The Polaris Protocol

by Brad Taylor

  One of the guns reached down and pulled the man’s head up by the hair, and the suit began to interrogate him. They spoke in Spanish, but, having grown up in Texas, Jennifer could understand the gist of what was said. She visibly reacted when she heard the words reporter and phone, the suit waving a cell in front of the man’s face. He turned away, and the suit nodded at the gunman still holding his hair. The gunman cranked the man’s head until he could do nothing but stare at whatever the cell phone showed. The suit yelled again, and the target spit a glob of bloody phlegm onto the phone.

  The suit jumped back, holding the cell away from his clothes. He shook it, like a man flinging filth off a shoe, his hands holding the phone between two fingers. Not able to get rid of the goo, he cursed and tossed it to the other gunman, eliciting a laugh from the enforcer holding the man’s hair. The suit began questioning again.

  Jennifer struggled to keep up with the conversation. Struggled to find an anchor for her brother, searching to translate the Spanish in her mind and failing. She saw the suit bend over the man and whisper in his ear. She unconsciously leaned forward, straining to hear. She heard what she believed were the words honor, trust, and death. She closed her eyes, focusing all of her concentration on her hearing. She heard an explosion of noise, a concussion that snapped her eyes open, and she knew what it was.

  Gunshot.

  She saw the suit rise from the body, the head punctured right between the eyes. The suit handed the weapon to the gunman, then walked to her.

  She looked up at him, and he said in English, “Sorry for making you wait, but we had a few other matters we needed to attend to.”

  * * *

  Looking at the target house through night vision, Knuckles said, “Well, this is possibly the goofiest plan I have ever heard. Outside of The Boondock Saints, that is.”

  I said, “Really? You’re a SEAL. Goofy Hollywood bullshit is what you do.”

  He put the NODs down and said, “You really think this car will let us penetrate?”

  “I know it will. They’re waiting on me to show up in the trunk.”

  After getting the go-ahead for the Prairie Fire, I’d traveled into Mexico using my stolen car. I’d stopped short of the border and camouflaged the blood splatter on my clothes with dirt from the side of the road, making my shirt look like I worked at a mechanic’s shed rather than a slaughterhouse. Proud of myself, I’d approached the Mexican checkpoint like a hundred other beat-up sedans, but mine drew instant focus.

  It had dawned on me why immediately: I was in a car that they were supposed to let pass with no issue. But now there was a gringo driving it solo. I had sat behind the wheel in a panic but showing nothing outwardly. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Then I realized that it was smart. I could use this asset.

  I’ll pull an Entebbe to get out Jennifer.

  When the border official approached and asked a question I didn’t understand, I just stared at him, locking eyes until he backed down, giving him the death glare that he wanted.

  He waved me forward, and I drove to the international airport coming up with a plan. In 1976, Israel had rescued ninety-eight hostages inside Uganda by landing on the airfield posing as the Ugandan president, Idi Amin. They’d driven a Mercedes specifically designed to look like Amin’s off the aircraft, complete with presidential flags and other adornments, and had lulled the opposition. Instead of questioning the aircraft, Idi Amin’s soldiers began scurrying about in a panic at the surprise visit. The end result was one of the greatest hostage rescues in the history of warfare. And I was now driving the Mexican version of Idi Amin’s Mercedes.

  I’d met Knuckles at the Abraham González International Airport’s fixed-base operator center for general aviation, having already rented an SUV at the main terminal. Away from the commercial hub of the international concourse, it was a small island still in the land of make-believe. Every FBO I had been in catered to the richest bastards on the planet and thus had no security whatsoever. If you could afford to fly a plane in here, then you were clearly on the up-and-up.

  Knuckles had brought the Gulfstream IV that was “leased” to my company, Grolier Recovery Services, and it was still loaded with a package. Meaning it had all manner of death and destruction embedded in the nooks and crannies of its frame that I could use, from suppressed sniper rifles to full-on explosive breaching charges.

  He and the team, of course, had been a little confused at the change of direction. We’d talked in the FBO conference room, a perk provided for folks flying in on general aviation in an attempt to lure corporations back to Ciudad Juárez. When I’d closed the door, Decoy had been the first to speak, in a subdued tone I’d never heard from him. “Is that blood on your shirt?”

  I said, “Yes. Before anyone says anything, I understand that you have no standing here. No cover for status. No protection. If something goes wrong, we’re in a world of hurt.”

  I paused, judging the reaction and not getting a lot of love. I continued. “You’re probably pissed that I left Turkmenistan early, and I understand that, but I need your help. Jennifer is being held by the same group of savages that I’m wearing on my shirt. I need you to focus on that and forget the implications. I don’t want any Taskforce bullshit here. We will not get out clean. I can promise that. If you don’t want in, then say so now. I can’t order you to do anything.”

  I had waited on the response, wondering what the answer would be. It came from Knuckles, of all people. My friend, and now my Judas. He said, “Jennifer, huh? So this is personal?”

  I turned to him, shocked, and saw a grin.

  He said, “What the hell are you babbling about? We got a Prairie Fire alert for a teammate. You going to give us a plan or sit there begging?”

  I stood for a moment with my mouth open, about to let fly a few choice words until what he said sank into my brain. Relieved, I laid it out. The whole crazy Idi Amin plan.

  It had sounded great at the FBO, but now, as I stared at the house with night vision, it wasn’t looking so hot. In fact, it looked downright suicidal.

  Since I had Jennifer’s phone in her bag, along with her tablet and the digital recorder from her brother, there was no way to track her actual location. All I had was the last known location of Jack’s phone, which she’d pinpointed on her earlier ludicrous recce attempt. As much as I had berated her before, it was now my only anchor.

  The house was set up on a hill with a circular drive leading to it, sitting about two hundred meters past a large iron fence with an electronic gate. Outside, on the front porch, were two watchers, both armed with some type of long-gun variant of the AR-15. Probably sold to them by our Justice Department. On the circular drive was an old sedan like the one we were sitting in, which I was convinced had transported Jennifer.

  All we had to do was penetrate the perimeter fence and get up to the front door. No small task, but while waiting on Knuckles to arrive, I’d conducted my own recce and studied the gate, seeing no cameras or speakers or anything else to check on arrivals. While I watched, a car had approached and had simply sat outside for a moment doing nothing, then the gate had opened. I couldn’t prove they weren’t talking on cell phones, but I was fairly sure they simply let in anyone they expected. And they were expecting me in a trunk.

  I said, “You ready to roll?”

  “Yeah. No sense waiting. This either works or it doesn’t.”

  I turned around to the backseat, getting confirmation from Retro and Blood. I started the car, and Retro said, “Hope Decoy can hit them. I don’t like a Navy guy watching my back.”

  I pulled into the slot in front of the gate and said, “You’d rather have a Marine?”

  Blood, from the back, said, “As a Marine, given the choice, I’d much rather be on the outside shooting right now.”

  I said, “You’ll be shooting soon enough.”

  We waited, headlights to the front, wonderi
ng if we were going to initiate a firefight just by being here. After a pause, the gate triggered, the giant piece of iron sliding to the right on its track, slowly inching open. When it was enough for the car, I proceeded forward, saying, “Remember, no shots early. We need total surprise.”

  I continued up the drive at a slow pace, watching the gunmen on the porch. They showed no alarm. I keyed my radio. “Decoy, you got both?”

  “Yeah. A little spread, but no issue.”

  “You got to hit them quick. I can’t have a gunfight right out front. The first thing I want them to hear is the breach.”

  “Roger all. Good luck.”

  “Luck starts with you.”

  We reached the end of the drive and paused, our headlights blinding anyone from seeing the death inside the car. The man nearest to us approached, nonchalantly walking toward the driver’s door. I opened it and swung my leg out. I saw his jaw drop in surprise when he was finally able to see inside, then his head split open from a suppressed sniper shot. The second man, still not understanding, remained on the porch, fiddling with his long gun. He took one confused step toward us and his head snapped back. He collapsed into the wall, then rolled forward in a heap.

  I said, “Game on.”

  And we launched to the front door.

  24

  The suit squatted down until he was at eye level with Jennifer. “You may call me Carlos.” He pulled a laminated card from his pocket and said, “From your identification, I see you’re Jennifer.”

  “Where is my brother? What have you done with Jack?”

  Carlos’s eyes widened slightly, and he looked back at the ID. “Jennifer Cahill. Yes. I didn’t make the connection before. Jack said he’d just called a friend. So you’re family?”

  “Yes. We’re family, and I want him freed.”

  He said, “I would think you’d be more concerned about what we’re going to do with you.”

  The words caused Jennifer to inwardly flinch, but her face betrayed no fear. A few years ago, in Guatemala, she’d been in just such a position and had barely survived. Back then, Carlos’s threat would have been paralyzing, leaving her catatonic, but she’d learned a thing or two about survival since. The fear did nothing but sharpen her will to live.

  She said, “Where’s my brother?”

  Carlos appraised her for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. I respect your courage, so I’ll tell you. I don’t know. We had him, but he was taken from us. I thought it was by the US law. I now know it was by a competitor.” He pointed at the dead man behind him. “That traitor fed our information to our enemies. They have him now.”

  Jennifer closed her eyes, fearing Jack was dead. Just like her uncle had been in Guatemala.

  Carlos said, “What I want to know is what he told you.”

  She took a breath, starting the dance she knew was coming. “I never even talked to him. All I got was a voice mail message.”

  Carlos tapped her ID against his thigh, thinking, then said, “I’m sorry, but that’s not good enough. I need to know everything he said.”

  “You can check my phone. Listen to my voice mail. I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Unfortunately, your phone hasn’t arrived yet. But I will do that, make no mistake. I need to know what he told you off the voice mail. How much did he say about Predator drones? This will go easier if you talk now. By the end, you’ll be screaming all you know anyway.”

  Predator drones?

  She shouted, “Nothing! I never talked to him. I’m just an anthropologist. I don’t know anything about drones.”

  Carlos smiled. “An anthropologist, huh? Answer me this: If you never talked to him, how did you know what motel he was at?”

  “He told his editor where he was staying. That’s all.”

  Staring at her, Carlos whispered, “And did the editor give you the address to this house? Is that why you crossed the border and drove right to this location earlier today? Was it the editor who killed my men so that you could escape?”

  Jennifer felt her face blanch, searching for an answer that would make sense. When nothing came out, Carlos continued. “Yes, I see you understand. Your story doesn’t ring true, does it? I will have my answers. How did you know to search for this house?”

  Before she said anything she heard a beep. He pulled a cell from his pocket and listened. When he hung up he said, “Looks like your partner is finally here.”

  Jennifer felt a brief glimmer of hope, relieved that Pike was alive.

  Carlos stood and said, “We’ll see what his story is, but I can promise it won’t be as gentle as this conversation.”

  He nodded at the gunman who’d caught the phone and both walked up the stairs, leaving her alone with the final man. She felt the spark of hope snuffed like an ember dropped in water.

  The gunman stared at her stoically, holstering his pistol and not saying a word. He was crossing his arms over his chest when a large crack split the air, causing dust to sprinkle from the ceiling. The man gave a slight jump, his hands out from his sides, staring up, confused by the noise. Jennifer understood completely.

  Yeah, my partner’s here, asshole.

  * * *

  The door splintered inward as if it had been cloven by a giant ax, large sections of wood spearing into the walls inside. We entered before the shock wave had even settled, guns and eyeballs flowing in like water out of a split in a bucket.

  I focused on my sector and ignored the spitting of a suppressed HK UMP to my right, only registering that a potential threat had been eliminated. I saw a man exit a room ahead, apparently startled awake at the sound of our explosive breach. He raised an AK-47, yelling commands, and I pumped two rounds into his chest. He dropped and I continued on, the lead man in the stack. I heard Retro shout, “Door,” and held up, covering down a hallway.

  I heard it breached with a shotgun, then the sharp crack of a weapon from inside followed by the low pops of our suppressors. Three seconds of silence and I felt someone tap my shoulder. I leapt to my feet and jogged down the hallway.

  * * *

  Jennifer rolled onto her back, tucked her legs, and raked her arms up. The cuffs caught on the soles of her shoes for a second. She wriggled and jerked, ripping the skin on her wrists before they broke free. She leapt to her feet, hearing gunfire erupt from above. She took two hops at the guard as he began to turn. She threw her hands over his head, cinching the chain of the handcuffs into his neck. She rotated around until they were back to back, then bent over, raising him off the ground by the chain alone, the metal biting deep into his windpipe.

  He wheezed and gurgled, flailing his hands in the air. She strained her arms, feeling the cuffs digging into the flesh of her wrists. She rose on her feet and bounced, once, twice, and felt his neck snap. She tucked and dropped him over her shoulder. Untangling her cuffs, she ripped his pistol from his holster and sprinted toward the stairs, one thought in her mind.

  Get the man with the phone.

  * * *

  A door to my right swung open, and I raised my weapon, fingering the safety. A flash of dirty-blond hair filled my HoloSight, and I recognized Jennifer.

  I felt a wave of conflicting emotion but shunted it aside immediately, leaping past her to cover the far side of the door. I keyed the radio and said, “Jackpot, jackpot, jackpot.”

  The team collapsed around her in a protective bubble and I heard, “Pike, Decoy. Got a squirter leaving in your infil vehicle. You want me to engage?”

  I locked eyes with Jennifer and smiled. “Negative. We got jackpot now. Move to exfil Bravo. We’re too deep into the house and we’re going to need your breach of the fence.”

  “Roger all.”

  Jennifer, her hands cuffed and holding a Glock, said, “Pike, there’s a guy here we need to find.”

  Unlocking her wrists, my smile fading, I keyed the radio again.
“Decoy, continue to exfil, but don’t breach the fence until I call.” I heard, “Roger,” and said to Jennifer, “Your brother? He’s here?”

  “No. But there’s a guy with a phone that’s the key to his location.”

  I tossed her cuffs to the ground and brought my weapon back to high ready. “Forget him. We’re out of here.”

  I started getting the team moving when Jennifer said, “I’m not leaving without that phone!”

  Knuckles looked like he was going to lose his mind. He backed up to her, still focusing on his sector of fire, and hissed, “What the fuck is it with your family and drug lords? I’ve never seen someone get in more trouble than you.”

  Two men scrambled down a staircase we’d passed on entry, spilling into the hallway and firing pistols. Retro and Blood cut them down, but the narrow confines of the corridor were a funnel of death and a stupid place for a discussion. I said, “Keep going toward the back of the house. We’ll clear the route to exfil. If we find him, great. If not, we’re leaving as soon as we hit an exit.”

  Jennifer grimaced but nodded. We started moving at a fast jog down the hallway, bypassing rooms and looking for an exit. Leaving uncleared sections of the target was like pulling my teeth with a pair of pliers, but I wasn’t looking to kill everyone here. All we wanted was to find Jennifer and we’d done that. My team wasn’t big enough to dominate the building, and getting into a gunfight now was just asking for someone to get hit.

  We reached the end of the hall and broke into a large den set up like a conference room, a long oak table upended at the far side with gun barrels hovering over it, French doors showing the lawn of the backyard. The barrels began to spit fire and I broke left, shooting on the run and diving behind a couch, while Knuckles went right. The rest of the team met a fusillade of bullets, and I saw Retro go down while Jennifer leapt back into the hallway.

  I began to suppress the table with controlled pairs and shouted, “Back out, back out!”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Knuckles dragging Retro through the door. One man rose an inch too high behind the table, his weapon snapping forward, and I stroked the trigger, popping him upright before he fell backward. The firing went into a lull as they all ducked. I seized the opportunity, retreating back into the hallway, jerking Retro the final way behind the cover of the wall.