“We will be going this way,” the officer said.
Wait. This wasn’t the direction of the visiting center. The yellow line clearly went down the other hallway. This one had large signs warning of not trespassing and no civilians allowed.
Nick was starting to get worried. Maybe he needed a lawyer.
Was almost, kinda dating a Russian a crime now? With the Patriot Act you never knew.
The officer opened a door and nodded for Nick to go inside.
The interior was darkened. Dust lined the desk, the mini-blinds, everything. Like it hadn’t been used in quite a while.
As his eyes adjusted, he found a figure in the corner. The man turned around. He was not in uniform, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have authority.
“Mr. Flack,” the man said, kind of like a bottom-feeding producer who wanted Nick to star in his second-rate digital film, promising that he could get Nick into Sundance not realizing that Nick had dinner with Redford every year.
“And you are?” Nick asked
“There’s no need to know my name,” the man said, keeping to the shadows. This was all very clandestine. Nick wished he had a camcorder to record it all. “But do you know of the Shayu Situation?”
Nick cocked his head. “Never heard of it.”
“Well, then it would be news to you that ever since the Russian Shark Station was sunk, sharks from the Indian Ocean have been going up rivers, attacking at will.”
“It is news,” Nick said. “But what does it have to do with me?”
“What I don’t think is going to come as a shock to you, Mr. Flack, is that we are going to need your help once again.”
Ugh. And the day had been going so well.
BONUS MATERIAL
If you would prefer to skip the bonus material and go straight to the Afterword, just click here
AMBUSH – The prequel short story to the Betrayed series
CHAPTER 1
══════════════════
Four kilometers outside the town of Xphil
Campeche Region, Mexico
Crunch.
Sergeant Vincent Brandt froze as a twig snapped underfoot. The rest of his team pulled to a stop, paused, waiting. The wilderness surrounding them seemed to draw in a breath, as well.
The multitude of insects stopped their persistent pre–dusk buzzing. Only a light breeze rustled the large leaves of the mahogany trees. Then even that died down. Brandt glanced up to find a toucan with its striped bill staring at him, cocking its head from side to side. Apparently, the gaily–colored bird was trying to figure out why in hell anyone would approach this close to a Los Zetas cartel’s campsite.
Brandt was beginning to wonder that himself.
It wasn’t the fact that a well–placed CIA asset’s cover had been blown. No, it was that the CIA hadn’t bothered to tell anyone about it. Not the DEA, not the DOD—hell, not even the Red Cross. The agency had gone all trigger–happy and mounted their own rescue mission of their asset. Which of course meant Brandt and his men now had to go rescue those captured CIA operatives, plus apparently a foreign operative who had wound up in the mix.
So here were Brandt and his team, deep in the Mexican jungle, missing the bulk of their leave, trying to avoid the cartel’s patrols and ending up another drug war statistic. They should have been in the Florida Keys pretending to fish, but really just having a moment to take a load off. “Blowing off steam” was what the head docs called it. Brandt called it second survival.
Out here in the jungle you stuffed it all down. The fear. The nerves. The fact that none of them had a successful relationship. Brandt’s mother was all about getting grandkids. However unless he stumbled onto some smart, funny, hot chick in the middle of the jungle, that was not very likely to happen.
The tension of all that had to go somewhere. Hence the fishing—priming the pump for the next mission. But no, instead they were in a Mexican drug cartel–filled jungle. Awesome.
Svengurd, the team’s tall point man, swiveled his head from side to side, making sure that no one else had heard the snap of that branch. Finally, Svengurd moved them forward again, pushing further into the jungle, following his GPS signal, since there weren’t any trails leading to the Zetas’ back door.
Brandt waited until Lopez followed Svengurd. Usually the corporal was their vehicle procurement officer, or, as Lopez liked to call it, their “get, get, getaway driver.” Brandt had, of course, squashed that nickname.
Today they needed Lopez’s gun in the mix. If they couldn’t quickly and quietly get the hostages out of this makeshift camp, a getaway car wasn’t going to do them any good.
Svengurd’s fist clenched. Brandt stopped mid–stride. Had the point man spotted a sentry, or the camp itself? Glancing down, he checked his GPS monitor. They were still a good two hundred feet from the coordinates the CIA had given them. But then again, this was the same agency that had gotten at least two of their men killed and another two captured.
He would trust Svengurd’s instincts over any coordinates.
Confirming Brandt’s suspicions, the point man flashed fingers from his eyes towards a figure, no, make that two figures, in the jungle. Make that two young figures. Boys, really. Boys of no more than thirteen who carried M4 carbine machine guns with grenade launchers attached.
Brandt had discretion, of course. They could shoot the enemy combatants down without a warning. It galled Brandt, though. It wasn’t these kids’ fault they had been born in one of the poorest regions of the world and had been taken advantage of by the cartels for cheap, disposable security.
Svengurd and Lopez were set up to take the shot, but Brandt gave a sharp shake of his head. Despite their age and circumstance, the team still couldn’t have the child soldiers raising any alarms. There had to be a way to achieve a silent entry without harming the boys. He nodded at them to go east, around the guards.
The sounds of a jai alai game blasted from an old transistor radio. Clearly the boys’ team was winning, as they listened intently, whooping at each score. Just as well. The more distraction the better. Circling around, they approached from the boys’ backs.
As Svengurd kept watch, Lopez and Brandt slung their weapons and, step by step, came up behind the boys. They needed to be perfectly synchronized, or there would be blood on their hands.
Brandt counted down with blinks.
Three. He took his final step to the child soldier.
Two. His hands came up into position.
One. Brandt’s arm lashed out, grabbing the boy in front of him around the neck, lifting him from his feet. His gun clattered against the small metal table, knocking the radio onto the ground. The commentator’s words muffled by the dirt.
The boy flailed in his grip, fingernails raking down Brandt’s sleeve.
It’s way better than death, Brandt thought, but knew the kid wouldn’t understand. Silently he kept his hold, closing off the sentry’s windpipe until the child slumped in his arms.
Lopez had been equally successful. As his guard’s eyelids fluttered, the corporal whispered, “Cuando te despiertas. Ejectar.” Lopez tucked several hundred dollar bills into the boy’s pocket.
The money had been meant for bribing any local official a little too interested in the foursome of American men. Brandt agreed. The cash was better spent here. He nodded as Lopez did the same for Brandt’s boy. Hopefully the kids would find the money and get the hell out of Campeche. Start a new life that didn’t involve killing innocents to keep the drug cartels profitable.
Movement from the side brought Brandt’s gun up, but it was only Svengurd. Lopez handed the point man a fistful of dirt. The tall Swede looked confused until the corporal rubbed a bit of earth onto his own head.
Svengurd’s platinum blond hair, even shaved down to a half inch, stood out against the mottled jungle. They all wore camouflage face paint, but keeping the point man’s towhead under control seemed to be a bit more of a problem.
&nbs
p; Taking a deep breath, Brandt gave the signal to move into the final stage of this operation. Breach and extract. It sounded so simple.
Yeah. Right.
Wordlessly, they broke formation, splitting off to surround the nearest building. Actually, “shack” would be a generous term for what stood in front of them. The CIA insisted the hostages were being kept there. Which gave them about a fifty–fifty shot they were actually there. But beyond playing paper, rock, scissors, it was the best shot they had.
Cautiously, Brandt made his way to the north side of the wooden structure. The walls bowed and the ceiling sagged. The rest of the buildings didn’t look much better. This wasn’t a resort. It was an outpost. One that moved every few days. One of the reasons why his team had to strike now. Today. Before they moved the hostages.
The guard at the door wasn’t much more attentive than the boys had been. He had an ear bud in that leaked the jai alai game. It must have been a championship match or something. An unfiltered cigarette drooped from the guard’s lips.
Even though his men were out of line of sight, Brandt counted down, trusting that they were doing the same. At exactly sixty seconds from the moment they split off, Brandt pulled his knife out, sliding it across the man’s neck. This guy had had a choice and he chose the cartels. Brandt didn’t mind the hot blood spilling across his hand. One less Zetas to terrorize the countryside. Pulling the man out of sight of the rest of the village, Brandt tested the door.
Locked.
Quickly, he searched the dead guard’s pockets and came up with the key. Right on time, Svengurd turned the corner, Lopez behind him. They gave a curt nod. Their guards had been dispatched, as well.
Sliding the metal key into the lock, Brandt twisted it. Once he felt the clunk of the lock giving way, Brandt backed to the side, his hand on the doorknob. Carefully, he turned it, then shoved it inward.
Svengurd burst into the dimly lit room. Brandt followed Lopez as Svengurd sank his knife into the gut of the inside guard. The man slumped over without a sound. Several figures scrambled back, cowed, frightened of the danger that rode into the room.
“Are you American?” one of them asked.
Brandt put his fingers to his lips, then signaled the small group to follow.
“I don’t think he can get up,” a dark–haired man said, wincing as blood dripped down from his cut eye. He must have been Kirkland, one of the CIA field operatives. The other one kneeling by the downed man must have been Pollov.
Lopez knelt by the Latino on the ground. When the corporal turned over the CIA’s informant, Brandt was shocked at how young he was. Not more than a few years older than the boy soldiers outside. His skin was marred by black, blue, purple, green and even yellow bruises. Someone had been tuning the kid up for days.
Anger welled. It was one thing to think about the cartel’s cruelty. It was quite another to see it firsthand. He wanted anyone Stateside who did cocaine at a party to see what their “recreational” use did in the country of origin. How many boys like this one and the ones out in the jungle had paid the price for someone’s high?
“I’ve got him,” Lopez whispered as he slung the young man over his shoulder. The teen tried to protest, but wasn’t exactly in any shape to argue.
“Brandt?” a familiar voice said, seeming almost as surprised as Brandt himself. He turned to find a mop of sandy blond hair and a crooked smile.
“Vanderwalt?” he asked, though he knew it was the British MI–5 officer. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Vacation, would you believe it?” his old friend said, then coughed. It wasn’t until then that Brandt noticed the blood on Vanderwalt’s shirt. “Just a few broken ribs,” the Brit tried to reassure him.
It looked like more than that, but they didn’t have time to assess his injuries. They could do that on the extraction helicopter, which was not going to wait for pleasantries. He draped Vanderwalt’s arm over his shoulder.
Svengurd cracked the door open. Apparently it looked clear, as he opened it more fully. Before he stepped through, gunfire sounded…from all around. Brandt slammed Vanderwalt down, covering him with his body. Lopez and Svengurd did the same to the other hostages.
Over the gunfire, Pollov said, “This is what happened to us. They use hostages as bait.”
Of course they did.
Brandt indicated to Svengurd. “Luckily, we came slightly more prepared.”
The tall point man pulled out the detonator. Inch by inch, the stoic Swede’s lips turned up into a rare grin. “I’d stay down,” he advised.
Brandt saw how much C4 Svengurd had packed in, so he believed him.
As bullets punched through the thin wood walls, the point man brought his thumb down on the red detonator button. An explosion ripped the shack to the south to shreds. Then another explosion sounded to the north. Lastly, the back wall of their shack blew out.
Funny how the shooting stopped. It was replaced by angry shouts.
“Move out!” Brandt ordered.
Svengurd, his gun already in position, climbed over the shattered wall and into the forest. Lopez, hauling the kid, went next. Brandt encouraged the CIA operatives to keep in tight formation as he helped keep Vanderwalt steady.
“Sorry, mate,” the Brit said. “You should leave me behind.”
Making his way out of the shack, Brandt shook his head. “And then who would buy me bangers and mash?”
Vanderwalt probably meant to flash a smile, but it ended up a grimace. No matter—they needed to haul ass before their window closed. Which seemed to be closing rapidly as the enemy regrouped. The Los Zetas weren’t the fastest growing cartel for nothing.
However, the cartel was at a disadvantage. Springing a trap was a delicate business. You had to know where your target was going to be. You had to know when they were going to be there. And, most of all, you needed to have your men in place in time.
For scouting, they knew that the Zetas had the bulk of their forces to the north, guarding against the narrow forest road. Brandt’s team had approached from the west, the most lightly guarded direction. Conventional wisdom would have them exit the same route.
Fortunately, Brandt wasn’t all that much into conventional wisdom. Instead, they headed straight for the north, meeting very little resistance. No matter if it was run by a successful cartel, every mission had a finite set of resources that got shuffled around the combat theater. Kind of like playing football, only with automatic weapons.
Just as Lopez had suspected, the Zetas had pulled their men from the north to fortify the west and south, leaving them a nice escape corridor. Svengurd guided them, as quickly as they could move, toward their rally point.
It was going great, right by the book. The cartel was heading after them, but through the thick underbrush, the Zetas couldn’t use any form of motorized vehicle, so they had to follow on foot. And, given the fact that they weren’t expecting this escape route, they were falling further and further behind.
Before the cartel could get their chopper in the air, Brandt’s team should be to their vehicle, and the hell out of the vicinity, meeting their extraction.
If their luck held out, they should be safe within the half hour.
Too bad their luck never held out, as Svengurd pulled them to a sliding stop.
Was it the cartel? Had they placed an outer perimeter?
Then he heard the snarling. Tilting his head around the group, Brandt realized what was holding them up.
A jaguar.
* * *
Svengurd stood motionless as the large cat bared its fangs. The jaguar’s golden coat, punctuated by black rosettes, glistened in the filtered light. The beast’s broad head held jaws that could crush a man’s skull without really trying. A low growl grumbled in its chest as it stood over its prey, which looked like a tapir, given its stocky body and long nose.
Brandt came up alongside. “It’s alright,” he coaxed. “We do not want your kill.”
“Speak for yoursel
f,” Lopez said. “Grilled tapir? Delicious.” He put his fingertips to his lips and kissed them.
Brandt glared at the corporal.
“Sarge?” Svengurd asked. This situation wasn’t exactly in the reg book.
The cartel was in pursuit, but they weren’t hot on their tail. If they fired at the jaguar, the guards would be able to pinpoint their exact location. Their slim lead would be cut to nothing. Brandt nodded for him to try a work around.
Slowly, Svengurd moved to the left, but the jaguar swiped at him, bunching its hindquarters. He’d never faced off against a big cat before, but Svengurd was pretty sure that was a prelude to an all–out attack.
Then he realized the real reason the jaguar was being so aggressive. Three pairs of little eyes shone from the underbrush. Babies—she was protecting her young.
Svengurd spoke in his great–grandparents’ language, reassuring her that his people had long believed in the sanctity of the forest. He spoke to her of the Valkyries. Not the angel–like creatures of modern cinema. No, he spoke to the jaguar of the Valkyries of old. “The choosers of the slain.” It was the Valkyries who decided if a hero lived or died.
Slowly, as Svengurd murmured in Old Norse, he moved to the right. He knew that she did not understand the words, but as a warrior herself, an apex predator, she seemed to understand his intent. She did not wish to attack any more than he wished to kill her. To launch at him would endanger her cubs. And neither wanted that.
Guiding the group around the kill, Svengurd told her the poem of the Njals. Once they were far enough away, the jaguar grunted once and the tiny eyes disappeared into the underbrush. That was their signal to book it.
Waving the others on, Svengurd watched as the jaguar sunk her fangs into the neck of the tapir and dragged the carcass back. Now that her cubs were safe, she needed to secure their dinner. In an amazing feat of strength, she pulled the tapir up and into the tree.
Once the team was at a safe distance, Svengurd bowed his head. “Tuck sa mycket.” Thank you so very much.
Apex Predator Thriller Series Collection (Including the blockbuster new shark park thriller, Salechii) Page 55
