I step back into the hall. Lenson has moved up, M4 raised to his shoulder.
Two shots left in the Winchester’s tube. I throw my shoulder into the next door. The slab of plywood bursts open.
A Quds steps into the corridor, raises his rifle. I dodge into the room. Behind me, the earsplitting crash of a shotgun. Hancock’s semi-automatic Benelli. Five shots, as fast as he can pull the trigger.
Clutching the Winchester, I sweep the room.
Mexican girls. Four of them. All pretty, all in their early teens. Handcuffed to iron beds.
“En el piso,” I tell them.
I snap-load shells into the Winchester and turn back to the hall. Hancock leapfrogs me, dragging Bledsoe. The Benelli’s empty, and he’s switched to his M4. Hancock forces Bledsoe to the floor and kneels on his back.
Winchester raised, I step past Hancock and Bledsoe. M4 raised to his shoulder, Lenson moves up on my right.
Two more rooms. A dead Quds on the floor, blood pooling in the corridor. I roll him over with my boot. Not Hamza. Pulp. Hancock pumped sixty balls of double-ought buck into him.
Lenson takes the room on the right and kicks the door open. Goes in with M4 raised. Inside the room, Mexicans with rifles. Lenson and the Mexicans fire simultaneously. Lenson jerks as their rounds slam into him. He holds the M4 on them and fires until they’re down. Staggers and props himself against the door frame.
I barge into the room on my left. A Quds and a Mexican open fire. A burning knife cuts my right side. The impact of the round slams me against the door jamb. Half my shot pattern hits the Quds in the face. He cries out, drops his rifle. I rack the Winchester and shoot him again. The gut shot puts him down.
A round snaps past my ear. I rack the Winchester, fire again. The pattern catches the Mexican high on the chest. He pitches backward. The Quds lies on his back like a squashed cockroach. The room reeks with the stench of his guts.
The windows stand open. Outside, people from the club are spilling into the street. Hancock has leapfrogged me again. He’s pushed Bledsoe to the floor and is covering the stairs with his M4.
“They got Lenson,” Hancock says.
Chin on his chest, Lenson sits lifeless in the right-hand doorway. The M4’s pistol grip is clenched in his right hand. His torso is a mass of blood.
I reach out and close his one eye.
My shirt is soaked with piss and assorted crap from the ditch. I find the entry wound in my side. The slug went in and out. I tear my shirt tail, wad up the fabric, and plug the hole. Tear more off, stuff cloth into the exit wound. Pray I don’t die from infection.
Winchester in one hand, Glock in the other, I run to the stairwell.
Gunshots ring out from below. I squat to one side of the landing, brace my back against the wall.
Two Quds left, including Hamza. Half a dozen soldados. I wave Hancock over. He gets up and drags Bledsoe behind him.
“Give me the leash.”
I take the leash and jerk Bledsoe to the floor beside me. He crosses the stairwell and the brief glimpse of his naked white legs and dangling privates drives the soldados crazy. Rifle fire sprays from the foot of the staircase. Half naked, choking on the gag, Bledsoe weeps shamelessly.
Hancock snap-loads shells into his Benelli.
I take the mobile phone from my hip pocket. Run my thumb over the keypad. Press 4. Now all I have to do is punch the green call button.
Leaning into the stairwell, I fire the Glock. Mexicans with automatic rifles force me back. I pull a full mag from my pocket. Slide the half-empty mag out of the pistol, reload.
I shove the Glock into my hip pocket and jerk Bledsoe to his feet. Pull him close and look into his eyes. Ignore his tears, the muffled, keening sound that comes from behind the gag.
This is for Mirasol.
Holding Bledsoe in front of me, I push him to the head of the landing. He shrieks into the gag. I plant my boot on his ass and kick Bledsoe down the stairs. The Mexicans riddle him with bullets. I squint as the rounds impact his body. Caught in the hail of gunfire, his body jerks like he’s having a fit. My thumb hovers over the keypad.
I punch the call button.
La Cueva heaves with the force of the explosion. The walls shudder and plaster dust showers down from the ceiling. Hancock and I are knocked flat on our asses. A cloud of dust and smoke billows from the stairwell.
Move.
I charge down the stairs, leading with the Winchester. Hancock follows, dragging his bad leg.
Bledsoe has disappeared. His remains are splattered over the ceiling and walls. Like shreds of wet toilet paper, blood and bits of flesh stick to the plaster.
Soldados on the ground floor have been slaughtered by the shock wave and shrapnel. Body parts and viscera are scattered among shattered tables and chairs.
There is a gaping hole in the staircase where the last four treads and risers used to be. Half the banister has been splintered and blasted into the club. A million wooden needles. I hurdle the gap and throw myself onto the ground floor landing.
Wounded soldados struggle to their feet. Ponderously train their weapons on me. The Winchester bucks in my hands. I take one man out, then another.
There—behind the bar. Hamza.
Eyes like black marbles. A doll’s eyes, set in a mask. Standing, he fires his rifle. I crawl into the abattoir. Use corpses for cover.
Hancock fires his Benelli. Hamza dives behind the bar. Cones of buckshot smash shelves of liquor. Glass bottles explode in glistening showers of glass and whisky. Hancock can’t navigate the hole in the staircase with his bad leg, so he dives head first across the space. Lands on his shoulder.
A Quds behind the bar fires his AK47. Hancock cries out. I get to my feet, raise the Winchester, and pull the trigger. The blast of buckshot hits the zinc bar top, ricochets, and blows the gunman’s face off.
I drop the Winchester and draw the Glock. The club has gone quiet.
Where is Hamza?
I cover the length of the bar with my pistol.
“Hancock,” I call.
“You’re covered.”
I switch to a Weaver grip, dip my left elbow. Cautiously look behind the bar. The Quds is sprawled on his back, choking on his own blood. I shoot him twice in the forehead.
No sign of Hamza.
The dead man is lying on something. Heavy wooden slats, an iron ring. A trapdoor.
The tunnel.
47
Juarez, 0335 Hrs Friday
“Tunnel,” I yell.
I look back at the stairs. Hancock is sitting on the landing, his shirt brown with blood. He has set the Benelli down, covers the club with his M4 carbine. “Go,” he says. “I’ll hold.”
I kick the corpse aside, lean down, and grab the metal ring. Raise the trapdoor.
The effort sends a bolt of pain through my body. I grope for the makeshift plugs. They are still in place. I’m functioning. Alert.
I let the trapdoor fall on the dead man. I step back, pistol trained on the opening.
Hamza is not the type to run. He must be waiting for me.
My gaze sweeps the floor behind the bar. One dead body. One AK47. Hamza is still armed. Standing in the dark, waiting to shoot anyone who starts down the ladder. I grab the dead man by his collar. Lever him into a sitting position on the floor, legs splayed on either side of the opening.
I push the man forward so his face and shoulders block the light for anyone staring up from the space below. He’ll look like a live man sneaking a peek. I jerk him back, hold my breath.
Nothing.
Hamza’s not stupid.
He might be waiting to blow me apart.
Or he might be halfway across the border.
The space below must be a basement. Within that chamber, a seventy-foot vertical shaft will lead to the tunnel.
The dead man’s heavy, but I stand him up next to the trapdoor. Hands under his armpits, I hold him over the opening and drop him into the hole. Follow him down, bracing for t
he impact.
We fall twelve feet together. The corpse hits the floor with a thud, and I land on him. Feet together, knees bent. I roll to one side. There’s a blinding muzzle flash as Hamza cuts loose with his AK47. The burst rips the corpse apart, reaches for me. I twist on my side, raise the Glock, fire at the winking light.
A cry of pain. The rifle clatters to the floor.
A black figure scuttles crab-like across the basement. Disappears into a dark corner. I fire again and again.
I drag myself to the corner, all knees and elbows. Plant my hand on something hard and metallic. Hamza’s AK47, wet with blood. I hit him.
He’s climbing down the access shaft. Trying for the tunnel.
The shaft echoes with a low thrum. An engine.
There’s a wooden ladder fastened to the wall. Next to the ladder, running the length of the shaft, is a wide-gauge rubber hose. Hamza is descending, his figure silhouetted by light from the chamber below. I aim the Glock just as he reaches the bottom and disappears from view.
Fuck.
I stuff the pistol into my hip pocket, swing onto the ladder and slide down. I clench the vertical rails of the ladder between my knees and feet. Control the drop with my hands. Ten feet from the bottom, I hang by one hand and draw the pistol. Let go and jump the rest of the way. I land on bent knees and swing the Glock to bear.
Hamza grabs my wrist with his left hand, pushes the muzzle of the pistol away. In his right hand is a Bowie knife. The one he used to kill Mirasol. The one he used on the Kellers. I grab for his wrist and miss. My fingers close around the blade and I grip it with all my strength. I shout with the pain.
Hamza tries to jerk the knife out of my hand. He’s holding the knife blade-down, the cutting edge buried in the meat of my palm. I squeeze the blade harder, trapping it in my fist.
Teeth bared, the killer slams my gun hand against the ladder and I drop the Glock. He lets go of my wrist and punches me.
Right in my fresh wound. A red wave of pain crashes over me.
I reach up and dig my thumb into the inside corner of his left eye. Rip the eyeball out.
Hamza’s scream is inhuman.
I butt him in the face with the crown of my head. He rocks back on his heels and I twist the knife from his grasp. Blade up, I thrust the weapon into his belly.
My body is awash with pain. None of it matters. I thrust the blade up under Hamza’s sternum and lift him off his feet. I impale him on the knife and carry him across the chamber. Slam him against the wall. His hands grip my shoulders, his legs kick like those of a pithed frog. I watch him die.
The stench from Hamza’s corpse is nauseating. My nine millimeter round hit him in the belly. Wounded, he fought. I draw the knife from under his rib cage and throw the body face down on the floor of the chamber.
I slump against a wall of brown bricks. Thousands of kilos of cocaine. Plastic bags wrapped in brown paper.
The chamber is larger than I imagined. It’s fifteen feet wide and maybe thirty feet long. At one end is the horizontal tunnel, burrowing under the Rio Grande. Half of this chamber has been devoted to a chemical toilet, a diesel generator, and a ventilation device that pumps fresh air into the tunnel. The rubber hose from the access shaft is connected to the engine’s exhaust. The chamber is lit by naked bulbs strung along the ceiling. Seven feet high and five feet wide, the tunnel looks like it has been shored up with timber and cement.
I stare at the knife in my hand. The knife this animal used on my friends.
Slowly, I kneel on the small of Hamza’s back. Twist my fist in his greasy black hair. Bare his throat.
I climb from the basement and stagger around the side of the bar. Hancock sits on the landing where I left him. His face glistens silver and I fear he is in shock. He is staring at the eight-pound ball of skull, matted hair and blood I carry in my right hand.
Exhausted, I set Faisal Hamza’s severed head on the zinc bartop.
Hancock says nothing. I go to him and examine his wounds. He’s been hit twice, high on the left side of his chest. His left arm is limp. It looks like his clavicle has been broken, but there are no jets of arterial blood. I check the exit wounds. Bloody holes, bone visible in the openings. A shattered scapula. No blood in his mouth or nose.
I take Hamza’s Bowie knife and cut Hancock’s shirt away. Bind his wounds.
“Breed, this is getting to be a habit.”
“Shut up, you lazy bastard.”
I get to my feet. Hancock takes my hand and throws his good arm around me. Together, we lurch toward the front door.
Federales burst into the club and fan out, automatic rifles trained on us.
“No te muevas, pendejo!”
“Manos ariba! Ahora!”
I raise my right arm. My other is supporting Hancock.
“Está bien.” a woman calls out. “Ellos son mios.”
The Federales put up their rifles and sweep the battlefield for wounded soldados.
Anya Stein steps forward. Dressed in a black catsuit and tactical gear. Full body armor, front and back plates. An H&K MP5 is slung across her chest, low-ready. A nine millimeter in an open holster, Velcroed to her right thigh.
“Stylish,” I tell her. “Very. I pictured you exactly like this.”
She steps forward, bends at the waist, and peers at Hamza’s head. “Is it him?”
“Of course.”
“I remember him with two eyes.”
“And a body.”
Stein’s long brown hair has been bound into a severe bun at the back of her head. She sniffs. “I don’t suppose you could have just shot him.”
“What are you doing here, Stein?”
“My team has been tracking your phone since you and the girl crossed into Juarez the other night. When you took the SIM card out yesterday, a drone was tasked to cover you.”
I’m not surprised. “You’ve been following me the whole time.”
“Did you think it was a coincidence the Mexican army saved you? They practically escorted you and the girl across the Paseo Del Norte.”
Mirasol and I crossed the border under the eyes of soldiers. Not a single policeman in sight. “How did you manage it?”
“I pulled strings, spun a story. Told the Mexicans two undercover DEA agents were trying to cross. The cartels and police were going to kill them.”
The Federales are picking through body parts and debris.
“I thought you couldn’t mount an operation this side of the border.”
“Not this hard-core. We took out the Bledsoe plant. Left this to you.”
A dozen hard men with M4s and full tactical gear enter the room. Stein turns to them, barks commands. “Sweep it,” she says. “Laptops, hard drives, memory sticks. I want photographs, DNA. Especially that one.”
Stein points to Hamza’s head. A bearded operator whistles. “We’ll bag it.”
“No.” Stein’s tone is abrupt. “Leave it there. I want those Hajjis to think long and hard about what it means to fuck with the USA.”
Stein must be a delight in bed. “We need a medic.”
“We don’t have one. Sit down, we’ll take you back with us.”
There isn’t an intact piece of furniture left in the club. “Stein, you’re going to hurt my feelings.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Breed. I could let you rot in a Mexican prison.”
“You used us.”
Stein shrugs.
“Everybody uses everybody. Don’t they.”
48
El Paso, Six Weeks After
Stein had the decency to take Lenson back with us.
She brought a dozen operators with her to La Cueva. I didn’t recognize any of them. Their manner and weapons discipline showed they knew what they were doing. Contractors, or special forces without insignia. Not Deltas. Deltas like two-point slings, these men used one-point slings. They wore SIG sidearms in drop leg holsters, low on their thighs. Lots of Velcro. Deltas prefer 1911s or Glocks, worn higher. Subtle indicator
s of a different close quarters combat culture.
They bagged everything of value they could find. Went into the tunnel for Hamza. Fingerprinted him, took DNA samples from his head and body.
The team that hit Bledsoe’s plant must have been equally capable.
Hancock and I were helped to the street. There were a dozen police pickup trucks. Federales manned the machine guns on their beds. The vehicles were arranged in a cordon—to keep people away from La Cueva.
Stein’s team had arrived in four up-armored Chevy Suburbans. Black. Tinted glass, opaque from the outside. Bulletproof.
The operators helped Hancock into the back seat of a Suburban. I climbed in beside him. Stein got into the front passenger seat. They carried Lenson’s body to another Suburban, laid it on the cargo bed.
We drove in silence to the Zaragoza. Four Suburbans in a column. Two Federales pickups, one in front and one at the rear. Neither the Mexican nor the American border guards stopped us. We had a clear lane. The Federales peeled away at the approach, the Suburbans raced across the border.
Next thing I knew, we were at William Beaumont. Medics and nurses rushed out, laid Hancock on a gurney. Set up IVs of plasma, rushed him to the operating theatre.
They did the same to me. A doctor took one look at the torn shirt I’d used to plug my wounds and swore. They rushed me to another operating theatre. Pressed a mask to my face. The world went black.
I sit with Hancock in his hospital room, watching television. He’s propped up in bed, his shoulder and chest covered with bandages. Next to him, I lean back in a wooden side chair. Cheap hospital furniture. The chair legs wobble.
Stein took care of the funerals for Lenson, Mary, Donnie and Mirasol. Hancock and I were laid up. My wound wasn’t bad, but the infection I picked up was. Delirious, I ran a fever for days. Mainlined antibiotics for longer.
The images streaming from the old television set are scenes from Teheran. The streets are awash in a mob of thousands. They are burning American flags. Burning effigies of the US president.
Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) Page 23
