Staff Sergeant Hayes, bloodthirsty for revenge after what the insurgents had done to his friends, pulled the trigger of the SAW. He unleashed a salvo of more than fifty rounds in less than ten seconds, strafing back and forth between the two murderers facing him.
The devastating fire struck the men in multiple places from the upper legs to the lower face. One round shattered the jaw of the insurgent on the right, leaving a bloody hole where the lower half of his face had been moments before. Both men fell to the ground to join their dead comrades. Blood poured from the four bodies and pooled around each, forming a thick mixture of blood and sand.
Captain West surveyed the scene. His breathing and heartbeat remained calm and controlled.
Well, now he knows we’re here. Eight down, at least ten more to go. Let’s see what you do now.
He tapped Gunny Quick on the shoulder as he spoke into his throat microphone.
“Eight enemy KIA out front. Everyone inside the building with Sergeant Helms. Avery, keep the back door open so you can see the south entrance. Hayes, cover the north entrance from the doorway. But both of you make sure you’re inside and under cover. This is where it might get a little dicey.”
A wolflike grin appeared on his face. “By the time this is over, we’re going to kill them all. Let’s get inside. We need to prepare for the next attack.”
Gunny Quick moved from the prone position and stepped around the corner to the entrance of the structure.
What the hell do you have up your sleeve now?
He glanced back at the eight bodies strewn across the compound. He realized his commanding officer was hell-bent on exacting revenge. The raw malevolence in his leader’s voice was undeniable.
Thank God we’re the good guys, he thought, almost pitying the killers outside the compound who had no idea they were dead men walking.
* * *
Over a thousand meters away in a clearing surrounded by small trees, Abu Omar orchestrated the next volley of fire from his four 82mm mortar teams.
Their position was on the other side of the building Lieutenant Williams had spotted at the beginning of the operation.
As a result of its placement, there’d been no way the American forces could’ve spotted it, even during the day. All had unfolded precisely as Abdul Sattar had intended.
Abdul Sattar’s instructions had been clear. He didn’t want to disappoint his spiritual leader and military mentor.
A former math teacher in Ramadi before the occupation began, Abu Omar performed the calculations in his head. He double-checked them, and when he was positive the numbers were correct, he summoned his four teams and issued specific instructions.
Within minutes, the gun adjustments were made. Abu Omar stood in front of all four teams and held his right arm up in the air. When the teams were ready, rounds in hand and suspended over the mortar tubes, he dropped his right arm.
With a loud thump!, four high-explosive rounds were launched at the compound, rocketing through the night toward their intended targets.
PART V
RUN FOR THE BORDER
CHAPTER 34
SAN ANTONIO
31 OCTOBER 2008
0600 LOCAL HOURS
The loud knocking on Logan’s hotel door painfully latched onto his consciousness and dragged it to the surface. He’d been having a nightmare—one he often had since Fallujah—where he was alone and trapped in a house in the desert, all of his Marines dead, their bodies standing like toy soldiers around him in a circle. Their eyes were white, and their mouths moved, but no sound came out.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Something awful was coming.
Logan opened his eyes and shook his head, the images still visible in his mind’s eye.
All right already . . .
“I’m coming!” he shouted, and forced himself to sit on the edge of the bed.
His entire body ached from the previous forty-eight hours, but at least his system had purged the remaining alcohol.
Pathetic. What was I thinking?
He was an alcoholic, and he hadn’t been thinking at all. All he’d cared about was numbing the emotional pain and guilt that consumed him like a ravenous animal.
Even though logic told him it hadn’t been his fault, he still second-guessed his decision to accept that mission in Fallujah on such short notice and with limited intelligence. He should’ve known better. Instead, nearly his entire team had been killed, and each day he saw another sunrise only reminded him of that fact.
“Logan? Hurry up. We need to move!” Mike shouted through the door.
“Give me a second.”
He stood up from the bed and pulled on a fresh Under Armour tee shirt he’d purchased on the way back to the hotel the day before. He was already wearing new boxers to replace the ones he’d worn for thirty-six hours. He’d thrown out the entire wardrobe since it stank of sweat and blood.
Fresh clothes equal a fresh start, he thought and smiled at the cliché.
He walked to the door, opened the dead bolt, and removed the chain. He turned the handle to allow Mike to enter and walked to the bar to turn on the room’s coffeemaker.
As he filled the tank with fresh water and closed the oval coffee package inside the filter, he asked Mike, “What’s so urgent?”
“First, how do you feel? I know you’re fit as hell, but even you have your limits.”
Logan smiled and looked at Mike. “One hundred percent better than I did two days ago. Other than being sore, I’m good to go. Don’t worry about me. What did you get from the drop man?”
Mike nodded, obviously relieved Logan was on the mend, both physically and mentally. “From him? Nothing. He lawyered up. We ran his prints through every database we have in federal, local, and even military law enforcement. This guy’s a ghost. Whoever he was before he started working for this organization, we’ll never know, at least not in time for it to help us. That information’s gone, wiped clean somehow.”
Logan scoffed and said, “I’m not surprised. Whoever’s in charge of this operation has gone to great lengths to ensure nothing leads back to him or his gang of thieves.”
“I know, but it’s just not that simple to hide a person’s identity. You have to have people inside the Department of Motor Vehicles, law enforcement agencies, and even the Intelligence Community. Hell, if you want to create new identities, then you have to have someone in the Social Security Administration who can provide you with real SSNs that will pass scrutiny. And all of that takes two things: money and power.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Like I said, we have nothing from the suspect; however, his cell phone is another matter entirely. While you were sleeping, our tech guys finally arrived from Quantico, and they were able to process his cell phone. We had a warrant issued on its contents before the techs even arrived. The phone company was able to provide call detail records, and we found out that our golden boy made a series of calls and texts to the same number—and get this—they started one day before the attacks on you and John.”
“Is that so?” Logan said as he raised his eyebrows.
“It is. And once the techs had the new number he called, we were able to get another warrant to obtain that number’s data, including locational information. And here’s where it gets good. Are you ready for this? Whoever was using that phone left San Antonio two nights ago. The last hit we had from the phone was here downtown in an office building. We sent agents to it, and it’s now empty.”
“Jesus. These guys have been one step ahead of us the entire time. I’m getting seriously pissed off about it.”
“It gets better. So the owner of that mystery phone received another text—we don’t have what it said; it was encrypted—before the shootout at the Alamo. And this is the really good part. He must’ve left San Antonio and entered Mexico through Nuevo Laredo, because the phone’s now approximately fifty miles west of the city. Once we realized he left US territory, we obtained an order from the FISA Court in rec
ord time in order to keep the lawyers happy. Because the locational data was obtained using multiple cell towers, we don’t have an exact location, but we were able to pinpoint it to within one kilometer. And since it’s Mexico, I talked to our friends in the DEA at the El Paso Intelligence Center. They provided us with satellite imagery of the area, and they think they know where he is. It’s a Los Toros cartel compound.”
Logan shook his head. “Jesus. I guess there really is a purpose for lawyers after all. I’m just glad I went into the Marine Corps. You know I once actually considered law school?”
Mike looked at him in disbelief. “Will wonders never cease? You know you can’t shoot people in a court of law, right?”
Logan laughed. “It was when I was a little more idealistic, when I thought everyone had the same rights. Not so much anymore. Looking back on it, I definitely made the right choice. We’re often our own worst enemies with how we tie the hands of our folks, be it CIA, Special Forces, or whoever. It’s a wonder to me that we haven’t been hit again with another attack on the scale of nine eleven.”
He stopped himself before he continued. “Anyhow, enough of the soapbox. Back to the matter at hand. We should’ve figured as much regarding the cartel. Antonio—the asshole I politely questioned at my house—told us his boss, one Juan Black, worked for the Los Toros cartel. I’d bet you dollars to doughnuts it’s Mr. Black using the cartel as his own personal refuge.”
“I agree. And since he’s our only lead, I’ve already briefed my uncle, who in turn informed the president directly. I’ve been ordered to tell you this before I continue—we’re keeping this information extremely close-hold. As soon as the president found out that our only lead was in Mexico, he called the Mexican president. I have no idea what was said, and honestly, I don’t care. What matters is that we’ve received approval to run a small, tactical operation on Mexican soil. There’s only one catch.”
Logan raised his eyes expectantly as he sipped his coffee.
“How’s your Spanish?”
“Yo quiero Taco Bell,” Logan said with a straight face. “What can I say? I took Latin in high school and college. Benefits of a classical education—not much use, though, south of the border.”
“I kind of figured as much. I always knew you were too smart for your own good.”
“Sarah constantly reminds me of that exact fact.”
“Now that’s the real brains of your operation. Regardless, I don’t think we’ll be ordering takeout, but we will be working with the Fuerzas Especiales, the Mexican naval special forces unit.”
At this information, Logan perked up.
Mike continued, “From what I’ve been told—which is very little—they’re the Mexican equivalent of our SEAL teams. They’ve been tasked with hunting the cartels since Mexico declared war on them in December of 2006. The Mexican president wanted to ensure he has a team to keep tabs on us, and they’re supposedly the best Mexico has to offer. We have the lead, but they’ll be supporting. And this specific unit is reportedly as good as they have.”
“Our own little coalition of the willing, huh?”
“I’m afraid so. My uncle told me—and I quote—‘Whatever it takes, Mike, you have it.’ And this is what it’s going to take right now.”
“I pray these guys are as good as you say they are. Okay. Enough small talk. I’ll go tell John. How soon before we leave?”
“One hour. It’s only a hundred fifty miles to Nuevo Laredo, but we’re landing at Quetzaltcoatl International Airport. The FES—it’s what they go by; short for their motto, which translates into ‘Force, Spirit, and Wisdom’—will meet us there. Grab all your gear. You’re not coming back here.”
“Mike, in case you didn’t notice, I barely have one backpack of stuff, but I’ll make sure I don’t bring my Coach bags.”
Mike’s voice was laced with thick sarcasm as he said, “It makes me cry knowing you know what Coach is. Seriously, brother, I’m concerned.”
“Hey! Now I’m offended. I’m a very cultured individual,” Logan said in mock offense. “And one more thing—you really know how to fuck up a perfectly good morning. Now get the hell out of here so I can call John and shower. Now that I’ve had my beauty rest, I want to get my game face on.”
The grin on Logan’s face chilled Mike as flashes of the Big Bad Wolf popped into his head. The healing wound didn’t help. Except I think he’s more dangerous than that goddamn fairy-tale monster, Mike thought.
CHAPTER 35
QUETZALTCOATL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, MEXICO
31 OCTOBER 2008
1100 LOCAL HOURS
They stepped off the US government Gulfstream jet onto the tarmac in a secluded part of the airport. The day was gradually warming up. At this time of the year, the inviting weather lured tourists from all over the United States to the still-welcoming parts of Mexico, the parts that hadn’t been corrupted by the extreme violence of the drug cartels.
Logan figured it had to be in the midsixties as the sun provided an additional layer of heat. White wisps of clouds crept lethargically across the sky.
Minus the violent cartels, corrupt law enforcement, and horrible economy, not a bad place to visit, Logan thought.
All thoughts of weather vanished from his mind as his attention was drawn to the sight laid out before him one hundred yards away inside the nearest hangar. The large rolling doors were slightly ajar, just enough to provide Logan a glimpse of movement inside. A Mexican man in his late thirties or early forties stood outside the opening, beckoning for them to join him.
John said, “Must be the welcoming committee. I expected a red carpet and champagne—not for you, of course, Logan.”
Logan mumbled, “Asshole.”
John grinned and said, “Trained by the best, my friend—again, that not being you.”
Mike was still amazed, even after all the time he’d spent with both men, at how pointed the jibes between the two continued to be. It was relentless. Must be a Marine thing, he thought, not realizing how correct he was.
“Let’s go see what they’ve got for us,” Mike said.
As the men crossed the tarmac, they heard the propellers from another plane grow louder in the distance. All three men looked around and spotted the US government C-130 begin its final approach from two miles away at low altitude.
“Here comes the backup,” Logan said, referring to the thirteen-man FBI Hostage Rescue Team Mike had requested through his uncle.
“As good as you are, Logan, those guys aren’t too shabby themselves. Don’t forget it,” Mike said.
“A bit sensitive today, Mike? Wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something?” John asked.
“Fair enough. Guess all this world-class travel is getting to me in my old age.” He turned back to the hangar and kept walking. “Let’s go see who our new friend is.”
It was immediately apparent that the man designated to greet them wasn’t a member of the FES. His demeanor wasn’t that of a hardened professional soldier, but more along the lines of a bureaucrat or politician. His hair was jet black and combed back perfectly, and he wore a pair of wireless square glasses. When he spoke, it was with a haughty tone of superiority.
“Special Agent Benson, I presume?” he said to Mike, sticking out his right hand formally.
Mike shook the man’s hand. “Please call me ‘Mike.’ ” He turned his head to acknowledge the presence of Logan and John. “And this is—”
But before he could finish, the man interrupted—not impolitely—saying, “Señors Logan West and John Quick.”
He spoke in quick bursts, pausing every few sentences, as if he’d prepared each statement in his head before uttering it.
“I know. I am Hector Ortega, senior special advisor to the president of Mexico. He called me personally this morning after your president called him. He informed me of everything, and his instructions to me were extremely direct and specific. I am to afford you anything you need to capture this man who is using a Los Toro
s compound as sanctuary. I understand you’ve been briefed on our FES, who will be assisting in the operation.”
He paused momentarily, again producing the impression he chose his words carefully.
“You’re in charge, and our men have been ordered to follow your instructions; however, I must warn you. This is a prideful group of elite men. When I told them they’d be taking orders from an American FBI agent and two former United States Marines? Well . . . let’s just say the response was less than enthusiastic from a few of them. Having said that, they are consummate professionals and will do what is necessary.”
“Mr. Ortega, it sounds like your president picked the right men for the job,” Mike said after a thoughtful moment. “I can relate to their mentality and appreciate their concerns. I promise you, for this mission to be successful, we’re all going to have to work together. This is what we call a ‘combined operation.’ All that matters is capturing Juan Black alive. Whoever he’s working for has been one step ahead of us the entire time, and unless we catch up, the intel we have tells us a lot of innocent people are going to die. As ominous and frankly ridiculous as it may sound, the world will be changed forever. Do we have a mutual understanding?”
“Very well, gentlemen. Please follow me inside,” Hector said, and gestured behind him. “We’re using the hangar as a mobile command post. Let me introduce you to Commander Vargas so you can get started.”
As they entered the hangar, none of the men turned to watch as the landing gear on the C-130 touched down, the wheels squealing on the tarmac. All were too busy appreciating the level of preparedness the Mexican government had demonstrated in establishing the mobile command post, which included two armed guards with HK machine guns who closed the doors behind them and stepped outside to wait for the arrival of the FBI HRT.
Inside, multiple tables had been hastily set up in the middle of the hangar. They were connected to each other and arranged into one large, rectangular workspace. Positioned around the giant table were several military and ruggedized computers, their containers set aside in one corner. A large portable generator—an amazingly quiet one, Logan thought—powered the entire work space. The computers were operated by men Logan assumed were members of the FES team, all wearing dark-green fatigues with a subtle woodland pattern.
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