Noble Vengeance (Jake Noble Series Book 2)

by William Miller

  Hunt pressed himself against the boulder, soaking wet and deaf from the constant buzz saw of the M60, too terrified to move.

  In the courtyard, Los Zetas soldiers produced a rocket propelled grenade launcher. The RPG is a favorite among Islamic extremists, third world despots and Mexican drug lords because they’re cheap and easy to use. They’re also notoriously inaccurate.

  The rocket sizzled over the compound wall but instead of obliterating the M60 gunner, it exploded halfway up the hillside, a few meters to Hunt’s left. The sharp thunderclap shorted out the last of his hearing. Shrapnel blistered the side of the boulder. He felt a pinch on his left thigh, like an ant bite. Hunt hissed and touched his leg. His fingers came away wet with blood.

  That sealed it. He rolled around the boulder and belly crawled down the incline. As soon as he moved, the pain started in earnest. It felt like an iron spike in his hamstring.

  Another rocket went sizzling up the slope. This one got closer, but still missed. Dirt and debris rained down on Hunt’s back. The machine gunner zeroed in on the rocket launcher. A hailstorm of bullets felled the Los Zetas soldier holding the rocket tube.

  Hunt scrambled between rocks and through thickets. He was half way to the bottom of the hill when the side of Machado’s mansion disappeared in flash of light and sound. The explosion shook the ground and lit the night sky. Hunt buried his face in the dirt. A moment later, one of the annex buildings disintegrated.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  ALEJANDRA TRIED TO STAND. Her legs gave out. She sagged against the pillar, slid to the ground and pressed a hand to her side. Blood had soaked through her shirt. She let out a trembling breath.

  Noble knelt next to her. “Let me see.”

  He eased up her shirt. A bullet had burrowed a hole, no bigger than a nickel, through her side and out her back.

  She managed to smile through the pain. “That stings.”

  Noble’s brow drew down. If they had been in the city with emergency medical crews close by, she might live. Sam Gunn had survived a very similar wound six months ago. But they were miles from the nearest hospital and Noble would have to get her out of the compound and past Machado’s men. He stood a better chance of becoming the next pope.

  She read the expression on his face and nodded. “It’s okay.”

  “We have to stop the bleeding,” Noble said.

  She grabbed onto his arm and wouldn’t let go.

  “Kill Machado,” she said. “For me.”

  Noble hesitated.

  “For Diaz,” she said.

  He nodded.

  She let go.

  He put the AR-15 rifle into her hands, laid his AK-47 across her lap and pointed at the French doors. “You kill anybody that comes through these doors, understand? Two in the chest, one in the head.”

  She nodded.

  Leaving her was a death sentence. Noble knew it and he felt bad about it, but she was going to die and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Maybe she would kill a few Los Zetas soldiers before she stepped out. He patted her uninjured cheek. She kissed his open palm.

  Noble’s heart clenched. He felt like there was a rebar spike jammed through his chest. A white-hot fire had been building in his belly since he learned Torres was dead. Now it spilled over into blind, unthinking rage.

  ***

  Hunt was still face down in the mud when someone nearly stepped on him. Several cartel soldiers were creeping up the incline, whispering to each other in the dark. One passed within inches of Hunt. He counted three men, then spotted two more, on their way to ambush the machine gunner. Hunt stuck his face in the mud and tried to look like part of the scenery. Noble’s little plan had gone to hell.

  Hunt’s escape was cut off. He couldn’t go back over the hill without being seen and he didn’t like the idea of going down any better. It crossed his mind to lay there all night, sinking into the mud. Let the cartels kill each other and when they were dead, then maybe he could make his escape.

  The Los Zetas soldiers reached the summit and opened fire on the machine gun crew. There was a short, fierce firefight, then silence. Hunt, his leg still smarting, raised up for a peek. It was hard to see through the driving rain, but it looked like both sides had killed each other. He waited. A wave of dizziness hit. Probably from blood loss. Several minutes ticked by. He didn’t see any muzzle flashes. He pushed to his feet, intent on scaling back up the incline, but his leg gave out. He went down on his face in the mud and came up spluttering.

  “I hate you, Noble,” he muttered. “I hate your guts.”

  Using his rifle as a cane, Hunt hobbled up the embankment. He stopped five meters short and waited some more to make sure no one was alive and faking. Below him, the cartels had battled each other to a standstill. The frantic din of automatic weapons had given way to sporadic bursts. Dying men with broken bodies littered the ground. Their screams made Hunt’s heart tremble inside his chest.

  Closer at hand, one of the cartel soldiers gave a weak moan. Hunt shouldered his rifle and fired. The man coughed and his eyes rolled up. Hunt had the hilltop, again. And an M60. He limped over the uneven terrain and found three full belts of ammo among a litter of spent brass.

  “Alright, Noble,” Hunt said. “Maybe we can pull this off.”

  He took the machine gun from the dead thug and limped to a large, flat-topped rock. He carried over the ammo belts and then checked the action on the weapon. Ready to rock and roll.

  Hunt turned the sights on the attackers and, using one hand to keep the belt up so it would feed, eased back on the trigger. The big gun burped out a steady chunk—chunk—chunk of 7.62mm NATO rounds. Smoking brass leapt from the breech. Green tracer rounds arced through the pouring rain. Hunt walked his line of fire across the attacking cartel. Three fell and the rest tried to scramble around the other side of their vehicles only to be cut down by the defenders.

  Hunt held the trigger for a seven count and let go, allowing the barrel cool. As soon as he stopped, bullets drilled the hillside with heavy, sharp thwacks. He responded with short bursts, chewing through the belt of ammo until the weapon locked back on an empty breech.

  The few remaining attackers decided they’d had enough. They piled into their vehicles and tore off down the dirt road. The men inside the compound gave a victory shout.

  “That’s right amigos,” Hunt said, loading a fresh belt of ammo. “Keep cheering.”

  He hauled back on the charging handle and loosed another long burst of deadly automatic fire. The Los Zetas soldiers broke and ran. This time Hunt held down the trigger and the M60 barrel started to glow.

  ***

  Noble worked his way through the first floor, going slow, clearing each room before moving to the next. He hadn’t met anyone in the dark and was starting to feel like he had the place to himself. Machado could have slipped out in all the confusion. There might be a secret tunnel in case of emergencies. Plenty of drug lords used them. Machado could be miles away by now.

  Outside, the battle was winding down. The gun fire tapered off. Wonder who’s winning, Noble thought. It wouldn’t matter much. With his skin tone, either cartel would shoot him on sight. And people say there’s no such thing as reverse racism. But survival was the farthest thing from his mind.

  He opened the door to a garage with a automobile collection that rivaled Jay Leno’s and Clive Cussler’s. Three rows of classic muscle cars lined the showroom floor. Chrome bumpers winked in the starlight streaming through floor to ceiling windows. Machado had all the hallmarks of a good collection: the Mustangs, Camaros, Chevelles, Pontiacs and Challengers. He also had more eclectic finds: a Renault, a Rolls Royce Phantom, a Ford Edsel. A fully restored Model T sat next to an Aston Martin DB9. On Noble’s left, was a ‘67 Ford Fastback painted light gray with dark stripes. He let out a low whistle. There was enough wealth in this room alone to solve all of his financial problems. Too bad he couldn’t take it with him.

  Noble moved through the garage to a door on the far s
ide. He was halfway when he heard movement and turned. Machado entered the garage with a shotgun and night vision goggles. Noble suddenly knew how David must have felt facing Goliath. Machado was built like a bulldozer. His massive shoulders threatened to burst his suit coat. The weapon looked tiny in his steam-shovel hands.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  NOBLE THREW HIMSELF behind a ‘67 Pontiac GTO and the shotgun roared. The windshield exploded in a shower of broken glass. Night vision goggles let you see the bad guys before they see you, but they make aiming difficult. It takes practice. Lots of practice. Soldiers in the Special Forces log countless hours learning to use their weapons with night vision. Machado had not and it saved Noble’s life.

  He thrust the Kimber around the front bumper and fired blind. He wasn’t aiming, just trying to rattle Machado. It didn’t work. The drug tsar racked the slide and fired again, blowing out the driver’s side headlamp and blasting holes in the grill. The sound was like a railroad spike in Noble’s ears. His lips peeled back from clenched teeth. His heart ping-ponged around inside his chest.

  “You think you can kill me in my own house?” Machado yelled.

  Noble heard him stuffing shells into the breech. He needed to put more distance between him and the shotgun. He took two long strides and launched himself behind the Model T. It was a step down in terms of cover. The shotgun coughed fire and the old automobile pissed coolant from a busted radiator. Noble circled the back bumper of an Aston Martin, looking for a better vantage point. Machado fired. Buckshot skipped off the hood of the car, spider-webbing one of the floor to ceiling windows that looked out across the garden. It gave Noble an idea.

  Machado yelled, “Keep running little man. Soon you run out of cars to hide behind. Then what?”

  The smell of spent gun powder hung in the air. Noble heard the click-clack of the shotgun over the ringing in his ears. He aimed over the hood, squeezed off two rounds and then sprinted across the garage. The shotgun boomed. Buckshot snapped overhead. The small hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Noble covered his face with both arms and threw himself through the window. It felt like jumping into a pile of loosely stacked bricks. He impacted with his shoulder, the window shattered, and Noble burst through. But his arm wanted to know who had hit him with a baseball bat. He landed on the rain soaked lawn.

  Buckshot blew out another window, showering Noble in glass. He returned fire. He couldn’t see through the pouring rain and didn’t wait to find out if he hit anything. He pushed himself off the ground and stumbled into the maze of tall hedges and topiaries, shaking chips of broken glass from his hair.

  ***

  Hunt held down the trigger on the M60. Bright green tracer rounds flashed through the rain. Los Zetas soldiers fell like wheat before a sickle. He fired until the barrel melted and the weapon jammed with a loud clank. His ears rang like someone was holding down the E chord on an electric piano. Rain obscured his vision and his hands shook from the heavy recoil. He wiped his eyes and picked up the AR-15 to continue the fight but the Los Zetas army was in tatters.

  Machado had probably died in the explosion, and if he hadn’t, Noble had probably killed him. It was time to go, before the cops showed up. Get back on the motorcycle and lay down rubber, Hunt told himself. That was the smart thing. But there was a remote possibility Machado was still alive and it would be the final disgrace to tell Foster that he was dead only to have his name pop up on an intelligence brief in a month or two.

  ***

  Alejandra’s eyelids drooped. Her toes were little blocks of ice. She couldn’t feel her legs. The pain in her stomach had dulled. She forced her eyes open but they closed again almost immediately. Everything had gotten very quiet. The guns had stopped. This must be dying, she told herself.

  Her chin sank to her chest. Diaz was smiling at her. They were in bed. She felt his hands on her skin. She reached for him. The pop—pop—pop of small arms fire shattered the dream. The gunshots sounded far away, like they were coming from the Gulf of Mexico. Alejandra realized her eyes were closed and forced them open. Four cartel soldiers ran past, headed in the direction Noble had gone.

  How long ago was that?

  She couldn’t remember. They either hadn’t seen her or thought she was dead. With a concentration of effort, she planted the butt stock on the floor, gripped the barrel in both hands and levered herself up. Her head swam. Blood stained her pants. There was a crimson puddle on the marble floor. She wavered and clung to the rifle for support. When the dizziness subsided, she followed the soldiers along the corridor toward the back of the house. She had to stop several times. It took forever just to go the length of the hall. She rounded a corner and saw the gunmen go into the garage. She leaned against a wall, marshalled her strength, and shouldered the rifle. Another wave of dizziness hit and she fought to stay on her feet until it passed.

  Through the garage door, she heard Machado growling orders. Her eye focused. She forgot about dying and remembered what she had come for. Her mouth formed a grim line. She pushed off from the wall and stumbled forward on trembling legs.

  ***

  Noble sprinted through the garden, putting as much distance between himself and Machado’s shotgun as possible. The shock of throwing himself through a window had worn off and he got his legs moving again. He ran along the hedge maze, taking turns at random, past a row of Greek statues, then ducked behind a gazebo of white stone.

  The rain was letting up. It fell straight down, in heavy drops, the way it does when the storm has spent all of its fury and is wringing the last of the moisture from the clouds. Noble crouched next to one of the stone pillars and pressed the magazine eject on his pistol. He had two rounds left in the mag. One in the chamber. His lips pulled back from clenched teeth.

  His ears pricked up at the sound of footsteps squelching in the soggy grass. His heart leapt. He aimed at a gap in the hedge and fired two rounds as a dark silhouette stepped through the opening. The man went down flat on his back, his arms flung out to either side, an AK-47 lying next to him.

  The garden came alive with the deadly riot of automatic rifles. Bullets buzzed around like angry bees. Noble hunkered next the gazebo, trying to make himself as small as possible. A round blew a chunk from the handrail, inches from his head. He broke cover and hustled across the lawn to the fallen soldier.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  ALEJANDRA ENTERED THE GARAGE in time to see Machado and four of his enforcers step onto the lawn through a shattered window. They fanned out in search of Noble. Machado, in his business suit, armed with a shotgun and night vision goggles, disappeared behind a hedge.

  Alejandra staggered between cars, leaving a trail of blood, to the windows. Broken glass crunched beneath her feet. Rain fell in heavy drops. Outside, a cartel soldier stalked alongside a decorative pool carpeted with large lily pads. He was so focused on the garden he never bothered to look behind him.

  Shots rang out from a dark corner of the maze. The soldier turned his rifle in the direction of the sound and held the trigger down. He whipped his rifle back and forth like a fireman turning a hose on a burning house.

  Using the noise as cover, Alejandra raised her weapon, sighted on his back and squeezed. The rifle kicked, sending a lance of pain from her wounded belly, up her spine, to her brain. Her bullets punched through the soldier’s back. He splashed face-first into the pond. The shooting stopped. Silence descended on the garden. The only sound was the steady patter of rain falling on leaves.

  ***

  Noble snatched up the AK-47 and checked the mag. It was hard to say how many bullets were left without taking them out and counting. Instead he pressed down with his thumb and felt a mostly empty spring. His situation had improved only slightly. He rammed it back in the weapon and patted the dead thug’s pockets. No luck.

  His only chance was to keep moving and pick off the bad guys one at a time. He retreated further into the garden, looking for another likely spot to use for an ambush, but hit a dead end. The
garden butted up against the compound wall. Noble jogged along it in search of a hiding place.

  A cartel soldier pushed through a hedge, saw Noble and yelled, “He’s here!”

  The shout was like a shot of adrenaline. Noble side stepped, aimed, and mashed the trigger. The hired goon fired at the same time. Bullets whip-cracked over Noble’s shoulder, impacting the wall. Noble’s bullets found their mark, knocking the man backwards through the hedge.

  His first thought was to take the dead man’s weapon. He started in that direction, but the ear-splitting thunderclap of a shotgun rent the air. Buckshot obliterated a hedge less than a foot from Noble’s elbow. He ducked and pulled his shoulders up around his ears like a turtle trying to crawl inside its shell.

  Machado stepped around a large topiary. The green dot on his night vision goggles glowed like the hateful eye of Homer’s mythical Cyclops.

  Noble was already moving, making himself a hard target. He leveled the AK-47 and loosed three short volleys before the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  Machado racked the shotgun. Another sharp clap assaulted Noble’s ears. Buckshot whistled through the air. He dodged a pair of benches and a stone cherub pissing into a fountain. Machado squeezed off three more rounds in quick succession. Boom—click-clack—boom—click-clack—boom. The cherub lost a wing and most of one chubby arm. Machado racked the weapon again. This time there was a hollow click.