Rules of War

by Matthew Betley

  If the train was bulletproof, as Baker claimed—and Cole had every reason to believe him—whoever was on the train could have rolled away, evaded pursuit, and ridden directly into Caracas unscathed. The dirt road branched off from the railroad less than a mile from the city and turned north before winding its way back into the city.

  But something bothered Cole. Baker was a devious traitor, a master strategist, and devoid of any type of moral compass. He’d proven that when he’d betrayed his own security detail and led the Secret Service officers to their deaths, even if they were members of the Organization. They’d been pawns used to establish the kidnapping ruse, and their lives had been forfeit as a result. Baker had to know that Logan West, while a man who cared deeply about his friends and loved ones, was still a man who had demonstrated time and time again that he would not be deterred from his mission, no matter what the cost.

  When Baker had finished his soliloquy, the train had started moving, followed by some type of heavy automatic weapons fire. As the train approached and picked up steam, Cole had seen several figures chase the last car, before disappearing behind it.

  It was at that moment that it hit him. Baker’s counting on it, which means it’s a diversion, just like DC, to conceal his escape. He wants Logan on that train because he’s still here, somewhere, waiting for us to take the bait.

  “Logan’s taking his team on the train. No way he’s going to let Baker get away, no matter what that sonofabitch says or does. You and I both know that, but I think Baker knows it as well,” Cole said to Jack, as the train neared their position. He moved to the back of the J70s, and Jack followed, on the off chance that whoever was on the train opened up on them.

  “You think it’s a decoy,” Jack stated, rather than asked.

  “I do, but in case it’s not, grab Marcos’s four friends and take two vehicles down the mountain after the train. No matter what happens, Logan is going to need a way off it,” Cole said.

  As Cole watched the train, the other six members of the Killer Team appeared from the buildings and sprinted toward the vehicle assembly area. These guys are good. Knew to get back here once Baker threw the plan into tatters with the train.

  The engine of the train reached their location, and Cole saw silhouettes of several men inside the engineer’s cab, as well as the passenger car.

  “What are you going to do?” Jack asked.

  The engine was already past them, picking up speed. The doors on this side of the second car were closed.

  “I’m keeping the two wet-work government guys with me, and I’m going to radio your drone operators and ask them to call off the swarm—that was a great idea, by the way—but keep the ScanEagle on station,” Cole said, referring to the mini UAV, small by UAV standards with only a five-foot-long body and ten-foot wingspan. It could loiter on the mountain, providing electro-optical/infrared imaging in real time, perfect for nighttime. “And then, we’re going to wait.”

  “For what?” Jack asked, hopping into the front seat of a running J70, even as the rear of the train passed in front of the vehicles.

  “If I’m right, for the sonofabitch to finally make a mistake,” Cole said. “Just keep your radio on and channel open. Now get the hell out of here. He’s going to need your help,” Cole added, and pointed at the passing train.

  On the back of the rear car, four figures stood on a railing that wrapped around the rear end of the cargo car and ran along both sides to the front of the car. Climbing up a ladder toward the roof of the car were two figures. As one reached the top of the ladder, the train disappeared into the darkness, engulfed by the tall mountain forest trees on both sides.

  Good luck, brother, Cole thought. Make them pay. He grabbed the microphone, pressed the button, and issued orders to the drone operator in the mobile ground station several miles away.

  Within thirty seconds, Jack Longstreet and his four mercenaries were gone, pursuing the fleeing train in two Toyota Land Cruisers.

  Okay, you bastard, let’s see what your next play is. Whatever it is, we’ve got it covered.

  CHAPTER 31

  Logan reached the roof of the boxcar and pulled himself up onto the top of the moving train. He found himself lying flat on a long, narrow walkway that ran the length of the boxcar. This must be an old car, he thought, remembering that most railroad boxcars had discontinued roof walkways decades earlier. Or at least not subject to US laws and regulations. His uncle, whom he hadn’t spoken to in years, had once given him a brief history of the railroads in the US and the types of cars still in service. He’d been sixteen at the time, and he’d asked his uncle how it was that movie stars always seemed to have no problem standing on a moving train. His uncle had answered honestly: he had no idea, but it was likely Hollywood making the unbelievable believable, and then he’d told him about the walkways. It’s funny the things you remember. Now shut it down and figure out how to get into the car.

  The black forest roared by in a dark blur of shifting shapes. The only sound he heard was the train’s engine and the thunderous clack as the wheels of the train lumbered down the tracks. He turned around and saw headlights in the distance from at least one vehicle, and he realized that his teammates had sent vehicle support for him. God help me if I need it.

  His objective was simple—the midway point of the car on the port side. He knew that side was at least open, since that was the side from which the machine gunner had opened up on them. Before he’d started climbing, he’d told Marcos the plan, who’d then passed it on to the others on the back of the train. As long as one side was open, that was all he needed.

  Logan was confident that Santiago and the other three shooters who’d hopped on the train with him and Marcos were in position—two covering a walkway on each side of the boxcar. For this evolution, Logan had the easy part.

  He reached the midpoint of the train, rotated his body, slid himself carefully forward toward the edge of the roof, and braced himself against the edge with his hands. With his MP5 on his back and his Glock 17 in its gun clip to accommodate the silencer, he slowly inched forward until his head hung over the side and confirmed that the door was still open. A faint light emerged from the opening, the source dim and deep inside the boxcar away from the door. He knew he was safe since the other team members had a direct line of sight to anyone that stepped out of the car onto the walkway. If someone inside heard him, he’d just end up dead differently than Logan planned. Now for the fun part.

  He pulled an M18 green smoke grenade off the left side of his vest, pulled the pin, leaned out over the edge, and threw the grenade like a hook shot into the open door below.

  Even over the noise of the rumbling train and the roar of the rushing wind, he heard the pop as the fuse ignited, consuming the filler inside the grenade and creating a thick, acrid green smoke that instantly filled the car below. Within seconds, smoke billowed from the open compartment, and Logan waited from above like a hawk waiting to strike.

  A figure suddenly emerged on the walkway below, coughing. Logan aimed with the Glock he’d unholstered, but as he squeezed the trigger, the train rocked from side to side. The Glock fired, but rather than strike the Venezuelan in the top of the head, the way he’d planned, the bullet shattered his left clavicle, drilling downward.

  Logan heard the scream, but it was cut short as several rounds struck him from the back of the train and ended the pain Logan’s wound had caused. As if suicidal in his last moments on earth, the soldier staggered forward and toppled over a short, narrow railing. His body struck the dirt road and bounced, disappearing from view as the train kept rolling toward Caracas.

  Logan estimated the train had accelerated to at least fifty miles per hour, which meant—or at least Logan hoped—that the engineer knew the route and that they were on a relatively straight stretch of their journey back into Caracas.

  Logan waited, counted to ten, but no one else exited the car, and the smoke continued to pour out, burning through its fifty-second payload. He sc
rambled forward, just past the left edge of the door.

  The two shooters on this side of the boxcar moved up the narrow walkway and stopped at the right edge of the door. Santiago had point, and he looked up at Logan, waiting for his signal.

  Logan nodded, clipped the Glock into its holster once again, and grabbed the edge of the roof that jutted up several inches, providing a decent handhold. He just prayed that the train didn’t turn or hit a break in the tracks as he slid his legs over the side and allowed gravity to take control. He dropped to the walkway and retrieved his Glock in a lightning-fast motion, ready to engage the next target.

  He felt a thud on the walkway behind him as Marcos joined the stack of men outside the open boxcar. The smoke dissipated, and Logan nodded at Santiago, holding up his left hand, the Glock in his right aimed at the compartment. Santiago returned the gesture, his MP5 raised, and Logan dropped his hand, and the two men peeled around the edges of the door and into the compartment.

  Logan held his breath, waiting for the last of the smoke to clear the boxcar. A dim light bulb was mounted on the ceiling halfway down each end of the car, the light creating a green haze that hung in the air. Directly in front of Logan was the FN MAG machine gun, a fresh belt placed into the feed mechanism. Crates and other equipment were stacked along the walls on both sides, but he detected no movement. Have to be sure.

  Logan turned back to Santiago, said, “Clear it,” and stalked down the forward part of the boxcar. The Glock moved smoothly from dark crevices between the boxes to other areas that could be used for an ambush. He reached the front end of the car, uneventfully, and turned back to Marcos, when three loud shots rang out from the rear end of the car.

  One figure went down, while the other dove to the back of the car. Marcos was already moving, his MP5 up and searching. A figure emerged from behind a stack of crates, and Logan realized what had happened. The bastard waited until they passed him, and he shot the man behind Santiago in the back.

  As the soldier aimed at Santiago, who was on the floor of the car and lifting his own MP5 to return fire, Marcos squeezed the trigger, his aim true in the enclosed space. The round struck the man in the back of the neck, as Marcos hadn’t fully elevated the MP5 when he let the first round go. His spinal cord severed, the soldier was momentarily paralyzed before the second round from Marcos’s MP5, which was now on target, struck the soldier in the back of the head, killing him instantly. He crumpled to the floor and lay still, blood pooling less than a foot from where Santiago had landed.

  “Nice shooting,” Logan said, and before he could catch himself, he added, “Almost makes up for what you did two and a half years ago.” He instantly regretted it, remembering why Marcos had allied himself with Logan and Jack. The hard truth inside the gray space that Logan and his task force had occupied for the past two and a half years was that battle lines had shifted, allegiances had changed, and people capable of committing great evil might also be capable of saving innocent lives. What? Are you all of a sudden some kind of amateur philosopher? Who are you to judge, at least at this moment?

  Marcos looked at him, a flash of pain in his combat-drenched eyes. “Sorry,” Logan said. Since he’d been sober from Day One, the day his wife was attacked, he’d gained the ability to realize when he was wrong and actually admit it, not just deflect or deny. “That was uncalled for. It won’t happen again.”

  Marcos nodded, seemingly satisfied at the impromptu apology.

  Santiago had regained his balance and joined them in the center of the boxcar near the FN MAG machine gun. The boxcar tilted slightly as the train hit a gradual curve to the right. Logan walked over to the closed set of doors, lifted the lever handle at the bottom of them, freed the locking mechanism that secured one door to the floor of the car, and slid the door to the left.

  Standing outside, weapons raised, were the remaining two shooters, a former Venezuelan army special forces battalion soldier named Hernán, and a member of the SEBIN’s Direction of Immediate Actions, which handled direct action and anti-explosive operations, who, for some reason known only to himself, went by George. The two men entered the car. Logan stepped outside and quickly looked toward the rear of the car. The headlights were still there, and one set had become two, their beams piercing the mountain forest at odd angles like random laser beams at a nightclub. Good. At least we’re not totally on our own.

  Logan went back inside, bent down, checked the 7.62mm ammunition belt—the gunner had inserted a new one as the train pulled away from the base—and picked the weapon off the floor, hefting the forty-plus-pound machine like Rambo. Marcos picked up the two-hundred-round ammunition belt, creating a two-man machine-gun team.

  “What’s next?” Santiago said.

  “I think I have an idea,” Marcos replied, and folded the ammunition into several long swaths that would feed smoothly into the FN MAG.

  For the first time since they’d hit the base, Logan West allowed a subtle smile to break his black mask of camouflage paint and determination. “Now, Phase Two.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Cole and the two government assassins had slunk back into the tree line behind the HLZ and assumed positions just inside the forest that afforded them a clear line of sight of the Mi-24 and the vehicle assembly area. He knew that if his suspicions were correct, the vice president would have to use one of the remaining vehicles to get down the mountain. Baker’s choice was simple: the Mi-24 or one of the J70 Cruisers.

  The drone swarm had finally vacated the airspace over the mountain and headed back to the clearing from where the mobile ground station had launched them. The drones would be recovered and taken with the team once the mission had ended. The silence that remained was nearly deafening in the absence of drones, gunfire, explosions, and a fleeing train.

  The earbud in Cole’s left ear erupted quietly, and the drone operator issued a status update, as he’d done every thirty seconds since the ScanEagle had assumed its aerial overwatch position. “No movement. Your three IR signatures are still the only things I see. Everyone else up there is dead, fading from white to gray on my monitor,” he said, referring to the cooling bodies of the fallen Venezuelan soldiers and assault team members who’d been killed during the battle.

  “Roger,” Cole said. Come on, Baker. I know you’re out there, somewhere.

  “How long do we wait?” Frederico, the taller and older of the two assassins, asked.

  “As long as it takes,” Cole replied, as his eyes slowly tracked across the base, lingering for a moment on every object and every body. “He won’t wait all night. He’ll want to leave as soon as possible. If he’s here and not on the train, once Logan discovers that, he has to assume we’ll come back and tear this place apart. He won’t want to be here for that.”

  “Makes sense,” Frederico answered.

  Cole only nodded in reply, keeping his real thoughts to himself. Thanks. I’m relieved you approve of my plan. I was hoping to get in good with the local assassin’s guild when this is over.

  * * *

  The remaining five members of Hunter Team crouch-walked to the front of the boxcar out of the line of sight from inside the passenger car in front of it. The rear of the first car was a solid wall from the middle of the car down, except for the solitary door that swung inward. Set in the wall on each side of the door was a large rectangular window. The inside of the car was dark, where the soldiers waited safely for what they knew would come next—an assault. But they don’t know how, Logan thought, counting on tactical surprise to clear the next lethal obstacle.

  Santiago was positioned on the left corner of the boxcar’s walkway, his MP5 ready for Logan’s signal; the two surviving Venezuelan mercenaries posted at the right corner. Logan now lay across the gap between the two speeding train cars, and the FN MAG rested on the landing outside the passenger car, its barrel less than an inch from the door. His lower legs and boots lay on the boxcar, and as the train hit a subtle curve, he felt his legs move to the right as if an invisib
le force were rotating his hips.

  Marcos crouched to the left of the door, reached across it with his left hand, and gripped the handle while his right hand held his MP5.

  Logan exhaled, placed his left hand on the buttstock of the weapon, and rested his right cheek on his hand, looking down the length of the weapon and over the iron sights, his right eye waiting for a target. He was grateful the machine gunner hadn’t mounted a scope on it, as it would’ve made it more difficult for what he planned next. He nodded, and Phase Two commenced as the train relentlessly rolled down the tracks.

  Santiago raised his weapon over their heads and fired point-blank into the window, emptying an entire thirty-round magazine into the glass and the interior of the car. The window shattered into jagged pieces that tumbled both inside the car and onto Santiago. He ignored the glass and reached down for the next part of his plan.

  In perfect synchronization, the two mercenaries on the right opened up as Santiago fired his last round. They fired blindly—every marksman instructor’s worst nightmare—completely destroying the window in front of them.

  Sporadic return fire from inside the car struck the boxcar at chest height and pinged off the corrugated steel. Santiago prayed that the wall he leaned against for cover was thick enough to stop whatever caliber round they were using.

  As they fired, Santiago grabbed the M84 stun grenade he’d placed next to his boots, pulled the pin, and hurled it over his head and into the passenger car. Two seconds later, timed perfectly as the two mercenaries ceased firing and stayed down in cover, the stun grenade exploded with a deafening roar that was magnified inside the passenger car. It shot a brilliant flash of white through the shattered windows, briefly illuminating the boxcar with two blinding rectangles of light.

  Marcos turned the handle of the door down and pushed inward, flinging the door against the back wall of the passenger car. He crouched down and covered his ears as Logan pulled the trigger on the FN MAG, unleashing a fusillade of 7.62mm lead that tore into the benches, the walls, and any unfortunate soul caught in the open aisle that ran down the middle of the car.