneak around the corner from the back; apparently he’d come out a window or maybe the front of the building. I waited behind the SUV until he came parallel; I fired, catching him in the stomach with three or four slugs.

  He dropped his rifle, then staggered back. He brought both hands into his belly, pressing in and staring down, amazed to see blood spurting through his fingers. Then he looked over at me.

  It was quite a dramatic scene. I hate that.

  I fired another few rounds into his face, cutting holes where his eyes had been. He fell down.

  I’m a stubborn son of a bitch, and I might not have completely abandoned my plans to change the tire and take the SUV, except for the rocket-propelled grenade that flashed across the lot from the street, striking the hood of the other SUV. Even though I had two vehicles between me and the explosion, the concussion threw me to the ground and showered me with dirt and shrapnel. The SUV caught fire, and I barely scrambled away before its gas tank exploded with enough force to twirl the SUV next to it into a pretzel.

  III

  Damn, undertrained Mexican thugs. Didn’t they realize that was total overkill?

  I must have blacked out for a moment. When I came to, I was lying on my back and bullets were flying everywhere.

  This was a good time to leave. The only problem was how to arrange it.

  I still had my pistol. I started to raise it over the truck, thinking I would send the Mexicans back a few feet with a couple of quick shots. A fresh, thick swarm of bullets disabused me of that illusion. It seemed like I had an entire army zeroing in on my carcass.

  You know the final scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, where the two bank robbers decide to rush the entire Bolivian army? That’s about how I felt at that moment, minus William Goldman’s snappy dialogue and Conrad Hall’s awesome cinematography.

  There was no theme music, either.

  Turning on my belly, I crawled toward the back of the building, hoping to make it to my pack and guns. Bullets continued to fly, shredding the trucks and the dirt. A thick pall of black smoke rose from the truck. After I’d gone a few yards, I realized the smoke was covering my retreat. I pushed a little faster, and made it to the back of the building. I got up and ran over to the wall where I’d left the guns.

  There was no rest for the wicked—two figures emerged from the smoke, firing in my direction. I dumped a grenade in the launcher and pumped the shell toward them. Unfortunately, I was so hyped by adrenaline that my aim was way high; the projectile sailed way over their heads. I plopped a second grenade in, and corrected. As I did, one of the banditos rose from his crouch to get a better aim on me.

  My grenade hit him square in the chest.

  I didn’t stop to watch the gruesome result. Huffin’ and puffin’, I retreated to the far side of the building. I leaned against the wall, took two breaths, then turned to my left just as something flew around the side at me. Instinctually, I lowered the Minimi and fired, cutting down the two men running at me. I didn’t see them consciously; my senses were on autopilot, somehow directly talking to my trigger finger.

  Running south, I crossed the field separating the security center from a cluster of condo units. I was vaguely aware that people were firing at me from the other side of the street, but by now my brain was badly scrambled, and ran as much to escape the mental fog as the bullets. We work our asses off in PT or physical training every day at Red Cell International, the idea being that we practice to survive heavy runs like this. But running four or five miles in training—or even ten or twelve when Trace is feeling her oats—is nothing compared to two hundred feet under fire. My heart thumped, my throat tightened. My legs were rubber. I finally reached a wall and dove over it, rolling flat on my back.

  If I’d stayed there even for five seconds, I’d have never gotten up. I twisted myself around, picked up the machine gun, aimed it back in the direction of the Mexicans, and fired.

  I got maybe three or four bullets out before it clanged empty.

  Doom on Dickie. I had to pull off the ruck and fish in it for a fresh magazine, then fiddle to get it into plac
e. That took ten or twenty seconds, even more, which gave the Mexicans plenty of time to rally—when I looked back up, half a dozen of them were at the head of the field, coming for me.

  The gun rattled satisfyingly as I fired at the Mexicans, several of whom fell as I sprayed the field. Unfortunately, the gun goes through bullets as quickly as Shotgun can go through a cake. I emptied the magazine literally in seconds.

  I grabbed for another mag, but there was none. I’d shot my proverbial wad.

  * * *

  More likely, I’d dropped a few of the mags along the way, but I wasn’t in a position to start crying over lost ammo. I left the gun and ran down the hill. The gunfire stoked up again when I was still a few strides from the wall. My legs were so fatigued I tripped as I went to leap over it.

  I still had some grenades. Scrunching behind the wall, I pulled the launcher around and loaded. I counted off a few seconds, then rose. Just as I was about to fire, I realized the Mexicans had taken cover behind the wall north of me. I angled the launcher back and fired, plopping the grenade a few feet behind it. By the time it landed I was already skidding down the hill, using gravity to help get me to my legs.

  By the time I reached the next wall, I realized no one was firing at me. I kept going, slipping past a fence and heading for the open field of the undeveloped units at the base of the hill.

  My brain started to clear and I remembered Mr. Leferd. I had to cross the road and go back up another block to get to the unit where I’d stashed him.

  Maybe the goons would be so busy focusing on me they’d miss him.

  “Junior, how many of these bastards are following me?” I asked over the radio.

  “Dick, you’re breaking up,” he said. “Retransmit.”

  “How many people are after me?”

  “I thought you wanted me to check the camp.”

  “Come back and see who’s behind me. Wait—is the camp clear?”

  “Camp is clear.” He said something else, but I couldn’t hear—now he was breaking up.

  I worked my way parallel to the unit across the street, half crouching, half running. I rose tentatively, made sure the path was clear, then ran across the road as fast as I could manage. The adrenaline was dissipating; at this point, my muscles were drowning in lactate. I sensed that if I stopped for too long, I’d stiffen and freeze in place.

  When I made it to the front of the building, I caught my breath by walking a few steps, then trotted to the back. I paused at the corner, looked out, then scrambled across the narrow backyard to the next set of condos. I was out of view of the community center and behind the condos the goons were checking.

  I could turn south and go to the camp as I’d intended. But that meant leaving the crazy Mr. Leferd to be caught by the cartel thugs.

  Not an option.

  Running through the side yards, I came out on the street and waited for a second, trying to get my bearings. I couldn’t remember which of the damn units I’d left Leferd in.

  The radio buzzed.

  “Dick? Dick, are you … me? They’re working in pairs. They … Shit!”

  I glanced behind me and saw why he was cursing—one of the banditos was holding an M16 on me.

  The goon motioned that I should put up my hands. It seemed like a reasonable thing to do, and so I complied. He moved toward me at a snail’s pace. I thought of running, but if there was one of them here, there was bound to be several others nearby, and it made no sense to run from one man’s gun into the guns of others.

  I also figured that being captured would be a hell of a lot better than being shot. Worse case, Doc could trade de Sarcena for me.

  The goon said something in Spanish that I didn’t quite understand. He yelled it again, with about the same results—I held my hands out and told him in Spanish I couldn’t hear.

  He motioned with the gun, indicating I ought to come toward him. He stepped back, making room for me to come around the back of the building.

  “No problema,” I said, starting forward. I took a quick peek left, then right—nobody there.

  If he was by himself, I thought, I could overpower him if I could get close enough. I moved forward at a slight diagonal, angling so I could make sure there was no one covering us from the other backyard.

  After a few steps, my friend with the gun decided he didn’t like the way I was moving. He pointed his weapon at me and started yelling in Spanish that I had better do as he said or I would bleed worse than I was already bleeding—my clothes were covered with blood and obviously he thought I’d been hit.

  I spread my hands a little farther. He motioned toward the concrete patio on my right. He moved that way as well, out ahead of me, circling toward the glass doors. I started walking sideways, inching in his direction. I managed to get about six or seven feet away before he realized he had made a mistake. He jerked the rifle up and down, then turned the barrel to the left, demanding that I move in that direction.

  Needless to say, pushing his aim away only made it easier for me. I lunged, grabbing the gun before he could point it back in my direction.

  Not, unfortunately, before he could fire. The rifle rattled as I pressed toward him, a three-shot burst spitting from the barrel. He fell back against the house, tripping as I pushed in. His head smacked against the glass door just right, shattering the glass. Both of us fell through, me on top, the gun in between.

  The floor took care of the rest. His head slammed onto the stone. His eyes rolled back and his body went limp.

  I glanced up and saw two of his comrades just coming through the door. Both wore the shocked look of recognition a person gets when he realizes he’s in deep shit.

  I pulled the M16 up, swung it around, and fired.

  Nada. The Mexican had emptied his magazine.

  Jackass.

  Now I was the one in deep shit. I did the only thing I could do: I threw the gun at them and through the shattered door, bounding off the patio and scrambling as quickly as I could across the backyard of the adjoining unit. I flipped over the wall, sliding onto my butt as I went over. I lay there for a second, gathering my breath.

  One of the goons came out of the house, yelling and screaming that he was going to kill me. I squeezed closer to the wall, hoping it would keep me hidden.

  Not exactly a winning strategy, but my brain was not working all that well. I took out my pistol and waited, trying to listen for the goon, who undoubtedly would be coming down to look for me.

  After what seemed like hours, I heard footsteps coming in my direction. I held my breath and strained my ears, sorting the sounds—it was only one of them, I thought, moving slowly if steadily as he tried to figure out where the hell I was.

  My plan was simple. Pistol ready, I would wait until the Mexican put his head over the wall, then I’d give him a third eye.

  The footsteps came closer and closer. My hand was steady. I aimed the gun in the direction I figured he would be coming from.

  The goon must have been a foot away when Murphy intervened.

  Murphy didn’t intervene, exactly. He decided to call my cell phone.

  Not the sat phone, which I had carefully set to silent ring long before and checked several times during the day. But the cell phone, intended for backup (and desperation) only.

  I’m positive I set it to silent before I went out on the op. I don’t believe I had even used it since coming to Mexico. I may even have turned the damn thing off. But somewhere along the way, possibly as the result of being jostled and jogged, it had not only turned itself on but put the ringer at its highest volume.

  As I said earlier, Murphy has an extreme sense of humor.

  I couldn’t grab the phone to turn it off without changing hands on the pistol. I wasn’t about to do that: I was sure the Mexican would leap over the wall now that my ringer was telling him where I was. As the phone continued to bleat, my heart rate doubled. Sweat gushed from every pore.

  But the goon didn’t appear. The fate of his friends must hav
e sobered him. He wasn’t about to do anything rash. Plus, he had seen me throw the gun away, so he knew I was unarmed.

  Or thought he knew. An important distinction.

  Some cell phones have an annoying feature that rings the phone not only when a person calls, but when the voice mail is activated. I’ve never actually figured out how to turn that off without turning off the caller ring as well. But my lack of technical expertise was a virtue now. I swapped my pistol into the other hand, pulled the cell phone from my pocket, and dished it down along the wall line. Then I nudged backward toward the house.

  The phone rang.

  The baboon stepped to the wall, gun ready. He jumped up, spraying the cell with bullets.

  Mine hit him square in the temple.

  As soon as he fell, I popped up, expecting to see his friends. But they had disappeared. I scrambled to my feet, grabbed the M16, then started running.

  The M16 had a spare magazine taped to the one in the rifle. Both were thirty-round affairs, which angle off at the bottom. Not quite the banana-style round clip on an AK47, but the same general idea.

  Once I reached the back corner of the unit block, I checked the side, then crept up along the wall of the building. There was a small cluster of goons up the street, milling around the front of the house.

  As quietly as I could, I began to retreat. But there were shouts from the back. Two or three Mexicans were heading my way. I hadn’t been discovered yet, but it was only a matter of time—I was trapped.

  Then, just when I thought it couldn’t get much worse, I heard a siren out front.

  Great, I thought, the goons had finally called in reinforcements.

  The siren was abruptly drowned out by the sound of exploding grenades and machine-gun fire. The gunfire stoked up into a loud crescendo, machine-gun bullets and automatic rifle fire vying with grenade blasts. Then in an instant it stopped, as if it had been a sound track and someone hit the off switch.

  I crawled to the front of the house. A truck pulled up—Shotgun was standing in the back bed, a Minimi in one hand, a grenade launcher in another.