Tires screeching, the SUV launched forward and raced through the parking lot.
“Contact. Right side!” yelled Alpha.
Carlos responded slowly, blood still gushing from his collarbone area. Given the bullet’s angle of entry from above, his wound could easily be fatal without immediate treatment. David moved to the opposite side of the rear bench seat and stuck his barrel through the window slit, searching for the target Alpha had called out and finding him, sprinting from the service station to a thick palm tree at the edge of the parking lot. Both Carlos and David fired short bursts into the man’s chest, crumbling him to the pavement.
David continued firing at anything that moved to their right, while Carlos shifted his aim through the partially missing windshield.
“Contact. Dead ahead,” said Carlos, firing the rest of his magazine. “Reloading.”
A torrent of hollow metallic thumps and sharp cracks reverberated inside the SUV as the front and right sides of the vehicle absorbed and deflected dozens of bullets. A warm stream of bright red blood sprayed across the back of David’s neck, drawing his attention to the front seat. Carlos’s head tilted left at an odd angle, blood pumping out of the right side of his neck. Alpha was crouched forward in the driver’s seat, the front lip of his helmet pressed against the top of the steering wheel. A half dozen or more cartel gunmen ran wildly through the bushes ahead of them, firing on full automatic.
“Turning left!” said Alpha.
David quickly changed rifle magazines and readied for the turn, while Alpha grabbed Carlos’s rifle with one hand and jammed the barrel through the passenger side window. When both rifles were in position, Alpha eased the SUV into a shallow arc, putting the mob on David’s side of the car. They worked the rifles back and forth, firing short burst after short burst into the gunmen. Caught in the open, less than thirty feet away from the SUV, the cartel group was obliterated by the 6.8-millimeter broadside.
David pulled his weapon inside the vehicle and aimed over the backseat through the rear lift gate window, witnessing the impact of their mobile firing squad. The gunmen lay in a motionless, tangled heap of bloodied bodies behind them.
He started to pull another magazine from his vest when Alpha yelled, “Contact. Left! North face of the motel!”
With no time to reload, and the clear plastic side of the inserted magazine indicating fewer than five rounds remaining, David flipped the selector switch to semiautomatic and searched through the window for targets. He located three men clustered together, firing wildly at the second SUV in the abandoned lot west of the motel. David’s first bullet missed, striking the wall above one gunman’s head and drawing their attention—and bullets. As rounds smacked the glass and thudded into the door frame protecting him, he switched the rifle to automatic and waited for the car to pull even with the group.
“What the fuck are you waiting for?” yelled Alpha.
He pressed the trigger, hitting the closest gunman in the sternum with the last bullets in his magazine and sending the man standing behind him careening back against the wall. The second man bounced to the concrete, and the first fell on top of him.
“Oh,” said Alpha. “That.”
David’s armor-piercing bullets had easily sliced through both men. As the remaining gunman ran for the east side of the building, David reloaded for the next round of threats.
Alpha drove across the back parking lot, barreling through a row of low bushes to pull into formation twenty feet behind the SUV carrying the Fishers. David switched sides, ready to blast away at any vehicles or gunmen in their way. The SUV in front of them skidded into a high-speed turn on Mariposa, its wheels quickly gripping the pavement and catapulting them west on the four-lane road. Alpha followed, fishtailing their truck before regaining full control.
Once the SUV steadied on Mariposa, David checked the road behind them. A few armed men stood in the middle of the road firing at them—rapidly shrinking away.
“Clear in back,” said David.
“We’re far from clear,” said Alpha. “Check Carlos.”
He didn’t have to spend more than a few seconds assessing the operative’s condition. The bullet that had entered through the right side of his neck had punched a hole straight through the back, likely severing his spinal cord. Blood pumped weakly through the entry wound, his heart fading. David didn’t think the hemostatic bandages or bullet plugs would make a difference at this point, but gave it a try—the least he could do for someone willing to step into harm’s way on his behalf. David started to open the individual first aid kit pouch attached to the side of his tactical vest.
“Forget it,” said Alpha. “He’s gone.”
There was no point in arguing. Even if they could slow the bleeding, which he seriously doubted, Carlos would die long before they could reach a medical facility capable of treating his wounds.
“I’ll pull him in back,” said David.
“No. Hand me his seat belt. He’s better off strapped in the front seat.”
“Keep him from flying around in a crash?”
David pulled the seat belt latch across Carlos’s body until Alpha could reach it.
“That and he’s one more layer between you and a bullet,” said Alpha, clicking the seat belt into place.
“What’s the plan?”
“Simple as it gets. You watch the back. I got the front.”
David knelt on the rear bench seat, nesting his rifle against the headrest. Still nothing behind them. “I meant the bigger plan,” he said. “You didn’t stumble on us by accident.”
“The bigger plan is getting you somewhere safe,” said Alpha. “And no, it wasn’t an accident. We’ve been following you since Mexicali with a tracking beacon. Jose wasn’t confident in your ability to survive on your own. Turns out he was right.”
A yellow pickup truck with oversize tires swerved onto the road several intersections behind them, followed by three or four sedans.
“We have company,” said David. “What’s the more immediate plan?”
Alpha craned his head back to look, muttering a curse and leaning on the gas. “Drive north on Interstate 19 and try to reach Jose before the cartel reaches us.”
“How far away is he?”
“A little over thirty minutes. And I expect we’ll run into a roadblock or two ahead. This should be fun.”
David loosened a few spare magazines in his vest, readying them for the inevitable battle they’d fight to get out of Nogales.
CHAPTER 45
Nick Leeds ran down the strip mall sidewalk toward Mariposa Boulevard. He’d lost contact with Olmos after hearing two explosions, and the volume of gunfire suggested that Chukov’s mercenaries had stumbled on more than just a roomful of weary travelers.
He paused next to a boarded-up window at the edge of the strip mall and knelt. Automatic gunfire erupted from a group of cartel gunmen hiding behind the corner of a gas station, answered by suppressed weapons fired by shooters somewhere in the parking lot.
More gunfire crackled out of sight to the west, and Leeds risked a look around the wall. Two gunmen lay in the middle of Mariposa, past the back parking lot exit, their executioners concealed. Tires screeched from the inner parking lot directly across the street, followed by a long burst of gunfire. A dense row of bushes lining Mariposa blocked his view of the exchange.
He considered sprinting diagonally across the street to a row of thick palm trees lining the service station entrance, but decided against it. He was pretty sure tungsten-carbide armor-piercing bullets could penetrate a mature palm trunk. No point in finding out the hard way.
He scanned the area around the service station, looking for El Pedro’s obnoxious pickup truck. Where the hell did that idiot go?
The Sinaloa jefe, his only conduit to the cartel teams stationed around the motel, had bolted into the parking lot outside the community college after the first explosion. Squawking excitedly into his handheld radio, the Mexican had hopped into the bright yel
low, lifted-chassis beast and driven off without him.
Heavy footsteps pounded the concrete behind him. He turned to see several heavily armed Mexicans sprinting toward him on the strip mall sidewalk. Leeds yelled in broken Spanish, trying to warn them about the pitched gun battle going on in the motel parking lot, but they brushed him aside and ran headlong into the street.
“Shit,” he muttered, pausing for a few seconds before leaving the cover of the building to follow them.
When Leeds reached the middle of Mariposa, the cartel soldiers disappeared through the bushes, leaving him alone on the street. Glancing up and down the wide, empty boulevard, he got the distinct impression that he had made a mistake. A sharp hiss to his immediate right confirmed it. Leeds dived to the pavement and aimed his MP-20 toward the bushes. Several snaps passed overhead, mixed with agonizing cries on the other side of the dense foliage line. The sound of a revving engine and crackling tires joined the lethal medley, convincing Leeds to crawl as fast as possible to the curb.
He pressed the length of his body parallel to the eight-inch-high concrete lip, resting the MP-20’s hand guard on the top of the curb. Leeds lay motionless, hearing a short burst of suppressed gunfire a few seconds later. The shots sounded farther away, but he had no intention of leaving his concrete shield to investigate. The Mexicans who’d run recklessly into the motel parking lot had been slaughtered.
Two identical silver SUVs, matching the description of Fisher’s vehicle, screeched onto Mariposa from the empty dirt lot behind the motel and turned west, away from Leeds. A few cartel gunmen ran into the road shooting from the hip, having no effect on the SUVs.
An unnatural silence enveloped the street for a few seconds, suddenly shattered by the approaching sound of El Pedro’s obnoxiously overpowered and unmuffled pickup truck. Leeds scrambled off the street as the yellow monstrosity rocketed out of the motel parking lot, followed by a Mad Max fleet of souped-up sedans and SUVs.
Leeds brushed himself off and listened, hearing a few moans and cries from the direction of the motel. Figuring it was safe enough to approach, he leveled the MP-20 directly in front of him and moved carefully through the bushes. He found what he expected on the other side—six men sprawled on the pavement, riddled with holes and bleeding out. A few limbs stirred here and there, the men connected to them groaning.
He moved on, scanning left to right. Two more bodies by the northwest corner of the motel. A bloodied pair under the walkway, halfway down the building. A lone corpse lying in one of the parking spaces toward the far end of the lot.
What the hell had happened here? Where were the Russians?
As he moved deeper into the parking lot, the fate of Chukov’s team came into focus. The balcony walkway next to room 204 had been devastated. Splintered sections of scorched railing clung stubbornly to the walkway’s buckled frame. Hundreds of bullet holes stitched across blood-streaked doors and walls. A rifle barrel protruded over the edge, a lifeless head resting facedown behind the weapon’s scope. From what he could tell, the Russians had been caught in a lethal cross fire reinforced by grenades. Judging by the volume of fire directed at the walkway, he didn’t expect to find any of Chukov’s team alive—not that he cared one way or the other.
His first priority was to find Olmos. Leeds had no intention of leaving him in this dump, dead or alive. He walked toward the office, analyzing the extent of the damage. Windows blown out, door intact. Minimal scorching on the curtains. He suspected the use of a directional charge, like a claymore. The real devastation would be found on the side facing the alley.
Two rooms down from the office, light gunfire damage to the walls and frame around an open door suggested an ambush position—a shooter hidden in that doorway would have an unobstructed view of the Chukov’s team as they closed in on the Fishers’ room on the second floor. Dozens of shell casings on the sidewalk outside the room reinforced his theory.
He opened the chain-link gate next to the office and moved past the empty pool to reach the alley. The scene behind the office was no more encouraging. The side of the car facing the door was riddled with evenly spaced, symmetrical fragmentation holes—characteristic of directional antipersonnel mines. If Olmos had been inside the room when the mine detonated, there was no way he could have survived.
Leeds approached cautiously, keeping a close eye on the far end of the alley. He started to breathe shallowly when he reached the dumpsters. The odor hanging in the air was excruciatingly rancid. The dumpsters were locked, so he guessed that the nauseating smell originated from the office.
The wide bloodstain between the building and the car escaped his attention until he was a few feet away from the door. Olmos? He aimed the MP-20 into the dark room beyond the opening and leaned slowly to the left.
“Hola,” said Leeds. “¿Está alguien en casa?”
“‘Hello. Is anyone home?’ Jesus, Nick. You need to brush up on your español,” said a familiar but very weak voice.
“Ray,” said Leeds, “I’m stepping into the doorway.” Caution was in order. Olmos sounded like himself, but if he’d lost the amount of blood the stain on the ground suggested, he could be delirious.
“I won’t shoot unless you look like you’re going to cut bait and run.”
“I wouldn’t leave you in this shithole.” Leeds neglected to mention that he would have jumped in the bed of El Pedro’s truck to pursue Fisher if the cartel boss had stopped for him.
“You might change your mind when you see what you’re getting into.”
Leeds stepped inside the sweltering room, immediately spotting the remains of one of the Russians through the haze. Or at least he assumed the tangled mess of ripped flesh and limbs deeper in the room had been one of the mercenaries, as he knew he’d heard Olmos’s voice, and only two men had entered the office.
He found Olmos sitting on top of several spilled garbage bags, his back against the exterior wall. Leeds triggered the flashlight attached to the MP-20, immediately understanding what Olmos had meant. His right arm ended in a bandaged stump just below the elbow, a brown belt tightened around the lower part of his bicep. A bright red morphine auto injector lay on one of the trash bags next to him. The ex-SEAL had taken the initial measures required to keep himself alive—for now. Olmos held a pistol loosely in his left hand.
“You didn’t happen to see my arm out there?” he said, barely holstering the pistol.
“Can’t say I did,” said Leeds. “Let’s get you out of here.” He pulled Olmos up by his good hand and wrapped the wounded man’s arm around his shoulder. “We’ll get you to a hospital. Petrov’s Gulfstream can reach San Diego in forty-five minutes.”
“What about the Russians?” he muttered.
“I don’t think Chukov will be needing the jet anymore. I’ll arrange a hearse for that idiot.”
“What the hell happened out there?”
“Pretty much the same thing that happened in here,” said Leeds, guiding Olmos into the alley.
“The whole thing was a setup?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I saw two SUVs speed out of here, both matching the description of Fisher’s. Whoever was in those vehicles left a big mess behind.”
“Identical SUVs?” said Olmos.
“One had more bullet holes in it, but that was the only difference I could see.”
“Sounds like a setup.”
“I’m not crossing out any theories at this point. All we know for sure is that the cartel description of the SUV that crossed the border and stopped at the motel fit the right parameters. Enough for Flagg to send us.”
“Flagg’s gonna go ballistic when he hears about this,” said Olmos.
“Flagg has nobody to blame but himself,” said Leeds, then realized what he’d just said.
Olmos gave him a puzzled look.
“Forget I said that. His problems are way above our pay grade,” said Leeds. “We do what we’re told and hopefully live to collect a healthy paycheck—which reminds me of somet
hing. Mind if I set you down on one of the lounge chairs next to the pool for a minute?”
“As long as you’re not having second thoughts about getting me out of here,” said Olmos in a serious tone.
Leeds looked him in the eyes. “I’m not leaving you here. I just need to check on something.”
After leaving Olmos on the pool patio, he jogged down the sidewalk in front of the office toward the breezeway staircase. The corridor walls revealed dozens of bullet holes. Spent bullet casings littered the ground. A group of CLM operatives had held this ground for a while. At the top of the stairs, he peeked around the corner, seeing a ripped curtain and broken glass lying in front of a nearby room. He was willing to guess that the room sat directly behind room 204. This was starting to look more and more like a planned ambush the farther he explored.
Leeds turned and approached the inner parking lot. He needed to be careful here. If any of the Russians had survived the ambush, they might lie in wait, ready to kill anyone that approached. Things had gone badly enough for them to suspect a double cross. He didn’t want to give them an excuse to kill him, something Leeds suspected they would be glad to do regardless.
A quick glance down the walkway toward room 204 told him that none of the Russians had made it into the target room. They had all been killed or mortally wounded, leaving no reason to get any closer. He’d let the Arizona sun finish them off.
“Leeds,” someone croaked.
He risked another look, careful not to expose more of his head than absolutely necessary. Chukov sat up against the door immediately adjacent to room 204, pushing a bullet-riddled body off him with his rifle as he rose. Leeds couldn’t tell if the blood covering the Russian’s torso was his or the corpse’s. It didn’t matter.
Rogue State (Fractured State Series Book 2) Page 23
