Bending over the door, Staff Sergeant Schmidt aimed the shotgun at the rusted padlock and pulled the trigger. There was a flash and a boom that echoed off of surrounding houses as the lock and part of the wooden trapdoor disintegrated in flying fragments.
A ladder led down into a darkness only slightly relieved by the AN/PVS-21 unit over his eyes.
“X-ray, Fox One!” Marcetti called. “We’re through. Sitrep!”
“Four Tangos on the top landing now, second floor. One of them moving toward objective bedroom. Engaging…”
They heard the sharp crack of the rifle from across the street toward the south …
MARIA PEREZ HOUSE
LA CALLE SUR 145
DISTRICTO IZTACALCO
2318 HOURS, LOCAL TIME
Enrico Barrón had just reached the bedroom door when an explosive detonation cracked from the hallway’s east wall, a couple of yards to his right. Chunks of concrete and bits of metal slashed across the side of his face and arm, and a pencil-thick hole appeared in the wooden door a few inches in front of his eyes.
“¡Diablo!” he cried, hurling himself backward, stumbling, then falling to the floor. He didn’t know how a sniper could have targeted him through a solid wall, but he did know what was happening. The Mexican military used Barrett .50 sniper rifles, and the powerful BMG rounds they fired—the acronym stood for “Browning Machine Gun,” the weapon for which they’d originally been manufactured—could easily punch through concrete.
Was the sniper firing blind? Barrón didn’t think so, though it was possible a police assault team was putting BMGs through the walls of the house randomly in order to cause confusion at the beginning of an attack. More likely, the expected American force, CIA or DEA, was launching an attack, and they wouldn’t risk hitting the prisoner by accident.
There were rumors—hints of technologies on American TV and in novels—that the CIA had devices that could see through walls.
That shot that had just missed him had come entirely too close to have happened by random chance.
“Carlos!” he cried at the man who’d been behind him in the hall. “Grab the girl! Grab the girl now!” He remained motionless on the floor as he yelled. If the bastards outside could somehow see through walls, they would think that they’d hit him.
VICENTE HOUSE
LA CALLE SUR 145
DISTRICTO IZTACALCO
2318 HOURS, LOCAL TIME
“Tango three down,” Procario said, still watching through the triple-M scope. One of the four men in the hallway outside Dominique’s door had dropped to the floor, but the next in line was reaching for the knob.
Over the open microphone line, he could hear someone yelling, “¡Agarra la chica! ¡Agarra la chica ahora!”
The Tango was through the door.
FOX ONE
MARIA PEREZ HOUSE
LA CALLE SUR 145
DISTRICTO IZTACALCO
2318 HOURS, LOCAL TIME
Master Sergeant Randolph Cameche was first down the ladder, closely followed by Marcetti, Schmidt, Rogers, and finally Teller. Each man hit the floor and moved immediately, making way for the next man down.
The hallway was dark, though their NVD amplified what light there was. A lot of light spilled from around the 90-degree bend to the left in the hallway up ahead. Closed doors to left and right should be empty rooms; Maria Perez’s door was directly ahead, a bright strip of yellow light showing at the bottom. The landing at the top of the stairs leading down to the first floor was ahead and on the right.
In close single file, each man touching the man ahead, the assault team started forward.
VICENTE HOUSE
LA CALLE SUR 145
DISTRICTO IZTACALCO
2319 HOURS, LOCAL TIME
Maria Perez had heard the racket—at least three loud shots, they had to be gunshots—plus a fourth, deep-throat boom that sounded like it was right outside her door. Her first impulse was to stay put, perhaps even to hide—but all she could imagine was that Barrón or Pascua had decided to execute the prisoner.
Rising from her bed, she hurried to the door and yanked it open.
Directly in front of her, nightmare shapes, black clad, hunched over, their faces looking like those of huge alien insects in a bad sci-fi movie were moving directly toward her. To her right, down the hallway toward the front of the house, two gunmen stood outside of the prisoner’s door, a third was lying on the floor.
Maria screamed.
FOX ONE
MARIA PEREZ HOUSE
LA CALLE SUR 145
DISTRICTO IZTACALCO
2319 HOURS, LOCAL TIME
“Fox One, X-ray,” Procario’s voice called. “Perez is—”
At that moment, the door at the end of the short hallway opened, and an attractive young woman in a translucent negligee took one step into the hall, saw the advancing assault force, put her hands to her face, and shrieked.
“—coming out the door in front of you,” Procario finished. “Tangos are now in Jackie’s room.”
First in line, Cameche lunged forward, grabbing the woman around her waist and knocking her down and back into her room.
Marcetti was next; with his H&K planted against his shoulder, he rolled around the corner and immediately began taking fire from the doorway opening into Dominique’s room. Nine-millimeter slugs slapped against his tactical vest, knocking him back a step, but he leaned into his weapon and squeezed the trigger, sending two three-round bursts down the hall, striking the drug-gang member and splintering the doorjamb. The integral silencer softened the shots to triplets of dull clicks; the sound of bullets shredding wood was louder.
Teller followed Marcetti, Schmidt, and Rogers down the hallway, reaching the door before the gangster’s body toppled out and onto the body already on the floor. There was a ragged hole in the door caused by the tungsten carbide penetrator from one of Procario’s rounds. No blood.
He heard someone shouting on the other side of the door. “¡Venga! ¡Ven aqui, chica!”
Hang on, Jackie, he thought with fierce determination. Help’s on the way!
VICENTE HOUSE
LA CALLE SUR 145
DISTRICTO IZTACALCO
2319 HOURS, LOCAL TIME
Procario was trying to watch the whole firefight unfold at once, and it was proving too much for one man. Normally, a sniper had an observer, an assistant at his side to help keep track of enemy targets as well as to sound off on hits, but this time there just weren’t enough men to cover everything, and an observer was a luxury he would do without.
He’d seen one Tango go through, closely followed by two more—but then he’d glimpsed movement in the bedroom opposite the short hallway down which the assault team was moving. He’d shifted his aim to cover Perez, since she was the most immediate threat to the strike team. Until she proved otherwise Maria Perez was a noncombatant, though they all knew better than to trust her.
Procario checked to see that she didn’t have a weapon—through his MMMR scope she was stark naked—and gave the warning. As Cameche tackled her to take her out of the line of fire, he shifted his aim back to Dominique’s room, then bit off a curse.
One Tango in the door, aiming up the hall … no, shooting up the hall as Marcetti rounded the corner. The other two—they’d spotted Dominique under the bed and were on the floor now, trying to grab her and drag her out.
He took aim at the gunman in the door, his crosshairs centering on the back of his head … but Marcetti had already returned fire, and the Tango crumpled across the body already on the floor. Inside the room, one Tango was hiding behind the door, a pistol raised in his hands, while the other hauled Dominique to her feet, clutching her close against his body.
Stalemate. He couldn’t tag the Tango behind the door because the strike force was now lined up out in the hallway to either side of the same door—and someone, he thought it was Teller, was in the way. He couldn’t shoot that Tango without risking hitting one of his own men
, and he couldn’t hit the one holding Dominique without possibly killing her.
“Fox One, X-ray,” he said. “Okay … you’ve got two Tangos in there, one right behind the door—to your left of the door, about two feet—and one Tango holding Jackie about five feet straight back from the door. Shit.”
“What is it, X-ray?”
“Tango two has a gun against her head. I can’t get a clear shot, damn it, I can’t get a clear shot!”
FOX TWO
LA CALLE SUR 145
DISTRICTO IZTACALCO
2320 HOURS, LOCAL TIME
Randy Patterson was moving at a dead run. He’d estimated ten minutes to work his way carefully back down the street, crossing at a point where the occupants of Hotel Two couldn’t see him, and working his way back up the west side of the street. He’d been crossing the road when he’d heard Procario call a situation and receive permission to fire.
Yeah, old Murphy, God of Battles, was out in full force tonight. As he ran, he heard the first, loud crack of Procario’s .50 up the street, followed a couple of seconds later by a second. The hollow boom of Schmidt’s combat shotgun had sounded next, and then the Barrett had fired a third time. A moment later, he heard the high-pitched crack of a 9 mm pistol inside the house.
Leaping a pile of garbage, he landed in the tiny front yard of the house south of Hotel Two. The building was a ruin, partly burned out, the yard littered with empty cans and bottles, rags and paper, and hypodermic needles. A really great neighborhood.
Across the street and to the north, he could see the front door of Hotel Two opening, light from inside spilling into the night.
He was holding the firing trigger in his hand.
Normally, the M-18A1 claymore was detonated by an M-57 firing device known as the “clacker,” connected to the mine by a long cable, or by using tripwires or other mechanical firing devices. This time, though, the firing trigger was a radio transmitter; a three-number code was punched into the handset, and then the ENTER key was pressed, a two-stage trigger designed to prevent accidental detonation from garage door openers or cell phones.
Patterson still wasn’t in position, but he could see gunmen spilling out of Hotel Two’s front door. The claymore was resting upright on its two pairs of scissored legs in the street, in plain view of anyone emerging from the house.
He had to detonate the device now.
Pulling his glove off so he could better manipulate the keys, Patterson punched in the code.
FOX ONE
MARIA PEREZ HOUSE
LA CALLE SUR 145
DISTRICTO IZTACALCO
2320 HOURS, LOCAL TIME
“Damn it, I can’t get a clear shot!”
Teller turned and placed one hand against the wall to his left. According to Procario, there was a Tango immediately behind that wall, just a few inches away. Teller couldn’t see him, but Procario could through his MMMR scope.
“X-ray,” Teller called. “Where’s my hand in relation to Tango one?”
“Move it a little to your left … good. Now down … yeah! Right there. Your hand is right next to his head.”
That told Teller that the Tango was crouching, right there, waiting for the assault team to come through the door.
Jackie might be in the line of fire, though. “If I shoot straight through, will I hit Jackie?”
“Angle your fire to the left. Jackie’s to your right.”
“Got it.”
Teller exchanged a look with Marcetti, who nodded. The ISA captain raised a gloved hand and snapped off a string of commands using sign language alone. Schmidt … ready with the shotgun! Stand here … angle the weapon down! Rogers, ready with a flashbang! Out loud, he added, “X-ray, if you see your shot, take it.”
“Copy.”
Marcetti held up three fingers and performed a silent countdown. In three … two … one … go!
Teller pulled the trigger on his H&K. The weapon’s selector only allowed single shots or three-round bursts, not full-auto, but he tapped off five triplets in a good simulation of full rock-and-roll, the 9 mm rounds splintering soft drywall, cracked plaster, studs, and joists.
At the same instant, Schmidt’s M-1014 boomed, the noise deafening in the narrow hallway, the weapon angled sharply to fire downward toward the floor in order to avoid hitting Dominique. The doorknob and a square foot of the door smashed in and the door flew open. Leaning around the door frame, Rogers underhanded an M-84 stun grenade—colloquially known as a flashbang—into the room.
The flashbang gave them a decided edge. The dazzling strobe effect of a white-hot burning mixture of aluminum and magnesium generated a glare measuring over a million candela, and the bang hit 180 decibels within five feet of detonation. The flash was enough to blind people in the room for about five seconds, while the noise overwhelmed the senses, causing shock and disorientation.
Teller just hoped that it would be enough of an edge.
FOX TWO
LA CALLE SUR 145
DISTRICTO IZTACALCO
2320 HOURS, LOCAL TIME
Patterson pressed the three-number code. The last digit was a 1, and he chuckled as he said, “Press one for English, dudes.” Then he pressed ENTER.
The flash bounced off the walls of houses on both sides of the street, as did the crack of the explosion. The gentle curve of the claymore unit, with its embossed FRONT TOWARD ENEMY across the convex face, contained a flat layer of C-4 explosives behind seven hundred steel balls embedded in resin, each about an eighth of an inch in diameter. When the C-4 went off, the steel balls hurtled out in a fan-shaped cloud spanning 60 degrees and traveling at almost four thousand feet per second.
The ideal range for the weapon was fifty yards, which allowed for a good dispersion pattern, but Patterson had been forced to set the mine on the street in front of the target house, in this neighborhood a range of less than four yards. That meant the claymore’s projectile cloud was still tightly focused when it struck Hotel Two’s front door, sweeping through the first few emerging gunmen like a vast, bloody scythe.
Patterson reached his planned hide a moment later, dropping the detonator and unclipping his H&K. The fact that he’d been rushed had resulted in a less than perfect shot. The front door and part of the wall to either side had disintegrated, and three or four gunmen, at least, had been cut down.
Someone at the house had seen him moving into position, and automatic gunfire began snapping and hissing around him an instant later.
Kneeling behind a rotted and crumbling fence, Patterson returned fire. The H&K SD5, excellent for close-in CQB, was less than optimum out on the street. At a range of over forty yards, he couldn’t see the red dot from his laser sight and had to aim at moving shadows spreading out into the street.
He heard the boom of Schmidt’s combat shotgun to his left.
At the same instant, he saw someone emerge from the open front door of Hotel Two, someone carrying what looked like a length of pipe balanced on his shoulder.
Oh … Jesus!
Chapter Sixteen
MARIA PEREZ HOUSE
LA CALLE SUR 145
DISTRICTO IZTACALCO
2320 HOURS, LOCAL TIME
20 APRIL
The gunman was holding Dominique tightly from behind, a pistol pressed up against the side of her head. “¡Oye!” the man screamed. “¡Oye, ustedes allá! ¡No fuego! ¡Tengo la chica aqui!”
Then everything began happening at once.
The gunman crouching beside the door with a drawn pistol crumpled as bullet holes loosed blossoming puffs of plaster dust beside him. At the same instant, the bedroom door seemed to explode, with chips of wood whirling past her face. A black tube with rows of holes down the side skittered through the opening and across the floor, passing to her right.
Dominique knew immediately what it was—a flashbang stun grenade. She squeezed her eyes tight and twisted away to her left, bending forward as far as she could.
The flashbang detonated somewh
ere behind her, the strobe of dazzling magnesium-aluminum light so brilliant it glared through her eyelids, the concussive blast quite literally deafening. The man holding her tightened his grip convulsively; Dominique’s wrists and legs were still tied, but as the grenade’s multiple detonations slammed at her senses, she snapped her head up and back, connecting hard with her captor’s nose.
Black-garbed men wearing ski masks and night-vision devices were storming in through the open door.
FOX ONE
MARIA PEREZ HOUSE
LA CALLE SUR 145
DISTRICTO IZTACALCO
2320 HOURS, LOCAL TIME
They were taking a hell of a chance, Teller knew, but it was a justified one, more justified than it might have seemed at first glance. The man holding Dominique needed her alive, needed her as a bargaining chip, as a get-out-of-jail-free card, as a guarantee that the American strike team wasn’t going to shoot him out of hand. He knew that the moment he pulled the trigger, he was a dead man, so he was far more likely to open fire at the strike team than at his prisoner.
Hostage rescue teams rely on three key assets in a takedown: surprise, overwhelming firepower, and sudden violence of action. The team had lost the element of surprise, but violence they still possessed in abundance. Storm into that bedroom hard enough, loud enough, and violently enough and the gunman would almost certainly freeze, just for a moment—and in that second or two while his brain was juggling the problem of killing the hostage or killing his attackers, of surrendering or fighting or running, the strike team would have its chance.
Of course, that reasoning wasn’t foolproof. In combat there are never certainties, only probabilities, possibilities, and the nightmare of plain random chance. The gunman’s finger might tighten on the trigger because of shock or muscle spasm, and then Dominique would be dead.
If the team did nothing, if they let the gunman negotiate an escape, Dominique would almost certainly be killed anyway as soon as he no longer needed her.
The Last Line Page 23
