by D C Alden
‘I’ll take care of it,’ Blake told her, and he would. Matt and his wife Beth had lived separate lives for many years, an arrangement that suited them both. ‘In the meantime I want the body prepped for transport. And let’s get rid of all this equipment, okay?’ He lifted a radio to his mouth. ‘Raul, meet me at the ranch house.’
Blake met him in the lobby by the main door. Raul Molina was a former commander of Peru’s First Special Forces Brigade and the ranch’s head of security. He wore jeans, a fur-lined denim jacket and an open-necked shirt. Strapped to his thigh was a large black pistol.
‘Jefe?’
‘Mister Sorenson is dead.’
Molina didn’t blink. ‘My condolences, Señor Blake.’
‘I want you to take his body to the Medical Examiner’s Office in Flagstaff tomorrow morning. They’ll be expecting you.’
‘Of course.’
Molina turned away as he answered a radio message. Blake caught a look on the Peruvian’s pockmarked face.
‘Everything okay?’
‘The lookout post on the west ridge hasn’t checked in. I’m going to take a drive up there.’
‘Is there a problem?’
Molina shrugged. ‘Probably a radio issue.’
‘Keep me posted.’
The security chief left the building and Blake followed him a few moments later, pulling on a thick parka as he stepped out into the cold night air. He headed across the hard-packed dirt turnaround towards the single-storey prefabricated building that served as the ranch’s security hub. Inside, two men sat in front of several monitors and a big chess-board screen of remote CCTV feeds, most of which were located within three hundred yards of the compound. There were a couple of others, covering the three-mile-long access road and the main gate out of the highway, and it pissed Blake off. He had more cameras in his Seattle home than here at the ranch.
‘Hola,’ Blake said, greeting the two Peruvians.
They smiled and nodded respectfully.
‘Have we got a camera up on the west ridge?’
‘No, señor.’
Blake swore quietly under his breath. He stood behind them for a few minutes, watching the low-light images. Aside from the occasional bug or a night bird, he didn’t see anything that could —
‘What’s that?’ Blake pointed to one of the feeds. ’Punch it up on the big screen.’
’Si, señor.’
The chessboard disappeared, replaced by a large, green-tinted image of the southern field. There was something in the long grass, a dark, moving shape that suddenly stopped. Blake couldn’t make it out, the frozen form not quite revealing itself, its body made up of hues and shadows that blended perfectly with its background. Then it moved again, jumping once, twice, before bolting across the field.
A deer.
The Peruvians grinned.
Blake smirked too.
Mike Savage cringed as the buck leapt over him and thundered away, its white tail bouncing wildly before disappearing into the darkness. He stayed perfectly still, crouched in the tall grass, surrounded by the dark forms of his SOG team. Red Squadron was spread further out across the field, silent, invisible to the naked eye, but through Mike’s helmet-mounted QuadEye panoramic Night Vision Device, their thermal ID patches glowed in the dark.
They were two hundred yards short of the ranch’s perimeter fence. Such was the stealthy nature of their approach that even the white-tail was oblivious to their presence until it had almost stumbled upon Mike. Now it was gone, and the peace of the wilderness returned.
A cold but gentle wind stirred the tall grass, providing cover for their silent approach. The night was moonless and clear, and stars dusted the sky. As Mike moved low and slow he listened to the comms traffic in his headset, the messages from TOC, from the UAV operators in Nevada, from the Delta teams to the north and west. Mike’s brief was simple; allow the SEALs to clear a path to the compound and secure the target, alive. There was no room for screwups, not this time.
He watched the grass ahead of him stir as the Navy assaulters closed in on the perimeter fence. Billy Finch was just ahead of him, and he gestured for Mike to wait. Very, very slowly, Mike lifted his head until his optical tubes barely cleared the grass. He saw several security guards wandering back-and-forth, their chatter carried on the wind, along with the occasional whiff of cigarette smoke. They were well-armed, with pistols and M4 carbines, but they lacked the discipline, training and technical sophistication of the Americans watching them.
The SEALs on point would be much closer to the fence. Their weapons would be raised, their targets framed in their battle sights, their trigger fingers ready while they waited for the long guns in the hills to start whittling down the numbers.
The Delta snipers owned the high ground.
There were sixteen operators, eight teams of two spread along the gentle rise of the wooded northern and western ridges that overlooked the main compound. Each team consisted of a spotter and a shooter armed with a Barrett MK 21 Advanced Sniper Rifle, and they had positioned themselves carefully to provide a clear view of the target area and an effective cross-fire envelope.
They had advanced to target quickly, covering almost three miles of wooded and open ground and killing six Peruvian guards in the process before reaching the foot of the low hills. They’d been warned about the lookout post on the western ridge, and two operators had moved in and killed two more sentries with suppressed weapons before calling the others up. Now they were spread out along two hundred and fifty yards of ridge line, expertly camouflaged and well-armed. One of the spotters, a Spanish-speaker, monitored a captured radio. The sudden and violent deaths of eight guards had yet to be discovered. They were still golden.
Below them, their Delta brothers from D Squadron had circled the rise and were now in position close to the perimeter fence. Four hundred and fifty yards away, the SEALs held position on the southern flank. Above them, the Gray Eagles fed live video back to the TOC. The task force was set and ready.
Down in the compound, halogen lights threw long shadows across the dirt. Guards wandered to and fro, unknowingly tracked through high-precision scopes. Cigarettes glowed. The wind lifted snatches of chatter up over the ridge line.
Final adjustments were made for range and windage. Breathing was regulated. Fingers curled around triggers as targets were centred.
The green light would come at any moment.
The Jeep Cherokee whined towards them along the access road.
The four Delta operators were less than a mile from the compound, spread out in the grass, guns up. Headlights flared and NVGs were flipped up onto ballistic helmets. Four barrels tracked the driver, the engine block, the two passengers. The jeep cruised along the asphalt, biding its own sweet time. At fifty yards the operators opened fire. The driver’s head snapped backwards as rounds punched through the windshield, and then through his left eye and throat. The jeep veered off the road and hit a power pole, its back wheels bouncing off the ground in a cloud of dust.
The Delta operators were already moving towards the disabled vehicle. The driver took another safety round through the skull. As the Delta semi-circle closed in, the survivors tumbled out. The rear seat passenger tried to bring a pistol to bear but he was dead before he could use it, his torso punctured by six high-velocity rounds. The front-seat passenger was on all fours, crawling away through the wash of headlights, a dark stain soaking the back of his sheepskin coat. Puffs of wool exploded as two more rounds put him down in the grass.
The jeep’s engine was switched off and the lights were extinguished. Darkness closed in. The cooling engine ticked. The Delta team moved quickly. The jeep wasn’t the target; it was the pole the vehicle had smashed into.
The power distribution box was mounted near the top, close to the drooping power lines, and they used the roof of the jeep to get to it. An explosive charge was attached and the operators took cover.
‘Firing.’
The charge blew, the p
ole crowned with a sudden flash of orange light. The detonation rumbled across the prairie. The electrical distribution box fizzed and popped and sparks showered to the ground.
Less than a mile away, the compound was suddenly plunged into darkness.
The call went out, heard by sixty-two assaulters, operators and CIA paramilitaries across the encrypted radio net.
‘All call-signs, execute, execute, execute.’
The Delta snipers opened up from the top of the ridge, dropping fourteen of their nineteen intended targets in the first volley of suppressed fire. They were some of the best sharpshooters in the world, and by the time the surviving guards registered the crack of a supersonic round fizzing by them, the operators had already reloaded and reacquired. None of the Peruvians heard the second shots that killed them.
‘What the fuck just happened!’
Torches snapped on inside the security portacabin, waving across the equipment. Everything was out; terminals, screens, light, everything.
‘Go fire up the generator. Move!’ One of the Peruvians sprang from his chair and Blake followed him outside, snatching the radio from his pocket. ‘Raul! Come back!’ Then Blake froze. Between the security hut and the ranch house, he saw a body lying on the ground.
‘Go for Raul.’
‘What the fuck is happening? I got a dead guy here and all the power just — ’
The static nearly deafened him.
He heard Raul scream something in Spanish.
‘Raul! Come in!’ More static, then a flurry of garbled messages all in Spanish. Across the compound he saw the bunk house door fly open and the Peruvian guards fan out across the property, guns waving in all directions. Bullets whizzed and cracked, and a couple of guys fell to the ground.
Blake snatched up the dead guy’s M4 carbine and ran for the ranch house. It was a raid, had to be. FBI, military, whatever, and in that instant, Bob Blake knew it was all over. His heart raced. It was time to get out, time to implement his plan. After everything he’d done, it would’ve been stupid not to have one.
There was a back route off the property, a series of trails and wooded tracks that would take him out onto Highway 64 and then on to the Interstate. From there it was a three-hour drive to the executive terminal at McCarran Airport in Vegas where a private jet would transport him to Mexico City. He had money banked all over the world in dozens of secret accounts. No one would ever find him.
He burst through the door of the ranch house and headed to the suite of rooms on his right. He flung the door open and saw the Polish deployment team had taken cover behind the furniture. One of the windows had shattered, and the sound of gunfire rippled across the night air.
‘What’s happening?’ one of them asked, a shaven-headed man with high-cheek bones and a broken nose.
Blake crouched down in the doorway. ’It’s a police raid. Are you good to go?’
‘We need the passports,’ he told Blake.
‘We’re out of time. There’s a Mercedes in the garage, fuelled and ready to go. The key’s in the glove box. Take it, get out of here. Hit as many cities as you can.’
The Pole frowned. ‘Here? In America?’
‘Yes. Now go!’
The men, all former Polish military, scattered for their coats and rucks and bundled from the ranch house. Blake scuttled across the room and ducked into the kitchen. Outside he saw men running, falling. He didn’t have much time.
The pantry was filled with shelves of canned and dried goods. There were four hooks on the rear wall, with aprons dangling from them. Blake pulled down hard on the two middle hooks and the door swung inward to reveal a metal ladder that disappeared into a black shaft. At the bottom, a tunnel ran beneath the prairie to a barn just over half a mile away. There was a pickup in the barn, and Blake would use it to navigate the trails and get away. Matt had the whole thing installed when he’d first bought the ranch, an emergency escape if ever one was needed. Blake felt like kissing his rapidly cooling corpse.
He pulled the door to and headed across the hallway into Sorenson’s wing. There was business to take care of before he could make his own escape.
It was pitch black inside, and Blake cocked the M4. He could hear frightened whispers as he crept through the darkened kitchen. He barged the door open to Matt’s private lounge and saw ghostly white figures in the gloom. The medical team, all cowering in the dark. Excellent.
‘Everything’s okay,’ Blake assured them.
‘Mister Blake!’ a female voice cried. ‘What’s happening!’ It was Estevez, and she sounded terrified.
‘Who’s shooting?’ another voice gasped.
‘Just stay still,’ Blake ordered, his eyes squinting in the darkness. The figures were moving, some crouched beneath the windows, some hiding behind furniture. And then he remembered. He ran a hand along the M4’s barrel and found the underslung torch. He flipped it on and swung the beam around the room.
‘I need everybody against the wall, quickly.’
‘Why?’ someone whimpered.
Then someone else screamed, ‘He’s got a gun!’
Blake swept the barrel towards the voice, saw a male nurse crouched behind a Lazy Boy. He opened fire, the sound deafening, the muzzle flash flickering off the walls, the chair disintegrating in a cloud of dust and stuffing. He swung the weapon around. The others were backing away into a corner, hands raised, pleading for mercy.
Sorry, muchachos, no can do.
Blake squeezed the trigger —
Click.
He squeezed again.
Click.
A male nurse roared, charging through the torch beam. He cannoned into Blake at speed, knocking him to the ground, the M4 skittering across the tiled floor. The nurse was a big guy, and his fists pounded into Blake’s face. Blake tried to get up but the others swarmed on top of him, knocking the wind from his lungs. He felt more punches raining down and he tried to twist away —
‘Hold him still!’
He recognised the voice. Estevez. No longer frightened.
‘His head! Hold his head!’
Strong hands pushed down on his temple, clamped his jaw. He smelled bad breath and sweat. He winced as something pricked his neck, and then a warm sensation began to spread through his chest, through his arms and legs. The guy straddling him climbed off. His head was released. Blake smiled in the darkness.
‘Hola,’ he chuckled. He couldn’t move his limbs, and neither did he care. He felt wonderfully woozy.
Estevez leaned over him, lifted an eyelid.
‘Get him into the treatment room. Quickly.’
Such a sweet voice, Blake thought.
It was the last one he heard.
Mike was on his feet, moving fast towards the boundary fence. He vaulted it, leaping over the corpses of the dead guards. Ahead, a dozen thermal helmet patches glowed as the SEALs raced across the paddock, unhindered by heavy packs. Mike and his guys also travelled light, just personal rigs stuffed with spare magazines and explosive ordinance.
‘Be advised, forty-plus hostiles in the compound, another thirteen, one-three, approaching from the east on foot.’
Friend and foe alike were converging on the compound, but the security force remained unaware or possibly ignorant of the fact that they were up against the very best the US military had to offer.
Zip.
Zip. Zip.
Incoming rounds cracked past them. Somewhere to his right Mike heard a grunt and a body fall to the ground.
A hundred yards to the inner fence.
He saw guards fanning out along its length, taking cover behind thick posts, opening fire with their assault weapons. A couple of them had NVGs and were laying down some accurate rounds. They were a problem, and the SEALs knew it too. The call went out, and up on the hill a couple of the Delta long guns switched targets and began dropping the guards with lethal efficiency. The SOG team made it to the fence. SEALs broke left and right and sprinted towards the compound. Mike turned to his guys who
were crouched in the grass around him.
‘Moving on three,’ Mike told them. ‘One, two — ’
And then he was moving, looping towards the asphalt road to the east. They made it to the boundary fence and sprang over the top, landing on the grass verge that ran alongside the road. He keyed his radio.
‘Sierra-Oscar-One moving north on access road.’
He watched another SEAL element leapfrog past them, firing and manoeuvring. Then Mike was moving too. Rounds cracked off the tarmac in front of him.
‘Contact left!’
He shouldered his weapon and returned fire at the targets behind the barn door up ahead. The guys behind him also engaged, their rounds splintering the timber frames. Both shooters were toes up in seconds. Mike raced to the edge of the barn. Tapper and the others were right behind him.
‘Hornet Teams, friendlies in the compound. Clear targets only.’
Up on the ridge, the Delta snipers would now take clean shots only. Mike saw the SEALs racing into the compound from either side. The Delta operators would be closing in from the west, tightening the noose.
Mike led his men to the edge of the barn. A hundred yards to the north, the security team were falling back to the bunkhouse, a large single-story building with several doors and lots of windows. They fired wildly in all directions as they backed inside.
At Mike’s ten o’clock there was a large, open-sided barn with a row of vehicles inside. It would serve as cover before they assaulted the main building, but to get there they had to cross fifty yards of open ground. Mike turned to Tapper and pointed.
‘We’re moving to that vehicle shed. Stay tight.’
‘Roger.’
Mike did the count, and then he was sprinting across open ground towards the shed. Boots pounded behind him. Gunfire roared, but it was wild and ineffectual. The shed bobbed in his night vision —
Lights blinded him.
The Mercedes roared and drove right at them. Mike’s team were caught in the open. There was no time to shoot, no time to do anything but leap out of the way —
