Connor (In the Company of Snipers Book 5)

by Irish Winters

  One man stepped forward. “Special Officer Justin Viera at your service, sir. How can we help?”

  Mark blinked his momentary weakness away. He had a job to do and finally the men to do it with. This was the day the Sonoran Cartel would finally crawl back to hell.

  Shot. Bumpy road. Dust in his mouth and eyes. Connor winced.

  Crap. Crap. Crap. Through and through he hoped. Shot nonetheless. The stabbing pain radiated hot waves of fire through his gut all the way to his backbone. Not gut shot. Please not gut shot. Mom will be so sad if I—God, please not gut shot. I’ll die for sure. It’ll kill her.

  A jarring bump. More breath-robbing pain. More bumpy roads. Then smooth sound of singing tires on pavement. Another bump. Potholes. Jarring wrenching potholes. Something smelled funny in his nose. Somehow sweet. Kinda like—blood. His. Not what a man wants to smell. Ever.

  He sucked in a gasp of wretchedly hot air, but breathing hurt. Too much grit and dust. Not enough oxygen. He was in a dark place. Too dark to see. Face down on what felt like heated metal. A truck bed, maybe? Another wrench of pain clenched his side and stomach. Not good. The awful smell in this small dark place didn’t help. He gagged. Fresh air would sure be nice.

  The truck stopped with a jerk. He’d have played dead if he wasn’t already so close to it. Someone grabbed his boots and dragged his body off the truck bed, only now he wasn’t sure that’s what it was. Chopper maybe? Connor couldn’t tell. He had no strength to contest the rough treatment, either.

  His face scraped over the floor of the vehicle. It didn’t matter that he was no longer strong enough to shield himself from what came next. Dropping face first to the ground broke his nose anyway. Blinding pain followed the crunch in the middle of his face. Before that pain really got underway, some jackass kicked his side. Once. Twice.

  He rolled away or at least, he tried to. A third kick landed in the middle of his back. And a fourth. He couldn’t even scream. Just groan, take it, and gasp for enough air to endure. Skewering pain lanced through him with each attempt to breathe and he was suffocating. Cruel Spanish taunts rained down. Crushing patterns of black against flashes of blinding light pinged around in his brain, a psychedelic light show that hurt.

  He squinted, trying real hard to see something real. How does a body absorb so much pain and live through it? With one last kick, they were done with him. By then, an odd crackle sounded from his throat. A death rattle? No matter. Dead would still be dead. Maybe welcome too. It sure couldn’t hurt any worse.

  Something crashed on top of him. Hard. Like a rock. Or a body. It groaned. Maybe Roy? Morgan? But his abductors didn’t kick whoever it was. Good thing. Those hard boots might have missed their target and hit him. One good thing about that last body drop—the force of impact knocked something loose inside. Connor pushed it out of his mouth. A rag. He’d been choking on a rag stuck in his mouth. Hot dusty air filled the void, but at last he could breathe.

  Forcing the pain aside, he struggled to see. Not going to happen. Too much trouble even to turn his head. He spit the blood and dirt of out his mouth before it choked him. His eyes burned like hellfire when he tried to crack them open. The grit all over his face didn’t help, but at last he could see. Barely. A shadow. Something. Someone.

  God, just kill me now.

  It was Izza.

  Ten

  “And you must be Agent Mark Houston.”

  Of all things, Tom Baxter, the Governor of Utah, had arrived on site, already dressed in appropriate tactical gear befitting the ex-Army Ranger he was. The rifle in his hand made it official. He knew what he was doing, and he was intent on assisting The TEAM. By then, the last two DEA agents had joined with the Narcotics Task Force to drive the cartel west and out of the canyon while Mark and his team joined with the Utah National Guard. Push had come to shove.

  “Yes, sir,” Mark said somberly. “Good to meet you, Governor.”

  “You’ve had a tough day,” Tom said as he clasped Mark’s hand. “I’m sure sorry about your agent, Morgan Humphries. How is your Agent Hudson doing?”

  “He’s in surgery. Critical, but hanging in there.”

  “Saint Mark’s is one of the best. They’ll take good care of him. There must be something about the name.”

  Mark ignored the gentle compliment and changed the subject.

  “You get your deer with that every year, sir?” He took stock of the Governor’s choice of weaponry—a stainless Browning A-Bolt, complete with a high-powered scope that offered laser sighting.

  “And a couple moose as long as you’re asking.” Tom Baxter had transformed from a western state governor into another skilled sniper. His own dark eyes glittered when he caught Mark’s assessing glance skim over his weapon of choice. “I keep five in the magazine, one in the chamber. You think I’ll need more?”

  Mark cracked a tired smile. “Not if we do this right, sir.”

  Tom slung the weapon over his back with a determined glint in his eye. “I happen to know a guy if you’re interested. I’m all yours. Where are your men?”

  Mark pointed to the utility road that ran along the upper edge of the canyon wall.

  “Let’s go. We’ve got work to do.” Tom Baxter was no slouch. Silver-haired and pushing sixty, he was still agile and full of energy. Before long, he was at Mark’s side, keeping up and barely panting at the vertical climb.

  Rory gave the men a sideways glance when they cleared the path. “You brought another shooter. Good.”

  “Rory Dennison, meet Governor Tom Baxter. My other two agents, Cassidy Dancer and Brigham Coltrane,” Mark gestured toward his beleaguered team. Damn it. Where the hell are Connor and Izza?

  “Good to meet you folks,” Tom said. “Don’t get excited. I’m just one of the guys as far as you’re concerned. Now let’s get these bastards the hell out of my state.”

  “Status,” Mark requested of his team.

  “We’ve got them pinned down,” Rory said, “at least the twelve guards left in base camp. We’re up too high for them to reach us, and we’re damned good at taking potshots, excuse the pun. There could be more cartel up farther in the canyon, but UNG seems to be intercepting them before they make it this far. Your Task Force, Governor, has already cleared the north canyon wall. They’re working our way while they clear the south. We’ve been hearing gunshots all morning.”

  Tom took it all in stride as Rory continued. “As you can see, the cartel is using the trucks north of the only remaining cartel tent for cover. Three cartel ATV’s are not accounted for. Assume they’re east of our location. The only problem is what’s in that tent.”

  “Enough C4 to bring these canyon walls down,” Mark muttered. “Brigham spotted it earlier. We were debating how to use it to our advantage when you showed up, sir. There is another problem.” Mark looked to Brigham to explain.

  The young man rolled to his side to face his governor. He nodded respectfully. “Yes, sir. From what we’ve been able to determine there are eleven migrant workers still unaccounted for. Connor and Roy spotted them a couple days ago, only neither the UNG nor the Task Force has located them. It’s a slim possibility, but they may be inside.”

  “You’re thinking hostages?”

  Brigham shrugged. “We’re not sure, but we won’t blow the tent until we are.”

  “Can’t blow C4 by shooting at it anyway, son,” Tom replied.

  “True,” Mark agreed. “Which is where Rory comes in. He can get inside.”

  “At which point, I’ll wire the C4 with blasting caps or free hostages,” Rory said.

  “What about you, young lady?” Tom looked to Cassidy. “You’re awfully quiet. What’s your take on all this?”

  Cassidy had been silent all morning. After sitting on watch with her the night before, Mark knew her heart was with Connor. She was hurting. Hell, they all were. “I’ll do whatever Mark tells me to do, sir,” she answered quietly. “He’s my boss now.”

  Mark looked out over the Salt Lake Valley to th
e west and bit his lip. Becoming boss by attrition was never a good thing, but he had work to do. He assigned Cassidy to, “Keep close watch on Rory. Cover him.”

  With one curt nod, Rory slipped off the path they were lying on and slid feet-first down the canyon wall.

  “He’s good,” Tom whispered as he tracked Rory’s progress through his scope.

  No one else spoke, and Mark was glad. Whatever success they achieved today could not outweigh the hit The TEAM had taken earlier. Alex would be on his way west at the soonest flight out. Mark didn’t relish the arrival of his over-the-top boss.

  When Rory’s boots hit the edge of the winding riverbank, he crouched low in the willows that offered cover for miles in either direction. Once known for nothing more dangerous than the occasional moose taking cover in those willows, now beautiful Utah sported snipers and armed guards instead. Mark pushed the thought away and focused, willing Rory to return with honor.

  “He needs five minutes of distraction, Governor.” Mark tossed his tactical headset for the governor to use. “You’ve got men in place who can assist. Need you to place a call.”

  “You bet.” The Governor clamped the earpiece to his ear. In a minute, he had Officer Viera’s attention. “We’ve got a man headed into their supply tent. Can you give him five minutes of hellfire?”

  He handed the headset back to Mark as automatic fire lit up the camp below. Cartel guards promptly returned fire.

  “One. Two.” Mark counted as the cartel guards fell to Special Agent Viera’s assault. “Three.”

  “He’s almost there, Boss.” Brigham reported what Mark already knew. Within seconds, the tent flap barely moved when Rory slid inside.

  “He’s in,” Brigham announced quietly.

  Mark wiped the sweat off the back of his neck. Rory was inside all right. One man against eight was nothing to feel good about. The clock was ticking.

  “Four.” Mark’s eyes glued to the scene below. Hurry it up, Rory. Don’t get caught. Don’t get dead. Not you, too.

  The roar of an ATV pulled his attention from the tent. Four more cartel men scrambled off and ran to take position with their cohorts behind the trucks. One of them immediately dropped dead, a victim of Agent Cassidy Dancer.

  “Five,” Mark muttered as he turned to her and said soberly, “Good work.”

  She responded by chambering another round and preparing to take another shot.

  “I’ve got two men at the rear of the tent. Coming around this side, south,” Tom reported as he took careful aim. “I’m ready if you are.”

  “No, sir. Wait.” Mark studied the scene, hoping Rory would exit the tent and get his butt back undercover. “Give him time.”

  Another guard fell. The world stopped revolving. The sound of incoming ATV echoed up the canyon wall. Rory needed to get the hell out of there.

  Tom was worried. “Your man’s in trouble. Maybe we should—”

  “No.” Mark peered intently at the exact spot of the tent flap where Rory’s face would show. “He’s not.”

  Rory could take care of himself in a tight spot. The ex-Marine was as steady as they came. More guards scrambled off the newly arrived ATV and joined forces behind the barricade. That tight spot just got tighter. Come on, Rory. Get the hell out of there.

  “These guys are loading a grenade launcher,” Brigham reported. “Yep. That’s exactly what they’re doing.”

  “Possibly. Seven.” Mark continued the tally as another guard went down. “Keep your eyes on them, team. On my signal.”

  Cassidy hadn’t said a word, but Mark knew without having to look that all three of his agent’s weapons were trained on the two cartel guards skulking around the tent. If any of them made a move for entry, Cassidy, Brigham, or Tom would drop them.

  Mark clenched his jaw. Time’s up, Rory. Get out. Now.

  As if in answer, the tent flap barely moved.

  “He’s out, Boss.” Brigham exhaled loud enough for all to hear.

  “Light ’em up,” Mark ordered.

  Instantly, his team provided cover for Rory’s return up the canyon wall. Tom Baxter squeezed the chrome-plated trigger on his pride and joy. Once. Twice. Cassidy kept up a steady stream of lead. A momentary shiver of pride offered Mark respite in the middle of a damned hard day.

  As soon as the cartel knew they were taking fire from the south side of the canyon, several scrambled to return fire with an enemy they couldn’t see. Rory was suddenly at Mark’s side, panting from the quick climb, his hands on his knees as he drew in deep breaths to restore his oxygen. He lifted his hand to reveal the remote detonator. “Just C4. No hostages. Whatever doesn’t explode from this charge will cook off. Ready when you are.”

  That same shiver hit Mark’s shoulders. “Your call, Governor. We can take prisoners if you’d prefer.”

  Tom looked up from his scope with a half smile. “Not if I know the Sonoran Cartel, you won’t. These guys will kill you with their last breath.”

  “Advise your men to fall back then. It will be a hell of an explosion.” Mark tossed his headset back to Tom.

  “Officer Viera. We’re ready to blow the tent. Pull back to a safe distance. How many down?” Silence. “That many?” He relayed the body count. “Five of mine; two dead, three injured. Plus four of yours from the earlier incident.”

  “And the three DEA agents the cartel murdered last year.” Mark watched Tom Baxter’s face when he dropped that bombshell. It was obvious the governor didn’t know what Mark referred to.

  Gunfire diminished. The Task Force pulled back. Mark watched the scene below for another second. Ordering death was not in his skill set. This would be a first.

  One of the cartel guards must have misinterpreted the temporary lull for retreat and cartel success. He’d slinked back to the ATV and began pulling several rocket propelled grenade launchers from the bed.

  “Boss. You seeing this?” Brigham asked in disbelief. “Is this guy a moron, or what?”

  The foolish man hurried back to their barricade with his arms full of ordnance.

  Mark turned to Rory. “We don’t owe these guys shit. Finish it.”

  “Cover your ears, guys.” Rory adjusted his own protective headset, and with one last nod to Mark, pressed his thumb to the detonator switch.

  The pyrotechnic display of all that C4 reverberated up the canyon walls. Rocks and gravel slides tumbled around Mark’s team while they hunkered low. A brilliant ball of orange and black fire spewed heavenward like a fiery dragon unleashed from its lair. Cottonwoods in its wake ignited. Smaller explosions rocked the canyon floor as the cloud of dust and white smoke billowed upward, engulfing everything and everyone in its wake.

  No gunfire from below announced the absence of armed survivors, but Mark waved the smoke out of his eyes and waited.

  “Agent Houston,” Special Agent Justin Viera’s voice sounded in his headset. “The enemy has been neutralized. Good work, sir.”

  The Utah Task Force moved in with deliberate caution. Officer Viera stood in the middle of the campground parking lot. He gave the Governor and Mark the thumbs up sign. Tom Baxter returned the wave, but there was no sense of satisfaction in the victory for Mark. The Sonora Cartel was officially out of business in Utah, but his team had suffered an unforgiveable loss.

  “Good work,” he told them. They looked as unimpressed with that statement as he felt.

  “What’s next?” Cassidy asked, her eyes red-rimmed from more than the thick fog of dust in the air.

  Mark shot her the only hope he had to offer. “Ramirez.”

  Crap.

  With a concentrated, herculean effort that cost every last ounce of his strength, Connor flopped onto his stomach. It hurt when he bumped his nose against solid ground, but he had to shield his eyes against the harsh sunlight. Besides, everything else hurt. What was one more pain?

  He lay there and panted from the effort. Squinting into the laser light of that blasted fiery orb in the sky had already baked his lips and eye sock
ets dry. He needed the shade of his hard head to survive. Sunburn stretched its blistering fingers over the parched skin that now rested against coarse-grit desert. There was no relief, only less burn to this side of his body for now.

  An object moved in his blurry line of sight, but nothing as large as the vultures he’d half-expected. The object evolved into a curious horned toad. The goofy thing sat an inch from Connor’s bloodied nose, licking its eyeballs so fast he couldn’t see its tongue move. But then, he couldn’t see much as dry as his eyes were anyway.

  “Hey,” he croaked at his new neighbor. “Get outta the way. I’m gonna... move. Soon.”

  Two beady eyes winked. First one, then the other. Either the toad was not impressed, or Connor was out of his ever-loving mind and seeing things. A man who talked to toads just might be crazy after all. He groaned at the stabbing fire in his side. Every rib hurt. Every breath. And he was thirsty, his tongue as dry as the baby dust devil swirling around him and his new buddy.

  Crap. Am I still in Utah? Must be. It’s hot. Dry. Feels a lot like hell on steroids.

  He decided to move. Baking felt too much like burning to death. Struggling against his own weight, he elbowed his way to his hands and from there pushed to his knees. His face lingered in the dirt, but getting most of his body off the floor of this hellish oven was something all by itself. It dawned on him who had fallen on him yesterday – if it really happened yesterday. Might have been an hour ago. Felt like forever. Time had become an abstract commodity he no longer needed. Only this very second counted. This moment. This breath.

  But where was Izza? She’d been real, hadn’t she?

  Rippling heat waves rose up from the vast desert floor. Sagebrush and rocks came into perspective, but Izza was nowhere in sight. Was he delirious? Had he dreamed her into this nightmare? Licking his parched tongue over gritty lips, he struggled to clear his mind. No, he was positive he’d seen her. She was here somewhere. Maybe she’d walked off and saved herself? Good. It would sure make dying a lot easier. Quieter, too.