William Christie 02 - Mercy Mission

by William Christie

  Then something crashed into his ankles and Welsh went down. It was the other one; the man had tackled him even with a broken arm. Welsh didn't fight it; he let himself fall backward, concentrating on holding onto the pistol and keeping his elbows tight against his body. He landed on his back, and the man lunged at him, reaching for the pistol. Welsh did a half sit-up off the carpet and shot the man in the face. He collapsed onto Welsh's legs. Welsh fired once again, point-blank into the top of the head directly in front of him. He was splattered with something wet and solid, and the grotesque sensation spurred him to furiously kick away the heavy limp body and straggle to his feet.

  Welsh refused to repeat the mistake of fixing his attention on one adversary when there was another around. He took five quick steps forward, like marching in a dream, until he was standing in front of the other shooter. The man was slumped sideways against the door with his head down and his arms in his lap, and now Welsh could see the blood and the dark grouping of bullet holes in the center of his chest. He didn't know if the man was dead, but shot him twice more in the head to make sure of it.

  Welsh stood motionless, breathing hard, the pistol clasped in both hands. Suddenly he had the idea that he should lock the door. He leaned over the body and then remembered that the door locked automatically when it closed. He slid the chain on anyway.

  The room reeked of burned gunpowder and shit, the latter released by the two killers in extremis. Welsh was sure of that because he'd checked himself first.

  He had to get moving. Still holding the pistol, he took a fast shower. That decision was first made irrationally, but when the cold water hit his face he realized it was the right one. He couldn't go walking around in public with blood and brains all over him. Then he got dressed with a speed acquired at Officer Candidate School. The day pack was all ready to go. Welsh looked at his watch for the first time: it was 1:06 AM.

  Then he took his first close look at the pistol. U.S. rnilitary issue. A Beretta 92F 9mm automatic, the M-9 in U.S. nomenclature, equipped with a Knight's Armament Company snap-on sound suppressor, an aircraft aluminum tube only five and a half inches long and weighing six ounces. Since the suppressor obscured the pistol's sights, there were front and rear sights mounted on top of the tube. No longer state of the art, but still to be found in some special operations units armories.

  Welsh flicked the safety on and off to de-cock the hammer. Then he removed the magazine, furious with himself for not checking it before. There were only six rounds left, out of a possible fifteen in the magazine and one in the chamber. He'd fired more than he thought.

  The ammunition was subsonic, which was why he'd felt rather than heard all those near-misses.

  Mounted to the pistol frame beneath the barrel was an old Sure-Fire laser sight. It resembled a small flashlight, and projected an intense beam of laser light as an aiming point. This particular model operated in the infrared spectrum, so the laser spot would only be visible through the night-vision goggles each of the killers was wearing.

  Welsh had seen the goggles when he'd pushed the first man away from him, and his experience with them in the Marine Corps accounted for what he'd done next. The goggles electronically magnified low levels of light such as stars, the moon, or infrared sources. But any bright fight was also magnified. When he'd hit the alcove lights the goggle's brief automatic shutdown had given Welsh enough time to pick up the pistol and fire.

  Over-reliance on technology had turned unexpectedly lethal for them. As far as Welsh was concerned, a laser sight was just another complex piece of gear that could let you down in a tight spot. And the laser dot was a dangerous crutch; you ended up concentrating on it rather than the good shooting technique that was the only way to hit what you were aiming at.

  "Should have used a flashlight, come in fast, and learned how to shoot," Welsh said aloud to the two dead men. He removed the laser sight and pressure-pad on/ off switch from the pistol and tossed them away.

  Having put it off long enough, he searched the corpses. The carpet was sticky with blood, and several times Welsh had to choke down bile at the sight of the damage he'd done.

  The one piled up against the door had a small walkie-talkie radio stuck in his back pocket. It was turned off so an unexpected call wouldn't give them away. A radio meant there were others backing them up, inside the hotel or outside. Or both. Faster, Welsh told himself. You're wasting time. They'll get worried and the backup will come crashing into the room. Move fast, but don't move before thinking about it first, he reminded himself.

  They had no wallets or ID, but each carried five hundred dollars in U.S. currency, hundred-dollar bills. Welsh was flattered. He'd heard you could get it done for a hell of a lot less in Guatemala. He stuck the money in his pocket. Their only other possessions were two hotel room keys, a folding-blade hunting knife, and two extra magazines of ammo each, in double-pocket leather belt pouches. They'd carried their pistols in leather belt holsters with openings in the bottoms for the suppressors to slide through.

  Welsh inserted a fresh magazine into the Beretta that was now his. He removed the magazine from the other Beretta and kept that too; it was three-quarters full. He washed off his hands before threading both magazine pouches and a holster onto his belt, pulling out his shirt-tail to conceal them. He also took one of the knives.

  Both men had short haircuts. The pistols were probably more Foreign Military Sales from the U.S. These two were either moonlighting, or had taken up higher-paying work after their hitches ended. In any case, they were second-raters who'd done everything wrong. Other than the terrible hatred that still remained, all Welsh felt was contempt.

  As an afterthought, he took a set of the night-vision goggles and tucked them into his day pack. The one at the door had torn his off after being blinded, so they weren't covered with blood. The goggles were old AN/PVS-7's.

  Then Welsh had a sudden inspiration. He took out his cell phone and photographed the two corpses and the room. He just might need proof that everything had happened the way he said it did.

  Then he sat down on the bed to give a little thought to how he was going to get the hell out of there. But his train of thought was interrupted by a fast series of small-caliber pistol shots. They were muffled but unsuppressed, and sounded as if they were corning from a few doors down. Scanlan's room.

  Fuck, Welsh thought. She'd constantly insisted on shifting for her own self; maybe he ought to slide along and let her do just that. But the only trouble with making the easy decision like that was you had to live with it.

  "Fuck," Welsh repeated, out loud this time. He unzipped the front pocket of the day pack and took out his Surefire flashlight. He opened his side of the double door to the adjoining room, and kicked in the other one. The room turned out to be unoccupied, which saved a lot of heartburn. He crossed it, opened the next adjoining door, and put an ear to the second one that led to Scanlan's room. He couldn't hear anything.

  Welsh backed across the room to give himself a running start. With the Surefire in his left fist and the pistol in his right, he sprinted across the room and hit the door with his shoulder. It cracked open, and his momentum carried him in. He landed on his right side, his hands crossed and the pistol aimed down the flashlight beam.

  Margaret Scanlan was sitting on the bed, dressed only in a bra and panties, listlessly holding a small handgun. She slowly turned toward him.

  "Whoa, Maggie, hold it!" Then he noticed that the slide of her pistol was locked back—she'd emptied the magazine. He got to his feet and stuck the flashlight into his pocket. A body was on the floor, a dark-haired male in his underwear, half a dozen bullet holes in his face and head. If he wasn't dead after that, Welsh thought, somebody better have a silver bullet. "Who's this?"

  "Colonel Patricio Dominguez."

  The guy who'd ordered her brother's death. Major payback. But the story was going to have to wait.

  She was still sitting on the bed. Welsh realized she was in shock. He grabbed her by th
e arm, wrenched her to her feet, and shook her hard. "Get your shit together," he whispered fiercely in her ear.

  "I'm all right," Scanlan insisted.

  She was still way too sluggish for comfort. Welsh shook her again. "Listen to me. Did you have a plan for what you were going to do after this?"

  "N-not really."

  "I didn't think so. Get dressed and packed, right now," he ordered curtly. "One bag you can carry easy. Pack toilet gear, extra socks, rain jacket. Wear long pants, long-sleeve shirt, hiking boots if you've got 'em, sneakers if you don't. Leave everything else. We have to move fast, there's probably more of them nearby."

  It worked; Scanlan was pulling on her jeans. "Then how are we going to make it out of here?" she asked.

  "We're going to have to be smarter than they are," Welsh replied.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Scanlan finished dressing. She'd pretty well snapped out of it, but was still moving much too slowly for a very anxious Rich Welsh. She noticed the pistol in his hand for the first time. "Where did you get that gun?"

  "From one of the two dead guys in my room."

  That stopped her in her tracks, which he didn't want.

  "We'll talk about it later," Welsh said urgently.

  "All right. What are we doing now?"

  Welsh looked down at the body on the floor. "I think calling the police is a dead issue."

  He hadn't even meant that, but it got her fired up nicely. "You think that's funny?"

  "You shot the son of a bitch. Hurry up and finish packing."

  Welsh went back to his room to get his day pack. The rest of the luggage was going to have to stay behind. His eyes happened to fall on the walkie-talkie on the bed. It gave him a very good idea. Most people could come to a decision, given enough time. One thing about the Marine Corps, they trained you to do it with no time.

  Welsh returned with his pack on his back, carrying a metal wastebasket. Scanlan was ready. She had a travel bag with shoulder straps like a backpack.

  "Okay," said Welsh. "If we go out the door or a window right now all we're going to be are two perfect targets. We won't get far on foot at one in the morning; we need a car. So we're going to utilize a little deception."

  "Could you be a little more specific?"

  "We'll get everyone in the hotel out of their rooms, to stir up a little confusion."

  "How are we going to do that at one in the morning?"

  "Start a fire."

  Considering the situation, she surprised him by saying, "What if someone gets hurt?"

  "They won't, and it's better than dying." Welsh quickly told her what he wanted her to do.

  They went to the unoccupied middle room. Welsh picked up the phone and called the desk. "Fire!" he shouted in Spanish. "Call the fire department! Fire!" He slammed down the receiver.

  They turned out all the fights in the room, and Scanlan stood by the door. Welsh took the walkie-talkie out of his pants pocket and turned it on. He pressed the talk button and rubbed his fingernail back and forth across the speaker while whispering urgently in Spanish, "He escaped, he escaped! Out the back window! On foot, heading east! Running into town!" Welsh released the button.

  Scanlan had a look of admiration on her face. "You're a very devious person."

  "The scratching makes noise like static, and everyone sounds the same when they whisper."

  Voices erupted from the speaker, all fighting to get through. "What did he say?" "Where did he go?" "The east, you idiot." "Where?" "The east, the east." "Roberto, come in." "What happened in there?" "How did he get away?" "Forget that, you idiot, get after him." "Shut up! Listen! Everyone, head east and cut him off!"

  Scanlan shivered. "Well, we know they're around."

  "It's going to be a real clusterfuck out there," Welsh said happily. "We'll give them a few seconds to start running in the wrong direction." He opened his bottle of alcohol-based aftershave and emptied it into the waste-basket. The basket was stuffed with a polyester window drape he'd sliced up with his newly acquired knife.

  Welsh drew back the slide of the Beretta to be sure there was a round in the chamber. He was okay now. The flip side of terror was adrenaline, and he was riding a pump so powerful it felt like he could rip the door off its hinges. The pistol felt right in his hand. He whispered, "Now!"

  Scanlan yanked the door open. Anyone waiting to blow Welsh's head off would look for it to appear at normal height. He squatted down and bobbed it out low, using the doorjamb as cover, searching for targets right and left.

  There was no one outside. Welsh was surprised, but the bad guys had done everything else wrong so far. Then he reminded himself that they only had to be lucky once.

  Scanlan set the wastebasket down on the concrete walkway and tossed in a complimentary hotel match.

  The basket burst into flame, and they were off. They ran in a low crouch down the covered walkway, so they'd be concealed by the bordering shrubbery. As they went by each room they pounded on the door, screaming, "Fire! Get out!" in three different languages. Reaching the protection of an alcove at the comer of the building, they stopped and ducked in.

  "God, look at all the smoke," Scanlan said.

  "Those man-made fibers are better than a smoke grenade," Welsh replied.

  People were beginning to stumble out of their rooms. Welsh couldn't remember ever seeing such a wide range of sleepwear. In particular, there was one admirably endowed lady who had only managed to escape her room in a filmy robe and spike heels. He must have been devoting particular attention to her difficulty, because beside him Scanlan muttered, "Oh, for crying out loud."

  The hotel fire alarm went off with an earsplitting howl.

  "Bingo," said Welsh. He snapped open a paper bag and slid it over the Beretta to keep from alarming the other guests. He could fire just as easily through the bag.

  "Now?" Scanlan asked anxiously.

  "Patience. Let the crowd get a little thicker."

  Sirens could be heard in the distance.

  "Okay," said Welsh. "Go."

  They ran toward the parking lot, and by now they were just two of many people running around the hotel grounds. They reached a clump of bushes and Welsh pushed Scanlan down in between them.

  "Wait here," he said. "I've got to scope out my jeep. It may take some time to make sure no one's around. Don't get impatient, don't come looking for me, don't stick your head out. Just wait right here until I come back."

  "I understand English."

  "Super," said Welsh. "Just do what I said."

  He made a long, slow circle around the entire parking lot, slipping in and out of the surrounding trees. He didn't see anyone, but found it hard to believe they'd all run off and left the lot unguarded. He sniffed the air but there was no cigarette smoke, always a tip-off. He even took a chance by standing up in the open for a second or two, and didn't attract any undisciplined gunfire.

  Then he caught the flare of a match in a car parked on the road just outside the parking lot exit. Welsh worked his way around behind the car and was able to make out two men inside, one holding a walkie-talkie up to his ear.

  The fire-engine sirens were getting closer. The whole street would soon be blocked to traffic. A good plan violently executed was always better than a perfect one attempted too late. Welsh was moving so fast now, he barely thought about it.

  He held the paper bag across his chest, with his right hand inside it gripping the Beretta. The safety was off, and he kept his finger away from the trigger. Both men in the car had their attention fixed on the parking lot and the fire trucks coming up.

  Welsh walked quickly up the dirt road. Running would make too much noise. As he got closer he stayed in line with the driver's-side taillights so he'd be hard to see in the rearview mirrors.

  He'd just passed the rear bumper when the driver heard something and stuck his head out the window to look. Welsh extended the paper bag and shot him through the ear. The paper bag blew open, and a stream of blood jetted fr
om the bullet hole. Welsh was even with the window before the passenger could pick up the submachinegun in his lap. Even if Welsh trusted the stopping power of the 9mm round, which he didn't, you didn't shoot someone a couple of times and then stop to see if they could still pick up their weapon and kill you with it. Welsh fired until the man fell back on the door, then leaned in to put one more round in his head.

  The driver's head was hanging out the open window. Welsh put his foot on it and pushed the head back in the car. He couldn't do anything about the blood and tissue that had run down the door.

  He looked around, but everyone in the vicinity was concentrating on the fire trucks and the building with a pall of smoke hanging over it.

  Running back into the parking lot, Welsh slapped a new, full magazine into the Beretta. He came up to the clump of bushes and hissed, "Maggie!"

  Scanlan's head appeared between the branches.

  "Let's go," said Welsh.

  When they reached his jeep he tossed her the keys. "Drive it out the exit. I'll be waiting there."

  As he watched the road, hidden beside the car containing two dead men, Welsh suddenly realized that if the Guatemalans had been even moderately thorough and wired a bomb to his jeep, he could shortly expect a very loud explosion. Too late to do anything about that now. He'd gotten her out of the hotel; now it was her turn to put her ass on the line for the team.

  But there was no explosion. Scanlan drove up, the jeep shuddering each time she popped the clutch. She saw him, stopped, and slid over to let him take the wheel. "I'm not too great with a stick shift," she explained sheepishly.

  "No problem," said Welsh. He pulled out into the road and hooked a hard right to stay away from the fire engines and police that were roaring up.