Cartel Queen
A Devlin Stone Thriller
by
Keller O’Brien
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2018 Single Bullet Press. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.
Version 2012.04.22
Chapter One
20 years ago. . .
Thick smoke hung in the night air as 16-year-old Devlin Stone stumbled along the sidewalk.
His foot caught on something and he landed face first on the pavement, adding to the pain already flaring within his body. He tried to resist a look back, but turned anyway. The fire ate violently at the cabin. There was no way his family had made it out.
Pushing to his hands and knees, he tried to rise and move forward again, but heavy boots crunching on the road's shoulder froze him in place. When he lifted his head, a man dressed head-to-toe in black stared stoically at him, the silenced automatic in his right hand held leisurely.
The man said, "I'm sorry. I was too late."
He put the gun away and held out his right hand. The flickering light of the fire made the man's silver ring gleam. Stone stared at it.
Silver. With an eagle's head carved into the flat top. The same ring his father wore.
"You need to come with me," the man said.
Devlin tried to speak but no words escaped his mouth.
"Now. Quickly. They'll look for survivors."
The man turned and hurried back into the forest. Devlin Stone jumped to his feet and ran after him, not quite knowing why, but doing so because of the ring.
The ground crunched under Devlin’s feet and branches whipped at his face as he followed the man, but the dark forest and the man’s dark clothes made that hard. He shouted for the man to slow down, only for the man to stop, grab Devlin roughly, and say, “You need to be quiet if you want to live. These people aren’t playing around.”
“Who?” Devlin said.
“The drug cartel. Come on.”
With a shove, Devlin moved ahead of the man in black, until they came to a road where a four-door sedan sat on the shoulder. The man opened the back door for Devlin and almost shoved him in, then hurried to the other side. Devlin buckled his seatbelt. His hands were shaking. He was cold all over, and his mind wouldn’t focus. What was happening and why?
The man in black started the engine and drove off.
The ring.
Devlin had followed the man because of the ring. But a sudden fear gripped him hard.
“Take it easy,” the man said.
“Where are we going?”
“Home base.”
“What about--”
“The local police will handle it.” A pause. “They’re gone, Devlin.”
“Who are you?”
“Brad Preston. I work with your father.”
Devlin was sharp enough to notice he didn’t use past tense, but that didn’t mean much.
Devlin shook some more and looked down at his lap, squeezing himself with his arms.
His family. Gone.
He had nothing.
What now?
As the car sped into the night, Devlin Stone knew his life would never be the same.
. . .now — Nogales, Mexico
Simon Benitez never heard the blast that killed him.
Benitez was the newly appointed commander of the Nogales Police Anti-Narcotics Squad, and he drove his Chevy SUV along the smooth streets heading for headquarters. He’d be a little late for the ten a.m. meeting with his squad, but they couldn’t start without him. The briefcase on the passenger seat contained pertinent information for the day, and detailed intelligence on the latest stirrings within the cartel community that his squad was expected to stop.
It was another beautiful day with the jagged mountain peaks surrounding Nogales scratching the clear blue sky. The air conditioner kept him cool, the outside temperature gauge on the dashboard already showed 70-degrees and it wasn’t even 9:30 yet.
Benitez had been a cop most of his life, joining the force straight out of the army and following in his father’s footsteps. The old man refused to allow his son to work the same district as him, so Simon had been forced to make his way in a neighboring area, but he’d quickly gained notoriety as an honest cop who made good arrests and helped prosecutors send crooks to jail. He knew taking on the cartels was a different level of danger, but he was ready for the challenge.
Stopping for a red light, drumming the fingers of his left hand absently on the steering wheel, Benitez noticed the truck inching up on his left side but didn’t think it posed a threat. When the passenger window rolled down and the snout of a shotgun emerged, Benitez, wide-eyed, clawed for the pistol on his hip only to have his safety belt get in the way of a positive grip on the gun.
Then everything went black.
The assassin held the Remington 870 casually with his left hand on the trigger. He liked the American shotgun because of its ease of operation, and the fact that he’d taken it off a dead federale who had had the weapon presented to him by a gringo in hopes he’d “never have to use it”.
The driver eased up alongside the Chevy SUV as it waited for the light to change. The assassin powered down the passenger window, stuck the weapon out, and pulled the trigger. At such close range, the pellet blast blew the side window clean out of the driver’s door frame, the rest passing through to cut open Benitez’s neck and shower the cabin with bits of flesh and a spray of red.
The assassin held tight as the driver spun the truck in a sharp U-turn, the wheels biting the asphalt hard and leaving a patch of rubber as they sped off in the opposite direction.
Neither said a word or made a sound.
They were professionals. The kill wasn’t something to gloat over. It was a job like any other, and they were good at their job.
By the time police arrived on-scene, they were long gone.
Scratch one more hero who thought he could take on the cartel and survive.
Chapter Two
Somewhere in Iraq
The left tires almost lifted off the pavement, the right side screeching terribly, as Hardball wrenched the Jeep around a tight corner, the two men in the back holding tight to whatever grip they could find.
Devlin Stone, his knees on the hard metal floor of the back seat, felt the wind rip at the collar of his partially-open khaki shirt as he raised his AK-47 and eased back the trigger. Flame licked from the muzzle, his salvo aimed at one of the two trucks in pursuit. Return fire bit at the Jeep. He clenched his jaw tight. None of his rounds appeared to have hit.
From behind the wheel, Hardball shouted, “Almost there!”
“Can’t this heap go faster!” Stone said, straining to shout over the whine of the stressed motor.
Hardball did not respond. The bald-headed mercenary, so nicknamed because the top of his head resembled the rounded tip of a full-metal-jacketed bullet, kept low with hands tight on the wheel. The street wasn’t helping, large cracks and bomb craters creating hazards equal to the automatic weapons fire behind, the wreckage of blasted buildings flashing by on either side. Any people in their way scattered. They could have had weapons of their own, but what mostly struck Stone wer
e their frightened faces. They were not fighters, but innocents caught in a war not of their own making and trying desperately to survive amongst the constant threat of stray bullets. Stone fired again, the AK bucking against his shoulder. The windshield of the truck closest to the Jeep spider-webbed and shattered, rounds connecting with the gunner in the passenger seat and rear seat, chucks of flesh and a spattering of blood splashing the cabin but appearing not to distract the driver. Stone shifted his aim, the Jeep jolting on the rough pavement, and squeezed another salvo. The driver’s head snapped back, the truck veering off the road and smashing into a light pole.
One truck left.
Return fire zipped overhead. Stone didn’t hear it so much as feel the small shockwave of each bullet. Something chunked into the back seat, tearing open the vinyl, seat stuffing flying in Stone’s face and he dropped the empty mag and shoved another in place.
Beside him, Short Fuse took over firing, his AK-47 spitting rounds, hot brass landing on Stone’s back. Short Fuse was as good with a rifle or pistol as he was with a bomb.
Devlin Stone worked for the Eagle Alliance, a San Diego-based paramilitary company that had exclusive contracts with the U.S. government. Stone was part of Z Section, the secret department of the Alliance that had a different kind of relationship with the U.S. government as well as other Western powers in that it handled the covert operations that those governments did not want to handle. The Alliance had sent Stone to Iraq on behalf of the Israelis. The job: assassination. The target: a Palestinian master mind training insurgents in Iraq. The whole plan had gone belly up quickly.
Now they were on the run.
And the target still breathed.
Stone shifted out of Short Fuse’s muzzle blast, trying to fire as the Jeep took another sharp turn, to the left this time, the tires screaming again. He would have complained except that turn meant the landing zone was only a few blocks away.
Both AK-47s spat flame, rounds striking the hood of the truck, gunmen leaning out the windows to fire back. Stone tried to target one of those gunners, but his shots went wide as the Jeep hit another bump. He aimed instead for the front tires, shouting for Short Fuse to do the same. Presently one of the front tires popped, the truck swerving wildly left-and-right, and the gunners were more interested in hanging on than fighting. Short Fuse faced forward, Stone continuing to cover their rear, as Hardball kept the accelerator floored.
Stone looked ahead. The bombed-out warehouse they’d used as a hide site grew in the distance, Stone very happy to see the exposed steel beams where walls had once stood. Almost there indeed. He looked skyward. No sign of the pick-up chopper.
Stone stayed low and hauled a satellite phone from under his shirt. “Where are you?”
“Ten minutes out,” replied the pilot, his voice almost crystal clear over the handset.
“Copy. We’re at the extraction point.”
Hardball brought the Jeep to a stop near the open front of the warehouse. The trio hopped out, dragging equipment bags with them. The pursuing gunners had no vehicle, but they still had feet. Four gunners ran toward them.
“Inside, on the roof,” Stone ordered, Hardball and Short Fuse double-timing into the building. They pounded up a set of steel stairs three floors up to the roof.
Most of the roof remained intact. The chopper couldn’t land, but the pilot planned to get low enough for the team to climb aboard via rope ladder. Now that they were exposed and on the run, their clandestine escape was anything but.
Hopefully, this time luck was smiling on them.
And then Stone reminded himself that he didn’t believe in luck. The only thing that would get them out of this was skill and the ability to plan on the fly.
In the event of an attack, Stone and his men had arranged piles of concrete in various places to use as cover. They ran to those spots now, Stone and Hardball choosing locations close to the roof’s edge while Short Fuse found a spot covering the stairwell opening they had passed through.
Stone jammed a fresh magazine into his AK-47 as he took in the sight around him. A lot of the city was rebuilding, but most of the structures remained damaged, crumbling from lack of attention and continued fighting.
“There they are,” Hardball said. Stone looked down at the street. The four surviving gunners from the second truck were spreading out on either side of the street.
“What are they waiting for?” Stone said.
The wind picked up, cooling the sweat on Stone’s neck, carrying with it a distant rumble.
Hardball cursed.
Around the corner a block way turned an armored truck with a cannon on the roof.
Hardball said, “Twenty-millimeter by the looks of it.”
“They’ll knock this building down like a house of cards.”
“It’s a good day to die,” Hardball said. The sky was clear and the sun burned bright; the empty desert in the far distance looked majestic.
But Devlin Stone had no intention of going to the hereafter this day.
“You can die here if you want,” Stone said, rising and heading for the stairwell. He yelled for Short Fuse to follow. The stocky bomb expert didn’t argue and followed closely on Stone’s heels.
They were halfway down the stairwell when the twenty-millimeter cannon launched its first shell. The building shook violently, the explosion crumbling what remained of an upper wall and sending chunks of concrete debris flying everywhere. Stone stumbled and fell down the stairs, the hard metal tearing at his clothes and cutting open exposed skin, and crashed to the ground. The stock of the AK-47 slammed hard into his belly as he fell. Short Fuse grabbed onto the railing to remain upright. Gasping hard, Stone fought to rise. He couldn’t hear. Everything hurt and bloody patches now dotted his clothes top-to-bottom. Through gaps in the wall ahead, he saw smoke curling from the muzzle of the cannon, and the four troops primed for an assault.
Something tugged on his shoulder. Short Fuse. He mouthed something about having a plan. Stone nodded. He had a plan too. Hit them from behind. Get a bomb on the back of the armored machine. If they could survive to get close enough.
His hearing started to clear up a little but the shrill ringing persisted. Gunfire crackled from above. Hardball. The shell hadn’t taken him out and his shots peppered the ground near the assault troops, driving them to cover. Stone and Short Fuse charged through the front of the warehouse heading for an alley across the street. One of the troopers saw them and let off a burst that kicked up chucks on asphalt. Short Fuse reached the alley first, sliding a pack full of explosives off his back. As Stone reached the corner, shards of brick and dust exploded in his face, gunfire zipping past him to smack the alley wall ahead. Stone pressed his back to the corner wall, swung around, and jerked the trigger to unleash the full magazine on the trooper in pursuit. The slugs spread across the man’s chest, opening new body cavities he’d hadn’t been born with that spilled his guts all over the ground.
Short Fuse was halfway down the alley. Stone ran after him as he reloaded. The cannon boomed again. Another explosion. Stone hoped Hardball was out of the way. A short burst of return fire answered his question. Keep ‘em pinned down, buddy, we’re almost there, Stone thought, his face stinging from the blast of brick shards, as he and Short Fuse reached the opposite end of the alley.
They turned right at the alley exit, stopping at the building’s corner. Up the street sat the armored truck and the troopers. Stone pointed at the troopers closest to them--the ones on the right side of the street--and drew a finger across his neck. Short Fuse nodded. He opened his bag and took out a wrapped satchel charge, pulling a fuse cord. He ran for the cannon and Stone braced himself against the wall.
The twenty-millimeter roared again and another section of the warehouse wall crumbled, and a plum of dust billowed through the streets. The AK bucked against Stone’s shoulder as he aimed at the two troopers, Stone shifting his aim with each burst, one trooper’s head exploding like a melon and pelting his partner with gor
e. Before the second could turn, he joined his dead partner in a bloody heap on the street, the red stuff picking up dust and turning to a reddish mud.
Short Fuse slapped the satchel charge to the armored truck, the bomb’s magnets holding it in place. He turned and started running back. Stone covered him with the AK. A winking muzzle flash on the roof of the warehouse proved Hardball still lived. Short Fuse reached the corner and he and Stone hit the ground as the explosion filled the street, more dust and debris taking flight and landing around them.
Calm settled on the combat zone. If there were police or military units on the way, Stone couldn’t hear them, the cannon fire and bomb explosion leaving him temporarily deaf except for a ringing in both ears. He looked up. There was no sign of the chopper either. He reached for his sat phone but it wasn’t in his pocket where he’d left it. It must have fallen out somewhere along the way. Where was the chopper? Had more than ten minutes gone by?
Stone pushed to his feet and gestured for Short Fuse to follow, and they ran, unsteady at first, back the way they came and returned to the smoking warehouse. The steps were gone. The only way up was a ladder they had rigged at the rear of the building, but it had fallen over during the assault, the hole in the roof above a little bigger now. Short Fuse put the ladder in place while Stone covered their backside, and the explosives expert started up, the ladder’s uneven legs causing it rock a little with each of his heavy steps. Stone climbed after him. On the roof, they found a dusty Hardball still behind one of their makeshift cover spots, his face and head cut a little.
“That was close,” he said, though Stone only heard a little of it. Short Fuse pointed east, and the helicopter appeared over the top of neighboring buildings. It was a sight to see. We might live to fight another day after all, Stone decided. The chopper hovered over the roof. The cabin crew dropped a rope ladder. The team started climbing, leaving their gear behind. Stone entered the cabin last, falling across the metal floor, gasping, bruised, bloody, but alive. He could deal with the failure of the mission later. The chopper dipped its nose and turned south.
Cartel Queen Page 1
