by Don Mann
“Okay. Where?” Akil asked.
“Where what?”
“Where do you want us to move the trucks?”
“Down the road somewhere, away from the front gate so they can’t be seen. Wait there when you’re finished photographing the dead men. We’ll find you.”
The big brown horse looked anxious to move. Crocker was in a hurry, too. He grabbed it by its mane and jumped up and slid onto its back. The horse shuddered and neighed.
“How long are you gonna be?” Akil asked.
“As long as it takes.”
Using the heels of his boots, he coaxed the brown horse from a trot to a gallop. Rotors of an approaching helicopter echoed in the distance. The thick night air caressed his face, reminding him of the last time he’d ridden a horse at night, as a teenager on his cousin Johnny’s farm in New Hampshire—which seemed like a lifetime ago.
Reaching the square tin-roofed terminal building, he tied the stallion to a lamppost and searched. His NVGs had bit the dust somewhere in the house, so he flipped on the Maglite he carried in his low-profile vest.
A concrete airstrip stretched to his left and right and faded into darkness. Over it swirled thousands of mosquitos and other insects. He heard a siren wail in the distance. The half-moon hung crooked in the sky.
The door to the little terminal was locked, so he kicked it open and surveyed its contents: a desk, a radio, navigational equipment, and a Pirelli calendar with a naked Kate Moss leering at him from the wall. Judging from the dust on the surface of the desk, it hadn’t been used in weeks. In its drawers he found some cans of soda, a loaded .38 revolver, a receipt for Jet A-1–type fuel, a chart with the variable costs of operating a Learjet 60XR per hour, a serial number (N662MS), and the purchase price ($8,950,000) and seller (Maxfly Aviation).
He stuffed the documents and the revolver into his utility pouch and moved on.
The hangar was more of the same—tools, jacks, tire blocks, spare tires, drums of Type K lubricant, a repair manual, men’s overalls, cables, ropes. But no people, or anything to indicate that anyone had used it recently.
He worried for a second that maybe they had missed the other hostage in the house, and he didn’t want that on his conscience. If Ritchie had been there, he would have told Crocker not to torture himself with what-ifs. Something like: Do what you can, boss, and move on.
The horse reared as the roof and second floor of the house collapsed, releasing a tremendous cloud of embers. Crocker ran his hand along its neck and tried to calm it down.
Sensitive creatures. There was nothing he could think of to do now but try to get out alive. Remounting, he considered the ride back to the Tapachula airstrip, where Jenson waited. As far as he knew, there was only one road back, and that would be teeming with Federales.
With no appetite for a stint in a Mexican prison or worse, he considered alternatives. The idea struck him that it might be better to have Jenson and his men fly the Gulfstream and pick them up here. That way they could get the hell out of Mexico and find medical attention for the Clark woman in another country.
He’d been so focused on keeping her alive and getting her out of the house, he didn’t even ask her about her daughter. He steered the galloping horse wide of the burning house and out the gate. It was breathing hard, and its back and sides were covered with a foamy sweat, so he stopped.
Without a headset or cell phone, he had no way to communicate with anyone.
A pair of headlights flickered twice from behind some thick foliage to his right. Crocker slid off, patted the horse, and tied it to a tree. Frogs and cicadas croaked loudly around him. He made out Mancini sitting in the passenger seat of the pickup, adjusting the sight on his MP7. Akil stood beside the Explorer, parked behind the pickup.
“Where’s Suárez?” Crocker asked.
“He’s in the back of the pickup with Mrs. Clark,” Mancini answered.
“She okay?”
“Breathing and alert.”
Crocker found Gomez behind the wheel of the Explorer, looking like he was about to jump out of his skin.
“I want you to call Jenson and tell him to meet us here,” Crocker said, leaning in the window.
“How’s he going to do that?”
“He’s gonna get in the goddamn plane and have the pilot land it on the landing strip behind that wall.”
“That’s a crazy idea.”
“Maybe. But it’s the only way this is gonna work.” He pointed past the fence behind him. “Give him the approximate location. Tell him we’ll light the runway up if he needs us to.”
“Bad idea.”
“Why?”
“The Mexicans are gonna get here first.”
“Call him.”
“I don’t think—”
“Give me the fucking cell phone and I’ll do it myself.”
Gomez acquiesced and dialed. Crocker meantime instructed Akil to see if there was another gate to the property closer to the landing strip. Then he went to check on the woman sitting up in the back of the pickup still wrapped in the bedcover.
Suárez knelt beside her, relating a story about his grandfather’s involvement in the Bay of Pigs invasion in Cuba.
“You okay?” Crocker asked, leaning over the side of the truck and feeling along her neck for her pulse, which was strong but quite a bit faster than normal.
“My throat and chest hurt, but I’m better,” the woman answered. “Did you find my daughter?”
“We’re still looking, ma’am.” Crocker used the back of his hand to wipe sweat and blood from his forehead. “When’s the last time you saw her?”
“Yesterday, or the day before. I lost track of time.”
“Here at this house?”
“I’m not sure. I was drugged.”
Her pupils were dilated and her skin felt hot.
“You warm enough, ma’am? You need water?”
“Suárez’s been taking good care of me.”
“Any difficulty breathing?”
“Not really.”
“If Suárez’s boring you, tell him to shut up. We’ll have you out of here soon.”
Akil clipped the lock on the rusted gate at the other end of the property, then waved them in. They entered, the pickup first, then the Explorer. Crocker instructed Gomez and Mancini to park the vehicles inside the hangar; then he returned the horse to the stables. From outside the little terminal building they watched the first of two fire trucks enter through the main gate.
“Lousy-as-shit response time,” Mancini announced.
The house was now a pile of smoldering embers.
Following the firefighters came the Federales in two pickups, an armored personnel carrier, and a jeep.
Crocker said, “Everybody stand on the other side of the building so we can’t be seen.”
They were approximately two hundred yards from the main gate, but he didn’t want to take any chances. “No lights, no loud noises or sudden movements. Akil and Manny, you keep an eye on the Federales and form a perimeter.”
“Sure, boss.”
Gomez’s cell phone lit up. It was Jenson. Gomez said, “Yes, sir. Tell us what you want us to do. We’re ready.”
Crocker grabbed him by the elbow. “What’d he say?”
In the distance, the Mexicans were inspecting the bodies on the driveway. Red-and-blue lights flashed across the trees and sky.
“They’re following the Coatan River, direction east-northeast, and are approximately five minutes away,” Gomez reported.
“Tell him to stay on the line. They might not be able to see the airstrip through the smoke. Tell the pilot to keep an eye out for the fire trucks and flashing lights.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Where’s Suárez?” Crocker asked.
Mancini nodded toward the hangar. “He’s inside with Mrs. Clark, keeping her company.”
“Good.”
He borrowed Akil’s NVGs and watched from the corner of the hangar as two more truck
loads of Federales arrived. They stood in a clump inside the front gate near a firefighter in yellow who was pointing out positions throughout the property.
Then a group of black-uniformed Federales hopped into one of the black pickups and drove past the far side of the house. Crocker watched headlights wash the back fence, then inch along the back of the estate and turn left. It would be only a matter of minutes before the Federales reached them. He didn’t want to risk another gun battle, or the possibility of Mrs. Clark’s being seized again.
Still, he did a quick inventory and found that all that remained were three partially filled mags for the MP7s, four handguns with one mag each, one M870 shotgun with four buckshot shells, and three percussion grenades.
Hearing footsteps, he turned and saw Gomez hurrying toward him and pointing at the sky.
“Here they come!”
“Tell Suárez and Mrs. Clark. Get everyone ready and meet in front of the shack.”
Seconds later, he heard a roar. Then the wing lights of the Gulfstream IV came on, illuminating the haze over the runway.
Crocker was sure that the Federales had spotted the plane already, and he saw the concerned expression on Mancini’s face. To his left, Mrs. Clark slowly walked out of the hangar, wearing a pair of men’s overalls and leaning on Suárez’s shoulder.
“Where’s the pickup?” he whispered to Mancini.
Mancini pointed over his right shoulder at headlights near the pool cabanas, approximately seventy-five yards away.
“This is gonna be close.”
“Real tight.”
They watched the Gulfstream land, race toward the end of the runway, brake, turn, and taxi toward them. Fortunately, the Mexicans were passing behind the cabanas and not in a position to fire at it yet. Since the plane had landed north to south and turned around, when it taxied to take off, it would be traveling north and away from the truckload of Federales.
Crocker calculated they would never be able to board everyone in time.
Turning to Gomez, he said, “Tell the pilot to keep the engines running. Tell him the enemy is on our tail, so we have to make this super-quick.”
“Yes.”
“Akil, you and Suárez help everyone aboard, close the door, and tell the pilot to leave. Manny, come with me.”
“Where’re you guys going?” Akil asked.
“Don’t worry about us.”
“We’ll wait.”
Crocker: “There’s no time.”
“No.”
“You go. We’ll fight our way out.”
“Boss—”
“Don’t argue. Just do it! Now!”
He and Mancini ran, crouched at the far corner of the shack, and readied their weapons. The pickup was out of view for a moment, in a gully at the near end of the stables. He saw the Gulfstream come to a full stop, saw the side door open and the stairway deploy.
Hurry!
Gomez ran toward it first, then Akil and Suárez, who was helping Mrs. Clark. She tripped and fell on her way up the stairs. Akil and Suárez supported her.
Fucking hurry!
The Federale pickup came up the berm and immediately opened fire. A big machine gun, either a .30 or .50 cal, clanged on its bed. Bullets whizzed past them in the direction of the plane, which stood completely vulnerable, like a delicate white bird.
Crocker heard the jet engine whine higher and, turning to Mancini, screamed, “Now!”
The two SEALs jumped out from behind the building and fired everything they had in a ferocious salvo of bullets that shredded the truck’s front tires and shattered its windshield. Mancini groaned, grabbed his right knee, and fell to the ground. The pickup swerved left, looking for a second like it was about to turn over, then righted itself on the concrete runway. It seemed to gain speed as it chased the jet.
Crocker was trying to take out the soldier firing the .50 cal when his weapon went dry. Instead of searching his vest for another mag, he tossed the MP7 aside and picked up the M870, which was preloaded with an M1030 cartridge.
The pickup raced past, forty feet away, machine gun rounds careening off the runway. The jet started to lift off the ground.
Crocker, utilizing some Kentucky windage skills he’d picked up, fired at the truck as the jet roared into the sky. The cartridge slammed into the truck’s side. A second later the gas tank exploded and the machine gun stopped firing. The pickup veered off the concrete strip, hit the ground in front of it, and turned over onto its back.
“Good shot,” Mancini groaned from the ground.
“You okay?”
In muted light Crocker saw that Mancini was in the process of ripping his pants leg, which exposed a bloody area under his knee.
“I got nicked. Must’ve hit a nerve, because my leg went numb,” Manny said.
“You need me to carry you?”
“No. Leave me here.”
“Fuck that.”
Chapter Sixteen
Intelligence is the ability to adapt to change.
—Stephen Hawking
They were on their own with little ammunition, Mancini’s bum knee, and several truckloads of angry Federales closing in on them. Crocker made a beeline for the hangar, where he found the Ford Explorer. Thankfully, Gomez had left the keys in the ignition.
Sweating from every pore in his body and breathing hard, he fired up the ignition, spun the vehicle around, drove to where Mancini was waiting, helped him aboard, and exited through the side gate in a cloud of dust.
Bullets ripped into the back of the SUV, shattering the rear window. Crocker operated completely on instinct, driving hard with the headlights off and turning right, down a dirt path that led in the direction of the river.
“I don’t think this is a road,” Mancini said as he wrapped the wound under his knee and covered it with a white bandage.
“It is now. How’s the leg?”
“I’ll manage.”
In the rearview mirror he saw the headlights of the Federales’ vehicles less than ten yards behind them. A helicopter banked overhead, its searchlight sweeping the canopy of trees.
The vehicle bounced hard down the pitted path. Branches scraped the sides, producing a horrible screeching sound. After several hundred yards, the narrow path ended with concrete steps and a broken concrete embankment that angled down sharply to the wide gravel bed and then the river.
“I got half a mag left,” Mancini said, holding his MP7 and turning to look behind.
“Hold on.”
Crocker braked first, then eased the Explorer down the steps to the embankment at a forty-five-degree angle. The vehicle jolted violently from side to side, scraping bottom over sections of concrete that had risen due to changes in the topography of the river. Several times it was in danger of flipping onto its hood or turning over sideways.
“How’s your knee now?” Crocker asked.
“Hurts like a motherfucker.”
A Vietnam-era UH-1 Iroquois helicopter swooped low in front of them and unleashed a stream of bullets that tore into the hood. A hot piece of metal grazed Crocker’s cheek, but he kept pushing the SUV forward and found gravel. Engine growling, the Explorer lurched forward and entered the river with a splash.
“Get ready to swim.”
Water rose past the wheels to the hood. Crocker gunned the accelerator, and the tires spun over wet gravel and rock.
“The engine’s gonna flood,” Mancini warned.
The tires spun and gradually gained traction, causing the vehicle to plow through the ten-foot-wide ribbon of water to the other side.
“Frisky mofo.”
“We’re in Guatemala now,” Crocker announced, steering the smoking Explorer up a sandy embankment into some low trees.
“Is that good or bad?” Mancini asked.
The helicopter swooped in low over the river again.
“Watch out!”
They ducked behind the dash together, but the helo didn’t fire. In the rearview mirror Crocker saw the two Federale
pickups stop on the other side of the river. Armed men jumped out with automatic weapons ready. But instead of taking aim, they spat on the ground.
“Looks like they’re gonna respect Guat sovereignty,” Mancini announced.
“They’re probably notifying their counterparts in the Guatemala police right now.”
Their next challenge was getting past the Guatemalan border guards, who Crocker didn’t feel like wrangling with. He took what he hoped was a detour through back dirt roads that wound up into low hills dotted with little coffee and marijuana farms. As he tooled down a narrow country road, windows open, the engine coughed and the SUV lurched and sputtered to a stop.
“What happened?” groaned Mancini.
“I think we ran out of gas.”
“Fuck.”
Crocker had three hundred dollars in cash in the heel of his boot in case of emergency. This certainly qualified, so he got out and walked ahead toward some dim yellow lights. He made out an old man sitting on the front porch of a dilapidated house smoking a pipe.
“Buenas noches, Señor,” Crocker said.
The old man pointed at the moon and said, “La luna se lloro esta noche.” (“The moon cries tonight.”)
Crocker nodded but didn’t understand. “Tengo…mi auto, ahi,” he said, trying to recall his meager Spanish. “Muy grande problema. No más gasolina.”
“¿Necesita gasolina?” the old man asked, rising slowly and looking deeply into Crocker’s eyes. He didn’t seem to mind the fact that Crocker’s face, neck, and arms were covered with cuts and abrasions. Instead, he nodded and pointed to a twenty-year-old faded-red Datsun 510 sedan parked under some banana trees by the side of the shack next door.
“¿Este tiene gasolina?” Crocker asked.
“Viene aqui.” The man escorted Crocker to the shack next door, talking in Spanish the whole way. He knocked on the door and entered. A chubby young woman sat in a T-shirt and shorts embroidering a blouse as incense burned on a table covered with statues of saints in the corner.
The old man spoke to her in a language Crocker didn’t understand, then pulled Crocker outside. The woman followed on bare feet.
