“Target is moving toward the east tunnel exit,” Hector heard through the radio headphones he wore. “Stop him any way you can. Avoid collateral damage at all costs. There are civilians everywhere. Target is in a dark-red shirt and khakis, and one armed gunman is with him.”
“Solid copy,” Hector replied into the flexible microphone that extended from the left earpiece down and in front of his mouth. “On scene. Stand by.”
The pilot heard the same communications broadcast and sped around the exposed curve of the highway, past the landslide, over several bodies that Hector spotted on the pavement, and toward the far tunnels.
“Drop it to fifty feet and move off the highway over the side of the mountain so I can get a better view,” Hector ordered the pilot.
Within seconds, the Cougar hovered off the side of the highway over the open air of the mountainside, moving down the length of the road. Got you, puta, Hector thought, a detached part of his mind recognizing he was looking over the barrel of the M60 machine gun at one of the most powerful and corrupt men in the Western Hemisphere. As he watched the unfolding pursuit below and in front of him, he realized what he had to do.
“Move halfway to the tunnel entrance, rotate so I have a full field of fire, and stop,” Hector said.
The helicopter slid to the left, reached its new position, and turned, providing Hector with a clear line of sight from the partially collapsed tunnel to the initial point of contact where the two Mercedes were stopped. He thought about his goddaughter one last time, sighted down the barrel past the iron sight post, exhaled, and pulled the trigger.
* * *
Logan hadn’t seen Jack since he’d been pinned down by the M60. He knew the retired Marine would find a way to come to his assistance: he just had to survive long enough to get it.
The vice president was fifteen yards from the tunnel when Hector opened up with the mounted M60 and sent a new wave of fear through the trapped survivors. And you guys thought socialism was bad. Welcome to the new war.
Rounds ricocheted off the tunnel entrance and tore chunks of rock from the hanging pile above the dark mouth, which had partially caved in. The vice president fell to the pavement, face to the ground, hands on top of his head.
Logan was fairly sure the vice president screamed in fear, but he wasn’t positive over the combined roar of the helicopter and M60. Good, motherfucker. You deserve a lot more, he thought, as he closed the distance to less than ten yards and sprinted in furious harmony with the chattering M60.
The vice president’s guardian realized the pilot’s intent, and he turned to open fire with a black mini-Uzi machine pistol, although moments too late.
More rounds from the M60 weakened the dirt and rocks above the tunnel, and the pile of debris crashed down onto the roadway, blocking the visible half of the tunnel entrance.
The gunman opened fired on the helicopter, which shifted away and to the right, its job of containing the vice president accomplished. As a result, he never saw the charging figure of Logan West, sprinting at him like a raging fullback, focused on obliterating his target.
Logan lowered his left shoulder and struck the escort at full force in the man’s left side. He felt several ribs crack, and the blow lifted the shooter off his feet as Logan sprinted through the man, driving him up and then slamming him onto the concrete. Logan landed on top of him and turned to his left to get leverage.
The dazed man still held the pistol, although his finger had mercifully come off the trigger once he’d hit the pavement. Logan scooted up, grabbed the shooter’s wrist with his right hand, and yanked the mini-Uzi upward with his left hand. He flung the weapon aside, and lurched upward, coming over the top of the shooter’s shoulder, and delivered a vicious elbow to the man’s exposed head. Logan felt his opponent’s skull connect with the concrete below, the sick thud reverberating through his left forearm, and he hit him again. He felt something crack in the man’s skull, and he rolled off, satisfied that his target was either dead or unconscious for the foreseeable future.
He looked around for the vice president. He was gone. What the hell? And then he spotted Joshua Baker, fleeing toward the slope of the mountain on the side of the tunnel. Logan saw what was between him and the hill, and fear set in, but not for himself. You evil motherfucker.
He rose to his knees to pursue when Murphy delivered his second blow of the morning.
* * *
Once he’d accomplished his objective and collapsed the mouth of the tunnel, Hector had watched with respect and admiration as the ferocious American had blindsided and then incapacitated the remaining gunman. Never had a chance. Good.
But like Logan, he saw what the vice president planned instead, scurrying away like the dog that he was, and Hector looked at the pilot, motioning for him to slide the helicopter farther left.
Had he been looking out the side of the cabin, he might’ve been able to avoid the inevitable, but his thoughts were on helping the innocent bystanders about to be stuck in the crossfire. As a result, neither he nor the pilot saw the Russian Hind Mi-24 attack helicopter as it rose up from the draw below and moved behind and to the left of the Eurocopter. The Hind hovered for a brief second, as Hector’s peripheral vision finally detected the flying killing machine.
He screamed into the microphone and urged the pilot to climb, but it was too late. Two flashes erupted from under the right wing of the helicopter, and the missiles streaked toward the Cougar.
Hector realized that the end of his life was near, and he closed his eyes and thought, I’m sorry I won’t see this through to the end, brother. I tried. I’ll miss you, Camila.
The missiles struck the Cougar within a half second of each other, the first obliterating the tail section, the second detonating inside the cabin and mercifully sending Hector into the next life.
The main body of the helicopter, its rotors still turning, spun crazily and then veered down and to the right in an uncontrollable nosedive. The helicopter crashed through the canopy of trees on the side of the mountain below the highway, struck the earth, and exploded in a fireball, ending Logan’s air superiority.
* * *
While he was disturbingly accustomed to mayhem, gunfire, and explosions, the destruction of the Cougar and the subsequent shock waves of the two air-to-air missiles caused Logan to reflexively dive to the ground. Once the Cougar—with Hector in it, his brain reminded him: another death at the feet of the Organization—plummeted down the side of the hill, Logan was on his feet, pursuing the vice president . . . and the twelve-year-old girl he dragged behind him for protection as he plodded up the hill.
The Hind had already moved into position, thirty yards ahead of the vice president, sending loose rocks, dirt, and underbrush flying through the air in its powerful rotor wash. Logan was fifteen yards behind the vice president—the real one this time, he thought.
He’d seen the girl, dazed from the quake’s aftermath, circling aimlessly near the shoulder of the highway, and he’d known right away that Baker would use her as a human shield. It was just the kind of man he was, even if he had a son of his own of a similar age. Desperation bred evil and cowardly acts, and grabbing the girl for his own salvation had been one of them.
The side door of the Hind had already been raised over the opening, the lower extension hanging just below the bottom of the aircraft. Before Logan could react, a rope was thrown out the door, connected to an arm that swung out from inside the compartment. Four Venezuelan soldiers—not normal soldiers, Logan knew, operators of some kind of fucking special forces unit down here—poured out in rapid succession and hit the ground just up the hill from the vice president, black AK-103 assault rifles trained on Logan.
Logan combat-walked toward the vice president, the Glock 17 9mm pistol trained on Joshua Baker’s forehead. Out of the corner of his right eye, a figure appeared, a pistol held in his hand. He couldn’t tell who it was, but he knew it wasn’t Jack. Must be one of his mercenaries.
He concentrated o
n keeping the vice president between himself and the new shooters as his mind calculated his options. No good ones. Can’t risk hitting the girl. He’d closed the distance to ten yards, but with the downdraft of the Hind, he couldn’t risk even the slightest sway on his sight picture. He knew a millimeter shift of his barrel would result in a several-inch shift on his target, and he didn’t want to be responsible for the girl’s death.
Two operators with black neoprene ski masks reached the vice president, stepped around and in front of him, and aimed their AK-103s at Logan and his newfound partner. You won’t shoot. Can’t risk me hitting the vice president accidentally. It’s a goddamned Mexican standoff in Venezuela.
There were no other options. Any action resulted in his death, the girl’s death, or any variation of multiple deaths. It’s not worth it. You have to let him go. His blood boiled at the thought, that he’d come so close a second time, only to let his target slip from his grasp. But Logan West wasn’t like the vice president: he wouldn’t put an innocent life at risk. He was here to save lives, not take them.
He turned to the motorcycle rider and saw a man a few years younger than himself, black hair swept back, eyes covered by black goggles, and a black bandanna that covered his lower face. He held a Glock 17 pointed at the retreating group. There was something familiar about the man, but Logan couldn’t place it.
The noise from the helicopter was deafening, and Logan shouted, “Stand down! There’s no play!” He prayed the masked man understood English, even though his only response was to look at Logan and turn back to the group.
The vice president and his new protective detail reached the rope as the helicopter descended, the pilot bravely hovering several feet over their heads. The man in front of the vice president shook his head from side to side, his message clear: Don’t do anything. There’s no need for any of us to die, at least not right now.
A small rope ladder was thrown out the side compartment, and the rear two men scrambled up and into the opening. The vice president released his grip on the screaming girl, her shock now worn away into panic at the appearance of more armed men and a helicopter, and started climbing. One of the two remaining shooters gripped her by the arms, while the second pointed his AK-103 at her head, causing her to recoil in terror. The two shooters pointed their assault rifles at Logan and the motorizado as the vice president was pulled safely inside.
The man holding the girl said something into her ear, and she managed a nod. He nodded at Logan, waved a finger in front of his face as a warning, and released the girl. Logan anticipated the next events, and in a blinding-fast reverse draw, holstered his Glock. Whether from adrenaline or panic, the girl ran forward and stumbled into Logan’s arms as the two remaining shooters leapt onto the rope ladder and disappeared inside the Hind.
A second later, the Hind ascended, and Logan caught a glimpse of the vice president looking back at him. Logan’s eyes blazed with outrage, but there was nothing for him to do. As he held the trembling girl, who began to cry, he exhaled and calmed himself for her sake. Your time will come, and when it does, I’ll be the one to make sure you meet it head-on.
And just as quickly as it had arrived, the Hind sped away, flying over the burning wreckage of the Cougar and the dead men inside.
Logan turned toward the motorizado who’d come to his assistance and now lowered his bandanna, and for the first time that morning, Logan seemed permanently affixed to the ground beneath his feet. Before him stood a man he’d hunted once before—a disgraced former Seventh Special Forces Group soldier who’d washed out of selection school for the Unit and had chosen a life in the violent world of the cartels and the Organization. The man once known as Juan Black, real name Marcos Bocanegra, a former advisor to Cain Frost, stood before him.
In a moment of pure instinct, Logan reflexively raised the Glock, his left arm still around the sobbing girl, and sighted on Marcos’s face as his finger moved from the trigger guard to the trigger. I said if I ever saw you again, I’d kill you.
CHAPTER 21
Marcos Bocanegra was a soul in pain, and when Logan West pointed the Glock at his face, part of him wished that the man who’d once captured him would pull the trigger and end his suffering. But then the image of his young wife, pregnant with their unborn child, flashed in his mind, an emotional dagger that reminded him that if he died, he wouldn’t be able to destroy the men responsible for the heinous act committed upon her.
“They murdered my wife, pregnant with our child, and left her severed head on top of her belly in our bed,” Marcos said flatly.
“They did what?” Logan asked. The image created in his head at his former enemy’s words caused him to lower the Glock a few inches.
The girl in his arms cringed at the appearance of the gun, traumatized by the vice president’s actions only moments before.
“You heard me,” Marcos said. “I won’t say it again. These men are evil monsters whose only moral code is pain and suffering in its most vile, base form. It’s why I’m here, not for you, but to make them all pay for what they did. If that’s not good enough for you, someone well versed in violent revenge, then do us both a favor and shoot me. Otherwise, put the gun down, and let’s go see how Jack and the others are doing. I’m not going to wait here all day while these motherfuckers get away. And will you please let that girl go find her parents. She’s been through enough.”
Logan released the girl, and Marcos spoke to her in Spanish, reassuring her and calming her down. Screams from the other side of the highway erupted, fresh panic on the air. The sound of terrified parents. That could be you someday, Logan thought.
The girl started to run toward their voices, stopped, faced Logan one last time, and nodded with an expression of gratitude and sadness, whatever innocence she’d had permanently ground away.
Hector died, but she lived, one life for another. No matter what, you saved her.
Marcos turned his back on the man who’d bested him on the side of a mountain in northern Mexico and walked away.
What’s old is new again, Logan. You’re really in it now. You can’t just shoot him in the back. The realization that Marcos Bocanegra was Jack’s source struck him with a myriad of emotions—anger, empathy, resentment, vengeance—all rolled up into one dense feeling that stuck in his gut. He holstered the Glock and caught up with Bocanegra.
An aftershock rumbled through the terrain, and Logan braced himself against an abandoned SUV. All of the vehicles’ occupants had fled the stretch of highway where they stood once the battle had moved to the tunnel entrance.
“What happened after Mexico?” Logan asked Marcos, staring at the tanned, black-haired former US Army soldier.
“The Mexicans honored the agreement: they let me go, just like you asked them to, once Cain was captured,” Marcos said.
“Honestly, I thought they’d keep and kill you, and at the time, I didn’t care. No offense,” Logan replied.
“So did I, but they didn’t. I chalked it up to the honor of Commander Vargas,” Marcos said, referring to the commander of the Fuerzas Especiales, the Mexican equivalent of the US Navy SEALs, whose men had teamed up with the FBI HRT, Logan, and John Quick to raid the Los Toros compound where Marcos had been hiding. The raid had cost both the Mexican naval special forces unit and FBI HRT multiple lives.
Logan nodded. “It doesn’t surprise me, although you are still lucky to be alive.”
“At the time,” Marcos said, the loss of his wife underpinning the statement. “No matter, I left Mexico, came to Venezuela, and stayed in Maracaibo, the way I had planned and prepared, with bank accounts and a house in one of the upper-middle-class communities just outside of the city. Nothing too fancy, but prosperous for Venezuela. I stayed under the radar, new identity and all, knowing that one day the Los Toros cartel would come for me. But then I met a woman, a banker, and everything changed.”
It always does, Logan thought, thinking of Sarah back in the States, pregnant and worrying about his welfare. It
’s not going to get better once the news of this earthquake gets out.
“I could not help myself, even knowing I’d be putting her at risk. I finally told her who and what I was—all of it—and rather than leave me, she stayed, as if trying to redeem the things I’d done by being with me. And I let her, and her death, like so many others, is on my head, and mine alone,” Marcos said, his voice thick with grief.
“When did it happen?” Logan asked. He needed to know how fresh the wounds were that weighed the former cartel enforcer down.
“Three months ago,” Marcos replied. “The Los Toros cartel figured out where I was and contracted with the Wild Boys, which is what they call themselves—one of these midlevel syndicates that occasionally works with the Venezuelan government. They’re violent, ruthless, and will do whatever they’re paid to do.”
The aftershock ended, and the two men walked on. Civilians stared as they passed, the sight of the armed men creating a barrier around them that the innocent bystanders didn’t want to penetrate.
They were halfway back to the parked SUVs when Logan saw Jack, Cole, and Santiago waiting for them.
“But how did you find the ones responsible? And how did you end up here?” Logan asked.
“Easy. I did what I used to do for the Los Toros cartel: I hunted down members of the Wild Boys, tortured and killed them, going from one to the next like a trail of human bread crumbs,” Marcos said.
Except instead of bread crumbs, you left bodies, Logan thought. So much violence. Most of the citizens in the US would never understand the staggering levels of violence perpetrated daily across the world, but it was an epidemic becoming more evident, with atrocities captured and shared on social media like selfies on a family vacation. It’s mind-numbing. But you know, and so does he.
Rules of War Page 14
