Breathless, Jake slid off the dead man, clutching at his bleeding hand. He retrieved the flashlight from nearby and examined his wound, a nasty red hole ringed black with gunpowder. The bullet had passed clean through, but the hand was useless to him now.
Jake took off his shirt and used the fabric to stanch the blood flow. He staggered over to Solomon and, with the flashlight, saw where a bullet had struck the Kevlar. Jake pulled the makeshift shield away to reveal Solomon’s panic-stricken face.
“I did it,” Solomon said. “I kept quiet. I kept quiet.”
The boy’s cheek was red and bruised, marking the spot on the Kevlar where the bullet had struck.
“Yeah, you did it,” Jake said in a shaky voice.
Jake’s body was covered in blood, dirt, grime, and smeared greasepaint from his camouflage, but Solomon took no notice. Relief radiated off the boy like light from a star. The good vibes didn’t last long. Jake’s ears filled with sounds of footsteps and gunshots. The third man was coming, and fast. Light from one of the dropped flashlights revealed the location of Jake’s Glock. He took a wobbly step toward the gun. It seemed so far away. Jake felt completely enervated, and his breathing bordered on hyperventilation. Pain commanded every nerve in his body. Even if he reached the gun, Jake hadn’t trained at weak-hand shooting.
“Get that shield back up,” Jake said to Solomon. His voice came out lacking authority. Solomon got his protection back in place.
Jake assessed the probability of his getting to the gun before this armed man appeared and started shooting. It was somewhere between zero and none. The shirt wrapped around Jake’s injured hand was already heavy with his blood. His vision came in and out of focus. He was going to lose consciousness at some point, he could feel it, and those footsteps were getting louder. But Solomon’s body blocked the only way out.
Jake swallowed hard and took another uneven step toward his weapon. From behind, Solomon shouted, “Hey! Hey!”
Jake spun around just as Solomon vanished into the hole. Somebody must have grabbed his legs and used tremendous force to yank him through. A second later, Andy, flashlight in hand, poked his head through the opening where Solomon had been stuck.
“Dad!” Andy yelled. “Let’s get out of here. It’s go time.”
Jake didn’t need a second invitation. He spun around and slid through the narrow opening just as a hail of bullets came screaming from the darkness.
CHAPTER 48
Fausto Garza stepped over the lifeless bodies of Efren and Armando so he could take aim at the man at the end of the hall. Rage owned him. The mission was gone; he had nothing left to salvage.
Fausto did not know how many fighters his team had gone up against. Five? Had to be that number, at least. His entire team was dead, that much he knew. He also knew that he had followed the wrong path. While Efren and Armando went to investigate the commotion they heard, Fausto followed the other trail, thinking they could have split up. He wasn’t sure what had made him turn around. Instinct, perhaps. At some point, he knew he had fallen for a trick and so he returned.
As this played out, Fausto contemplated his options. They were limited. He could hide in the tunnels, but eventually he’d be found. They’d bring dogs down that would sniff him out like a fox in the hunt. He could try to escape into the woods, but he could be caught. The response from law enforcement would be intense, massive. The game was over, but there remained one thing for Fausto to accomplish.
Revenge.
Efren’s and Armando’s bodies meant nothing to him. They were just carcasses, pieces of meat. What mattered to Fausto was whoever had put them down. He would shoot at anybody he found down here. Though bullets to the body would not provide much satisfaction. He’d prefer to flay those responsible alive. No matter what happened, Fausto would not be taken into custody. Oh, no, he wouldn’t. He would go out in a fiery blaze of bullets, like the outlaw he believed himself to be. He was born into a world of violence and death, and he refused to leave it any other way.
But a question burned in his mind, one he did not know would ever be answered: What happened to Soto’s money?
The kids would have given it up if they had it, Fausto believed. He had guns to their heads. The countdown was no joke. The money really was gone. Soto would take over from here. He would keep up the hunt and never rest. Money was like air to that man—it kept him alive.
Fausto leveled his assault rifle and uncorked a flurry of bullets that would have taken out the knees, had the man up ahead not vanished through a narrow opening. Fausto screamed with rage and sent a volley of gunfire into the concrete. Some of them might have flown through that hole, but Fausto had a feeling his bullets hadn’t killed anybody.
And so the chase was on.
“Go! Go! Go!” Jake screamed as he shoved Solomon hard from behind to hurry the boy along.
He had no weapon and no plan but to flee from his pursuer as fast as possible. Jake was well aware his son had just saved their lives. But that was seconds in the past, and irrelevant now. They were sprinting once again; this time, Andy, with flashlight in hand, was taking the lead. The blood-soaked shirt functioned as a pretty decent makeshift bandage, but the pain in Jake’s hand was brutal and throbbing. It pulsed with its own beating heart.
From behind, Jake heard the crack of gunfire and felt a burning sensation tear up the back of his leg. A sharp, stinging pain followed. The force of the bullet’s impact knocked him down as if a baseball bat had struck him from behind. Lurching as he fell, Jake skidded on the ground, jarring his shoulder painfully on impact.
Andy whirled and saw his father splayed on the ground behind Solomon.
As he stumbled back to his feet, Jake screamed, “Run! Run!”
From the dark, Jake heard a taunting voice call, “Did I hit you? I hope so! I have plenty more where that came from!”
Andy came toward his father, but Solomon went the opposite direction and vanished into darkness. Jake understood why. Somebody was coming up behind them.
Andy aimed the Ruger at the hole they’d just crawled through and fired enough times to empty the magazine. The hole was a good twenty meters away, but it looked like Andy shot with tremendous accuracy. The ringing in Jake’s ears was now as persistent as the throbbing in his hand. Andy helped his father to his feet. The bullet had just grazed the back of Jake’s leg. He was hobbled, but could walk.
Making their way in the darkness, Jake and Andy caught up with Solomon just before they came to a tunnel branch on the left, which led to the exit under the Terry Science Center. Andy was first to go that way. For a moment, no bullets came at them. Whoever was in pursuit had slowed. Even if someone did fire at them, they were safe unless the ammunition happened to be smart enough to make a sharp left turn.
Shirtless, sweating, covered in filth, blood, and violent-looking scratches, Jake’s chest heaved as he fought to take in as much air as possible.
“The others?” Jake asked as he removed his belt. He quickly secured the belt around his injured leg as a second makeshift tourniquet.
“Safe,” Andy said. “They went into the woods, and I came back to look for you.”
“You and Solomon get out of here, take the exit,” Jake said.
“No, I’m staying with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“That’s Fausto,” Andy said in a shaky voice. “I heard his voice. He’s the worst of them all, Dad. Please don’t stay. You can’t fight. You can’t shoot. Let’s get out of here.”
“He’ll follow you. All of us. We can’t risk it. You’ve done enough, son. Get going. Now!” Jake barked the command.
Andy flinched a little. They had no time for arguing. This was about survival, and Andy listened and understood. He and Solomon took the exit, but they left Jake with the flashlight. Jake used that light to watch them go. When they were out of sight, he emerged from the relative safety of the branch and returned to the main tunnel. Only one target remained.
Fausto.
/> Jake would not leave this final job to the government or to law enforcement. He trusted no one but himself. Nobody from the cartel could leave this place alive. The only way to safeguard his son, and the others, was to protect their identities. If Fausto had yet to pass that information along to his boss, then the last man who knew them by name was coming this way.
Jake slipped out from the tunnel branch and was on the move again. He walked loudly, and as he went, he smeared on the walls the blood that seeped from his injured hand. There would be no question which path to follow.
Fausto wasn’t going to waste ammunition. He could fire at that opening until all his bullets were gone, but it would accomplish nothing. No, he had to go through the hole in the wall, same as the others. If anybody waited in ambush, he would make an easy target, but retreat was not an option. Caution was tempered somewhat by blind fury. He went in headfirst, shooting rounds from his rifle to provide some cover, and emerged from the hole into a section of tunnel dark as the others. His flashlight allowed him to see somewhat, but the rifle was useless to him. He couldn’t fire effectively one-handed. His pistol would have to do. Fausto’s prized gun was his Glock 37, with gold accents and mother-of-pearl grips. The gun was a totem to the pistol Carlos lent him back in Ciudad Juárez many years ago—the one that Fausto had used to commit his first murder.
Fausto paused and took stock of his surroundings. Nothing ahead looked unusual. No sounds. No signs of life. He proceeded at a cautious pace. At one point, he checked the pistol’s magazine and saw only six shots left, plus one chambered round. He was down to one magazine for his assault rifle, and seven shots in the Glock.
Fausto heard footsteps; sound carried well down here and he discharged two bullets in what surely was a wasted effort. He set off at a quick pace, and it was not long before he came upon the blood smeared along the tunnel wall. He saw a branch to his right, but he followed the blood, expecting the trail to vanish. It did not. It continued. It wasn’t like the fabric or crushed flare that had tricked him before. Something human had left this stain. Fausto imagined an injured man using the wall to keep himself propped up, and the notion pleased him.
He followed the trail of blood like a shark tracking an injured fish.
CHAPTER 49
Jake made frequent checks behind him as he went. Fausto was coming, that much was certain. He could hear him, but not see him, which was fine. More than enough blood pooled from Jake’s injured hand to coat the walls, but at some point he wouldn’t have enough left in his body to keep him upright. Still, Jake knew where he needed to go. Having a destination kept him motivated and moving. The leg was bothersome, but not crippling. The tourniquet seemed to be working well, another positive Jake used to spur himself on.
As for his thoughts, Jake kept those task-oriented. Return to his bug-out location. Get to his weapons cache, where he had plenty of ammunition. This became a mantra of sorts. He had used mantras in baseball on plenty of occasions, and it proved valuable here as well. “One step at a time” replaced “One pitch at a time.” Repetition kept Jake alert and in the moment as he traveled through different sections of tunnel, while leaving behind enough of a bloody trail for Fausto to follow.
When necessary, Jake crawled on his belly to clear the low ceilings. He navigated successfully through crumbling archways and over-corroded pipes without incident. His injured hand produced mind-numbing pain at times and required special protection. He favored his good hand when forced to clear a particularly difficult obstacle.
Despite his extensive injuries, Jake moved briskly, somewhere between a walk and run. Markers spray-painted on the walls revealed his position as he journeyed underneath the Terry Science Center, the library, Gibson Hall, and the Society Building, where he’d shot a man dead. Soon enough, Jake was back in the section of tunnel that hid his bug-out location.
It was here Jake retrieved a Smith & Wesson .22 LR—rimfire pistol, good for target shooting, maybe a little recreational fun, but not ideal for gunning down drug cartels armed with assault rifles. It was all that Jake could shoot. He held the gun in his left hand and gazed at the black barrel, noticing now how his vision came in and out of focus. He did not have long.
Jake aimed the weapon. It was shaky in his weak hand. He would need his target perfectly still to make a kill shot. In this condition, Jake was all but guaranteed to lose a gunfight—or, for that matter, any other type of hand-to-hand combat.
But like any good prepper, Jake had a solution.
In his storage room, Jake kept plenty of .22 long-rifle ammo sealed inside military 50-caliber BMG ammo-storage cans. The cans were made of metal, with handles on top that made them easy to stack. A latch closed the cans tightly, and a rubber seal inside helped keep moisture out. He could store ammo for years this way, and it was just as good as a vacuum seal, Jake would say. He kept his bullets inside Ziploc bags, with a packet of silica gel thrown in for good measure to suck up any excess moisture. Each can held six Ziploc bags with 150 rounds. Jake didn’t want that much ammo going off. He wanted fifty bullets at most. Enough to do the job.
Jake checked the ammo in the Smith & Wesson before he slipped the pistol into the waistband of his pants. He next opened a can of ammo, using his good hand, and returned to the larder with a Ziploc full of bullets. He formed a pile of ammunition, fifty rounds give or take, in the center of the room, which he soaked with gasoline from one of the many canisters stored down there. Working quickly, Jake made a trail of gas from the pile of bullets to the wall just to the right of the door, where he took up position. He checked that his Zippo lighter worked, which it did just fine.
Soon enough, he heard footsteps approaching. Fausto had followed the blood trail to the bug-out location. Cast-off light from a flashlight grew brighter. Jake had been wrong. Sometimes death did schedule an appointment.
A smile came to his bruised and battered face. For some reason, “The Star-Spangled Banner” had popped into his head, a song that he cherished for the many fond memories it evoked. It was game time—that was why it had come to him so suddenly, so out of the blue.
When the moment felt right, Jake lit the Zippo and let it fall from his grasp. Easiest pitch he’d ever thrown. Straight down. The flame caught the gas and, with a whoosh, a trail of fire lit up. It soon engulfed the pile of ammunition inside a contained ball of flame.
Jake knew what happened when ammo caught fire. Bullets didn’t go whizzing around like they’ve been discharged from a gun. Cartridge cases burst open, sure, and bits of brass might go flying about, but not with any velocity. Wouldn’t even puncture the skin if it struck. The bullets wouldn’t explode in one big simultaneous burst, either, but rather piece by piece.
A cartridge case confined to a chamber of a gun was a different matter. A gun caught in a fire would shoot a bullet at full velocity, and that risked injuring or killing Jake. But this was a show—The Show, as the big leagues were called—and Fausto was part of the game, though he didn’t know it just yet.
Soon the bullets had started popping, one by one. It sounded a hell of a lot like gunfire. Jake observed the position of the flashlight beam and knew right away that Fausto had taken cover against a tunnel wall. He inched closer toward the door until he could poke his pistol into the larder. Fausto proceeded to fire blindly into the room. It was a bit imprudent to shoot without a target, but there was some logic. He could shoot at the sound without exposing his body to return fire.
The bullets from Fausto’s weapon smacked against the walls of the larder, damaging only sacks of rice. The popping sounds continued, and so did Fausto’s dispensing of bullets. This time, he poked the barrel of an assault rifle into the room and let off fifteen rounds. He covered most of the room, except for the wall where Jake waited. Soon enough, though, Jake heard a click, followed by another. Fausto had shot all his ammo at nothing but a diversion.
In that next instant, Jake’s arm shot out. He snatched with his left hand, giving the barrel of Fausto’s rifle a hard yank.
The gun came free of Fausto’s grasp, and Fausto came stumbling into the larder, off balance, with his long hair rising up behind him like a silky wave.
With a snap of his wrist, Jake pulled the pistol from the waistband of his pants and fired off a single shot, which hit Fausto’s arm, but missed the head. Damn left hand! The bullet’s impact sent Fausto to the ground, but he was quick with the leg and used it to sweep Jake off his feet.
Jake went down on his back, hard. Before he could react, he felt weight on top of him, and a hand clawing for the Smith & Wesson. Jake resisted as best he could, but soon enough Fausto pulled the weapon from his weakened grasp.
Panting, Fausto stood to take aim. His mistake. Jake sent his leg skyward, right into Fausto’s unguarded testicles.
Jake heard the air hiss out of Fausto’s lungs, along with an agonized cry. Fausto doubled over in pain and staggered backward into the adjacent storage room as Jake struggled to his feet. In a way, Fausto had stumbled into a more advantageous position. He had gained some distance, and still had Jake in his direct line of fire. But Fausto was in too much pain to aim his weapon, so the gun in his hand hung useless at his side.
Frozen where he stood, Jake briefly contemplated running. Maybe he could get out of the larder, maybe down another corridor, but he would not get very far. He would eventually be gunned down. Those deep-set eyes of Fausto shadowed a rage Jake could feel in his bones.
Jake’s opponent wasn’t moving very quickly. The pain in Fausto’s groin had turned his movements into molasses; but Jake, shot in both the leg and hand, wasn’t in much better condition. He couldn’t quite catch his breath. Fausto looked away as he got steady on his feet.
During this brief interlude, Jake reached behind with his left hand, his good hand. Without taking his eyes off Fausto, he grabbed a can of beans, which was stored on a low shelf within arm’s reach. Jake brought his arm to his side and held his hand in such a way as to hide the object he had taken.
Constant Fear Page 30
