One Rough Man pl-1

by Brad Taylor

  Her predicament began to sink in. She tried to talk through the gag in her mouth, to get Miguel to understand there was some mistake. She was ignored. The guard grabbed the manacles around her wrists without even giving her a chance to stand up. No, no, no. This isn’t happening. She was dragged kicking from the room.

  37

  After hanging up, I vaulted the fence and raced to the vantage point I had found earlier. Crouching in the woods, I waited, trying to see one of the guards patrolling the exterior grounds. I focused my eyes on the brick wall surrounding the compound, vaguely lit up enough to allow me to make it out. I used my peripheral vision to pick out movement, knowing that it was better in the night than my primary eyesight. Soon, I spotted a guard moving down the wall.

  I moved in a crouch on a path to intersect the guard, covering the terrain as rapidly as I could without making enough noise to alert him. I closed within fifteen meters of his back and began stalking my prey. When I was five feet away, I closed the distance at a sprint. I wrapped my right arm around the guard’s neck and pressed my shoulder into the back of his head, forcing it down. Kicking the back of his knee, I flung myself backward, pulling him horizontally toward the ground. Our bodies separated like a pair of scissors. We both hit the earth at the same time, the guard on his back and me on my stomach. The force of the fall generated enormous leverage applied through my shoulder directly into the man’s neck, snapping it cleanly. I sat up, grabbed the dead man by his equipment vest, and dragged him thirty feet into the darkness. I began stripping the body, ripping away all of the junk to get to the ammunition for the 416.

  * * *

  Jennifer lay on her stomach inside the warehouse. She was still clothed, but her shoes had been removed to hamper any escape attempt. She could see the implements of torture in the gloom, along with dark brown stains at irregular intervals along the walls. In the corner she saw a pile of clothes and recognized her uncle’s shirt. She began shaking uncontrollably. What the fuck am I going to do? Something… there’s got to be something. Up until now, she had managed to maintain a semblance of self-control because she felt certain that the police or Pike would be arriving to help. People like her didn’t end up shackled in a drug lord’s house. At least not for long. Pike’s comments to Miguel had popped that bubble; she now knew she was on her own. Think… Think… Think. Gotta be a way out…. The door opened, and she saw five Guatemalan men enter the room, all staring at her and smiling. Oh, my God.

  * * *

  The thumb drive worked perfectly, surprising Bakr. In his heart, he hadn’t thought they would actually get the data, and in their rush to get to the hotel, he hadn’t planned a next step.

  As soon as they had arrived, they had seen a red Jeep driven by a man matching the description given by Jake. They watched him and a woman enter the hotel and had barely begun to discuss their options when the man exited alone less than five minutes later, giving them an opportunity they couldn’t ignore.

  Now they had the GPS location to the temple, but they didn’t have a GPS. Bakr didn’t want to return with the data to Miguel’s house, but somehow they needed to get one of the GPSs inside their test package, along with the 3M respirators. While mulling the options over dinner, Bakr decided he would be the only one who went back. Sayyidd would remain in the restaurant with the data, waiting for him to return.

  * * *

  I finished kitting up and conducted a functions check on the weapon, relieved when it appeared to work fine. I had stripped the man of his assault vest, then stripped the vest of the clutter it held. To my surprise, the guard had a plate-hanger underneath his vest, complete with front and back Level III armor plates, rated to stop everything up to 7.62 x 51mm, the primary round used in NATO sniper rifles and light machine guns. What the hell is he wearing this for? I wasn’t going to question it. I was fairly sure I would need the protection.

  I ditched just about everything the man had, throwing away a ton of bullshit accessories that might be useful on Batman’s utility belt but would do me no good. The one thing I wanted that the guy didn’t have was a radio, but that in itself gave me some relief about Machete’s security posture. Body armor and no radio? He’s wearing the kit as a costume. I kept only the three magazine pouches, each holding two magazines loaded with thirty rounds of Hornady match grade 5.56mm boat-tail hollow points.

  For weapons I took the H&K 416 and a Cold Steel push knife, a nasty instrument with a three-and-three-quarter-inch double-sided cutting edge and a “T” handle perpendicular to the blade.

  Satisfied that I had all I wanted from the dead guard, I began to move toward the front gate, using the wall as cover, all the while scanning for cameras or other early warning devices. So far, no alarm had been raised, but it was only a matter of time before the guard I had killed was missed.

  I held no illusions of what I was about to attempt. The standard operating procedure of my last unit prohibited entering a room as an individual. Two people could enter for extreme situations, otherwise three was the minimum, with four or five preferred. I was now going to assault the entire fortress on my own, using a weapon I had never fired, that might not even be zeroed, and certainly wasn’t zeroed for me. I would be lucky if the wannabe I had killed had bothered to sight-in the weapon at all. I had no idea if the weapon had been properly maintained. Should it fail at any time, I would be a dead man.

  As bad as that was, it was the least of my problems. Depending on how many men had left to go chasing shadows at the Plaza Mayor, I was outnumbered upward of twenty to one. In order to succeed I would have to maintain what we called relative superiority, attacking each man individually, or at most two at a time. Should an alarm go up, forcing me to fight a concentrated mass, I would lose.

  Continuing down the wall toward the front gate, I heard a commotion on the other side. A man with a UK accent was shouting instructions in English against the background of multiple vehicles being loaded. I grinned. Fuck, yeah. Get ’em all out of here.

  I waited until all the vehicles had left and was about to scale the wall when I heard movement to my right. I pressed against the brick, trying to squeeze into the shadows. Another guard came sauntering down the wall, moving without a purpose, his weapon slung and his hands in his pockets. I started breathing in a shallow pant, hoping he couldn’t hear it, even though it sounded like an industrial fan to me. He came within five feet, then stopped and turned around, as if he was going back to the gate. What the hell’s he doing?

  Before he could make up his mind about where he was going, I closed on him, trapped his head, and stuck the push blade into the left side of his neck, slicing to the right and ripping out his windpipe and both carotid arteries. I held him upright, aiming the jet of blood away from me, then lowered him to the ground.

  I quickly scaled the wall and raced to the first door I could see, a side entrance away from the massive, ornate entryway in the front of the mansion. I tried the knob and saw that it was unlocked. I paused, mentally preparing for what was to come, my conscious mind screaming for me to flee. Taking a couple of deep breaths, I knew that my next step, like a parachutist jumping out of an airplane, would be irreversible. I can walk away now and live. Not long ago I was one of the most highly skilled practitioners of armed combat on earth. There were maybe eight or ten people in the world who could equal my talent. I used that to psych myself up but knew in my heart it was a lie. Those skills had long since faded, and I didn’t stand a chance in hell of rescuing Jennifer. I was going to die before I got through the first floor.

  Fuck it. I raised my weapon to the position of high ready and turned the knob.

  38

  Lying on the floor, Jennifer stared warily at the men who had entered. So far, none of them had done anything against her, apparently because they were waiting on the word to start the fun. She had no idea what she should do. Should I fight, or simply give in? If I fight, will that only bring on an ass-kicking before the rape, or will they back off? She knew she couldn’t k
eep up a fight for long, and that they could simply hold her down while battering her into submission. She might sustain enough damage to kill her outright. But if I put up enough of a fight, they might be forced to hold me down while they rape me. Maybe I won’t have to take on two or three guys at once. She closed her eyes at the thought; her new definition of success being not all five men raping her at the same time. Dear Lord, help me. Don’t let this happen. Please… Please…

  * * *

  I entered a small room that appeared to be a butler area, stuffed with shelves holding all sorts of kitchen utensils. Swinging my weapon in an arc, I attempted the impossible task of covering three hundred and sixty degrees simultaneously. A frightened man dressed as a servant stood up, throwing his hands high above his head. He clearly wasn’t a threat, but I had no way of detaining him and didn’t have the time even if I could. My success rested primarily on my ability to keep the enemy from knowing an assault was under way, but speed was a close second. If an alarm was raised, the only thing that would keep me alive was keeping the enemy from knowing where to orient their efforts. If I maintained enough momentum, going as fast as I possibly could, the enemy wouldn’t be able to pinpoint my position and would hopefully attack areas after I was through them.

  I squeezed off a double tap to his head and raced to the next door before he even hit the ground. I suppose I should have felt some pity, but there was only relief at the fact that the weapon I held had hit what I aimed at. He was collateral damage. Nothing more. He knew who he was working for. Fucker should have picked a better employer.

  I entered the next room and dropped a man in military kit racing for a weapon propped against the wall. I scanned the room for other targets, settling my sights on another man sitting in a large wing-backed chair smoking a cigar. Apparently a study, the room was paneled with dark wood and lined on one side by a giant bookshelf. The other side housed a fireplace, with the husks of a long dead fire sitting on an iron grate like a blackened skeleton. The man was dressed in a business suit, smiling, with his hands outstretched, the Cuban cigar wafting smoke toward the ceiling.

  “You must be the infamous Mr. Pike. Jake was right — you are full of surprises. I’m assuming you’ve come to bring me my package.”

  I eased off of the trigger. “Where’s the girl?”

  “All in good time. She’s fine. First, where’s my package?”

  I felt the time slipping away, like lifeblood flowing from an open wound. “Where — Is — The — Girl.”

  The man leapt up in a rage, shouting, “Who the fuck do you think you are? You think you can enter my house, attack my people, and walk away unscathed? You think—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, I blew out the back of his head with a high-velocity hollow point, watching him fall backward into the chair. Who do I think I am? I’m the man with the gun, dumbass.

  I moved on, clearing room after room. The majority of the mansion was unoccupied, which made the clearing fairly fast. My assault was only into minute number twelve by the time I had cleared the first and second floors, encountering only two more men, killing both. I went to the third floor, clearing it and finding no trace of Jennifer. I couldn’t believe I was still alive and felt my luck evaporating by the second. Where the fuck is she? Exiting the last room, I moved at a light jog in the direction of the stairs. While I was still twenty feet away, a servant appeared at the top. Seeing me, he whirled around and began racing back down the stairs, screaming at the top of his lungs. I snapped off a couple of rounds but missed. Shit. Now the race is on.

  39

  The lead guard bent down to unlock the shackles on Jennifer’s ankles. She lashed out with both feet, hitting him squarely in the chest and knocking him flat on his back. She hadn’t made a conscious decision to fight, reacting only by instinct. She decided her instincts were correct. Given a choice, she’d rather be beaten to death. Motherfucker’s going to work for this. She rotated on her back, feet out toward the group.

  The other guards laughed at the man she had kicked even as they moved in on her. Two circled around her. She tried to stay with them by spinning on her back, but it was impossible. One slapped her hard in the face with an open hand, stunning her. Two other guards grabbed her manacled arms, holding her down. The lead guard got back up, dusted himself off, and walked back to her. Standing over her, he spit into her face, then stomped on her stomach with his full weight, taking the wind out of her and causing her to double up. He bent down and unlocked the manacles on her legs without a further fight. Grinning at her pain, he pulled out a tactical knife and sliced off her clothes. She curled up in a ball, wondering how long her body had left before it was shattered.

  * * *

  Stairwells were the worst area to fight through. There was no cover at all and only one way to move. It was a funnel that required several men working as a team to successfully clear. I had a choice, either sprint down the stairs in an attempt to beat anyone setting up at the bottom, or wait for them to attempt to come up. I split the difference, deciding to wait for them on the second floor. It was a calculated risk, as it would allow the alert to reach everyone in the compound, but I didn’t like the odds of beating the enemy down three flights of stairs. If anyone was at the bottom by the time I got there, I would be easy to pick off. Better to let them do the hard work.

  The stairs had one advantage in that it would limit the men coming up to two abreast, thus preventing them from bringing their total fire-power to bear, and allowing me to fight no more than two at a time.

  As I reached the second-floor landing I heard the rush of men on the hardwood floor below. I switched magazines, replacing the one in the weapon with a full thirty rounds. I waited in the darkness, my back to the wall, the stairwell opening up five feet to my right. I heard the shouting of the men below as they attempted to organize a collective response, then the pounding of feet on the stairs. I waited for a couple of heartbeats, getting control of my adrenaline. Here we go…. Don’t miss…. Don’t miss. I checked that my holosight was still functioning, then turned into the stairwell, flipping my weapon from safe to semiautomatic.

  I saw seven men rushing up the stairs, the first three with a look of shock when they saw me coming. They were all outfitted like the guard outside. Without conscious thought, I shifted my aim to their heads to avoid any body armor. I began firing controlled pairs, pulling the trigger so fast the weapon sounded like it was on automatic. The first three men died instantly, two perfect holes appearing like magic between their eyes. One fell backward, blocking my shot at the remaining men. The four were firing wildly back at me.

  Like inexperienced soldiers everywhere, their initial shots went high, but with this much lead coming my way, the odds were against all of them continuing to miss. I clipped one in the shoulder and was turning to move back to the cover of the second floor hallway when one of the wild rounds struck me directly over my heart. The armor plate saved my life, but the force from the kinetic energy of the bullet still knocked the shit out of me, causing me to fall backward. Lying back, momentarily stunned, I poured fire down the stairwell in an effort to suppress the guards, desperate to finish the fight before one of them could calm down enough to shoot straight.

  Realizing I was dead meat if I remained on the floor, I forgot about the cover and launched myself straight into them. The one I had wounded was holding his shoulder and crawling back to the first floor in an effort to escape. Of the other three, one was changing magazines and two continued to shoot ineffectually. One of the guards, shooting wildly at my charge, apparently thinking the noise alone would stop me, hit the man standing in front of him in the back of the head, killing him. Deadeye quit shooting, shocked at what he had done. Nothing like a little luck. I killed him while moving at a dead run down the stairs, close enough to see the look of shock on his face as his soul fled his body.

  Continuing to move, I reached the third man before he could work the bolt release of his weapon. I jammed the barrel of the 4
16 into the man’s forehead, causing an imprint of the flash suppressor on his skull and knocking him out. I double-tapped the unconscious man’s head as I vaulted over him, feeling the weapon lock open on an empty magazine. Intent on stopping the man with the shoulder wound from getting away, I wasted no time trying to reload.

  The man was on the ground floor and on his feet, moving toward a door off the huge, cathedral-like den at the base of the stairs. He was shuffling along like Quasimodo, looking back over his shoulder as if he was being chased by the devil, his shattered arm dangling uselessly beside him. I caught him just as he reached the door. Dropping the 416 on its assault sling, I reached across the man’s face, pulling his head back by digging my fingers into his eyes and yanking upward. I hammered his windpipe above the thyroid cartilage with my other hand, crushing it. I let the man fall, his mouth working like a fish out of water, his lungs pumping to get air in through his destroyed windpipe.

  I had now cleared the entire house and seen no sign of Jennifer. Shit. Maybe they took her. I knew I was running out of time. If I was still here when the men from the Plaza Mayor returned, I would be dead.

  * * *

  Jennifer was yanked up from the floor by her hair. On her knees, her hands cuffed to her front, her face swelling from the earlier blows, she looked up at the lead guard before her. He leered down, holding on to her head by her hair.

  He drew his finger across his throat and said, “You no bite.”

  He then unbuckled his pants, dropping them to his knees. The rest of the guards giggled like they were on a school outing to an amusement park, anticipating their turn on the ride.

  Jennifer looked into the man’s eyes, saying, “Por favor… Por favor… Por favor.”

  The man only laughed. She lost all hope. She was nearly catatonic, resigned to the atrocities about to occur. The man let go of her head and began to lower his dingy, stained underwear. She looked up at him again, praying to see some sign of humanity, some shred of decency that would make him rethink what he was doing. Instead, she saw his head explode like a burrito in a microwave. She stared uncomprehendingly as the man fell over backward.