by Jack Murphy
“Como?” Lopez said, holding the phone to his ear.
“Si,” he paused before cupping his hand over receiver. “It's for the gringo.”
“I guess that must be me,” Deckard said taking the phone. “Yeah?”
Heavy breathing sounded over the phone before someone spoke, “We want the money.”
“Who is this?”
“A friend of Mr. Jimenez.”
“You want the money? Come get it.”
“Leave this place now. You don't belong here.”
“We'll see who's standing when the smoke clears.”
“Take a walk and don't come back. That is the deal.”
“Make your play.”
Another pause.
“I already have.”
The police station was suddenly plunged into darkness as someone cut off the electricity.
4
Deckard pulled Lopez out from behind the desk as a barrage of auto fire chopped through the thin Formica board. Tucking the stock of his Kalashnikov into his shoulder he punched the first cartel gunmen through the door with a double tap. The second shooter got off a burst with a MAC-10 submachine gun that exploded the television screen behind him before Deckard gunned him down.
“We need to extract!” he shouted into his radio as more sicarios pushed their way into the police station.
Samantha's .357 nearly took the head clean off the shoulders of one of the shooters. The gunfire was deafening indoors.
Pat's transmission came through garbled and unreadable.
Moving into rooms adjacent to the hallway, the gunmen took cover as the two police officers offered suppressive fire. One of the sicarios lobbed a fragmentation grenade down the hall, a gift from post-Cold War stockpiles left over from one of Central America's dirty little guerrilla conflicts that had been delivered to the cartels.
Deckard didn't hesitate. Reaching down, he palmed the grenade and overhanded it back down the hall before turning and driving both officers to the ground under his weight. Overpressure washed over them, filling the dark narrow confines of the police station with smoke.
Taking a knee, Deckard indexed one of the remaining shooters, his silhouette visible through the haze. Squeezing the trigger, the assassin spun around under the force of the 7.62 rounds that knocked him to the ground.
“Get the money,” Deckard said taking charge. With an unknown number of gunmen attempting to make entry, he knew they wouldn't be able to sustain themselves in place for long.
Lopez was turning the key and opening the jail cell when more shooters exploded through the rear entrance, somehow getting passed Pat. Deckard didn't know how and didn't care to dwell on what that meant for his friend.
Throwing himself back down to the dirty linoleum floor, the AK-103 chattered off another burst, striking one of the black-clad gunmen in the chest and knocking him backwards into his companion behind him. Deckard noted the black combat fatigues and paramilitary gear. Only the best for Jimenez' men.
His follow up shot drilled the remaining gunmen, sending him stumbling back out the rear door in a splash on crimson.
More gunfire raced up the hallway towards him, sending splinters flying in all directions. Deckard rolled to his side the enemy fire traced passed him and into the gunmen's comrades at the other end of the hall who committed the fatal and costly mistake of attempting to catch him in an envelope.
Getting to his feet, he keyed up his radio once more, speaking a single phrase into the headset he wore.
“Prairie fire!”
Lopez looked up at him over the giant bale of cash on his hands.
“We're trapped,” he said choking on his own words, sweat running down his face.
Pushing the police officer aside, Deckard snatched up one of the office chairs and flung it through a window. It smashed through the glass and landed outside in the alley.
“Go,” Deckard said, letting his rifle hang on its sling.
Samantha threw her bale of money through the broken window before grabbing Lopez' bale and hurling it out after the first wad of cash.
Deckard reached for the pouches on his combat rig and grabbed two of his own grenades. Carefully pulling the pin out of each while keeping the spoons held in place was tricky. Outside the offices, he could hear the enemy regrouping, someone shouting orders.
As the two police officers cleared the broken window sill, Deckard leaned out of the doorway. Tossing the grenades to either side, he ignored the panicked screams of the cartel assassins as he double backed towards the window. Running, he hurtled up and out, brushing against the jagged glass that jutted out of the sides of the frame.
Coming down on the hard concrete, he almost stuck the landing before slipping on a piece of trash and landing on his backside. Inside the building, twin blasts shattered most of the remaining windows, the walls nearly buckling under the pressure of the explosives.
“Dios mio,” Lopez said helping him to his feet.
Flicking his wrists, Deckard shook the grenade pins from his fingers.
“Let's get out of here before they figure out what happened.”
Letting the officers reclaim the bales of greenbacks, Deckard took the lead, stalking down the alley towards the back of the police headquarters.
“Prairie Fire, this is Sierra Six,” he said into his radio.
“Go ahead Six.”
“How far out are you?”
“Two minutes,” the Russian accented voice sounded above the static.
He knew they needed to keep moving.
The Quick Reaction Force was not going to make it in time.
The alleyway wound by a rusting car hulk that was propped up on cinder blocks before terminating back out on the street. Glancing around the corner, Deckard saw two blacked out SUVs with all doors thrown open. Four cartel hit men were maintaining rear security with German made Heckler and Koch sub-machine guns pointed absently into the night sky.
“Jose!” one yelled as a bloodied figure came stumbling out of the rear exit of the police station. Streams of blood flowed from punctured ear drums. Blinded by the blast, he tripped and fell in a heap in front of the parked trucks.
Deckard sighted in, lining the red dot of his rifle's reflex sight on one of the cartel men as he bent over to pick up his comrade. Maybe sensing his impending doom, the gunmen looked up, spotting Deckard in the shadows just as he stroked the trigger. The Kalashnikov bucked into his shoulder, the Mexican assassin catching a face full of lead.
The three remaining members of the cartel hit squad spun towards him, weapons ready. Their firefight was interrupted, hi-beams flashing across the SUVs and temporarily whiting out their vision as their eyes struggled to readjust.
The black Mercedes slammed into the SUV that the gunmen had foolishly clustered themselves around. Weighing in at over two tons, the car broadsided the truck, crushing two gunmen as metal mixed with flesh. Both vehicles were nearly lifted off the ground by the force of the impact before gravity slapped them back down to the pavement.
The last gunmen had avoided the wreck by mere inches. Now he leveled his MP5 at the driver's side window. Holding the trigger down, 9mm parabellum rounds spider webbed the multi-layer laminated glass. As per industry standards, the bullet proof window maintained its integrity until Deckard stepped from the alleyway and expended the rest of his magazine into their antagonist.
The driver's side door on the Mercedes was flung open in a plume of smoke, Pat coughing as he emerged from the cloud.
“Nice shot,” he said through teary eyes.
“What the fuck was that Pat?”
“Improvising.”
“Now how the hell are we supposed to clear out of here?” Deckard asked, pointing with his muzzle toward the smoking wreck that up until a few moments ago had been their ride home.
“The suspension on it was fucked anyway,” Pat shrugged. “Ortega should have had it switched out months ago with an armor package on it that is this heavy. Inconsiderate bastard.”
Two more SUVs were now racing towards them from down the street. Samantha and Lopez were caught in the open as they jogged over to Deckard and Pat, taking cover behind the car wreck. Deckard dropped his empty magazine, exchanging it for another full thirty rounds. The fumes of leaking gasoline were now overtaking the stench of garbage that permeated throughout much of the city.
Machine gun fire rattled out in several long bursts from behind them. Throwing himself to the ground, Deckard saw two Samruk assault trucks approaching from the opposite end of the street. Gunners went cyclic, cutting a stream of fire that crisscrossed over the enemy SUVs. The Quick Reaction Force had arrived on target and not a moment too soon.
With the windshield caved in by twin streams of 7.62 PKM rounds, one the SUVs swerved sideways, tires bursting as it skidded over the curb and slammed into an empty mechanics shop. Fixating on their second target, the machine gunners riding in the turret of each truck drilled the driver before walking their tracer fire down into the engine block.
The black SUV decelerated abruptly, slowing to just a few miles per hour. The windows were shattered, the bodies inside torn open when the truck played bumper cars with what was left of the Mercedes and finally came to a halt.
“Exfil. Now,” Deckard ordered.
Lopez rose on shaky feet, the veteran cop and de facto combat soldier of the streets of Mexico, was still in disbelief after their several near misses. Samantha spurred him on with a few curt words, dumping the money bales onto one of the assault trucks.
“Sorry about that, Deck,” Pat apologized. “It got to hot out here when the cartel showed up. I had to circle around the block and try again.”
“Everything turned out okay, so we're both off the hook this time.”
Pat grunted as he climbed on the back of one of the Iveco assault trucks, his ribs still bruised from the beating he had taken several months ago, including a shot gun blast to the chest, barely stopped by the body armor he had been wearing.
Deckard still sported some bruising of his own where his nose had been broken during that engagement.
Compulsively checking to make sure a round was seated in the chamber of his Kalashnikov, he found himself a seat and the trucks peeled out, headed back for the dead drug lord's compound. Scanning the streets as they flashed by, he knew the night wasn't over yet.
5
“Over here,” Manuel whispered to his comrades. “This is the place.”
The police officers had received a frantic phone call from Ignacio, one of Jimenez' lieutenants. The assault on the police station had failed, something that had never happened to the sicarios before. Crazy stories had the lieutenant spooked, something about some gringo running around with enough guns to even have the heavily armed cartel nervous. Manuel didn't believe the rumor and didn't care. Jimenez wanted the money, and Manuel hadn't seen a paycheck in months.
“We set the ambush here,” he said to the rogue police officers. “They should be heading down this road in a few moments.”
The terrain consisted of rolling hills and light vegetation. Not much cover to speak of, but with the terrain advantage of the high ground and the concealment of night, they would have little difficulty in raining lead down on the two vehicle convoy that they had been told was approaching.
After receiving the initial phone call, Manuel had to act fast, assembling the ten police officers and arriving to interdict the convoy with minutes to spare.
The Mexican cops got down in the prone position with American made rifles and Russian manufactured light machine guns, eyeballing the road in wait.
That was when the first shot sounded.
Manuel turned, the gunfire coming not from their front but from behind. The gunman next to him suddenly lay still, slumped over his machine gun.
The ambush line panicked. Some fired down onto the kill zone, pointlessly expending ammunition on the barren road. Two others realized the shot had come from their rear, firing equally useless bursts into the night at a target they couldn't see. The two slightly smarter gunmen who had at least identified the cardinal direction from which the attack had come from where the next two to be killed, taken down by high caliber rifle rounds spaced just a second apart.
Confused, and fearing some kind of double cross, one of the police officers jumped to his feet. He fired his M16 on fully automatic, slaughtering the nearest policemen before he could even figure out what was happening. Flicking his selector switch to semi, Manuel fired a quick series of shots into the idiot's chest, who fell to the ground in a cloud of dust.
Another corrupt cop lay sprawled on the ground, the sniper's bullet smashing his skull, leaving the gunman unrecognizable.
Manuel saw the muzzle flash in the distance. The enemy sniper had positioned himself to the rear of the ambush line, cleverly concealing himself in the saddle between two hills.
The remaining police officers might not have seen their salaries in months, but they knew when they had seen enough. Dropping their weapons, they ran down the opposite side of the hill, headed for the road. Manuel screamed down at them, cursing their cowardice, just as a .300 Winchester Magnum bullet slapped him between his shoulder blades.
Deckard looked on, confused as the assault trucks raced down the road. A small handful of uniformed Mexican police officers ran across the road and disappeared into the night. They had seen the muzzle flashes as they neared the compound and were prepared for an ambush. Apparently, they had thought better of it.
Reaching over, he grabbed Pat by the shirt sleeve.
“What the hell was that about?”
6
Five minutes later, the Samruk International mercenaries guarding the gate moved aside, letting the two Iveco assault vehicles into the compound. The soldiers of fortune were hard at work unloading equipment, building defensive positions on the roof tops, pulling rotations on guard duty, and other preparations for their latest campaign.
Deckard jumped off the back of his truck and frowned, seeing a figure approaching from Ortega's villa on crutches, limping his way towards him.
“I thought I told you to stay in Astana, Frank.”
“I know, but I stowed away on one of the supply trucks anyway. I'll be damned if I was going to spend another day locked up in that damned hangar.”
After a labyrinthine journey from their previous mission in the Pacific Ocean back to their headquarters in the capital of Kazakhstan, the wounded Samruk International members had been evacuated to the hospital. The few who were still able to walk were immediately paid and put on indefinite leave. Frank was discharged from the hospital a week later, having been treated for several gunshot wounds. Others, like Charles Rochenoire were still laid up, recovering from more serious injuries.
He and Deckard had spent the next month recovering from their injuries in a hangar at the Astana airport where all of the PMC's equipment was being stored. Deckard had often half joked that considering the nature of their previous mission, he expected a JDAM to land in his lap at any day now. Amazingly, that day had not come.
Mostly they had sat around drinking beer and playing spades.
“I had a feeling you might say that.”
“Playing solitaire in a empty hanger just isn't my thing.”
“You should have seen what happened on the way here. The most half assed ambush I've ever seen. They fired before we were anywhere near the kill zone, then dropped their weapons and ran as we finally rolled up to them.”
“Chicken shit motherfuckers,” Frank laughed. “Hey, what's that?”
Deckard followed his gaze over to Samantha hefting a oversized bale of money out of the truck.
“What? Samantha or the money?”
“Both.” But Deckard could almost see the dollar signs forming in his eyes.
Walking towards her, Frank whipped out his folding knife, ready to cut through the layers of cellophane wrapped around the stacks of greenbacks. Deckard caught his wrist, stopping the blade a few inches from the plastic wrappin
g.
“Watch yourself.”
“What's the idea, dude? We just want our pay day, you know, on account of how hard you got us working.”
“Bullshit,” Deckard grunted. “The cartels put ammonia and bleach between the layers of wrapping so that when dumb asses like you try to cut through them, the two chemicals mix and create chlorine gas. Sends a message to any of their couriers who decided to skim a little off the top, same goes for enemies who might manage to acquire some cartel cash.”
“Fuck me.”
“Where are our protective masks?”
“I think they're still on the back of the deuce and half,” Frank said referring to the two and half ton cargo trucks that he had arrived with.
Deckard had ordered literally tons of gear, a battalion's worth. Now that battalion had been decimated down to a little over two platoons, they were left with a surplus of gas masks among other military items.
“Get a couple guys to put those masks on and open these bales up on the roof. Since you are so enthusiastic, and crippled, you just became the unit treasurer and pay agent. Tomorrow, you can have the boys line up and collect their paycheck.”
Frank looked hurt, but for once held back his unsolicited commentary.
Slipping out of his plate carrier, Deckard set the body armor down in the corner of Ortega's living room next to his AK-103 which was left propped up against the wall. He kept his pistol belt in place, knowing it was important to keep some critical items on his person at all times. The belt held his Kimber 1911 pistol and holster, as well as several grenades, escape and evasion gear, and a few other bare necessities.
The living room was in the process of being converted into Samruk's Operations Center or OPCEN. Hard cases had been flung open, wires tangled across the carpet, computers were already plugged in and humming quietly.
A young man moved across the room, fumbling with the computer equipment in short, jerking motions. Starting up an electronic projector, he connected it to one of the laptop computers, displaying a large image of their operational area against the wall.
