Chapter Sixty-Eight
Santiago brought his gun up and Noble had a split second to react. There was no time to draw his own weapon. He stepped inside the elevator car and slapped Santiago’s hand with an open palm. The 9mm Glock breathed fire. Heat licked the left side of Noble’s face. The bullet missed his ear by fractions of an inch. It felt like an icepick to his brain. He screamed, but managed to get both hands around Santiago’s pistol.
They grappled for control of the weapon inside the elevator. Noble wrenched the gun up and Santiago pulled the trigger. One of the overhead fluorescents disintegrated in a shower of sparks. The empty shell casing bounced off the wall and rolled around the floor.
Noble kicked at Santiago’s knee and the cartel enforcer elbowed Noble in the face. It felt like a ballpeen hammer to his cheek. He reeled backwards into the wall. Santiago forced the gun barrel down. Noble leveraged his weight on Santiago’s wrist and turned the muzzle at the last possible second. Two slugs drilled holes in the wall.
Santiago was a street fighter. Unlike Hunt, he had honed his skills in countless life or death struggles. His attacks were less polished, more lethal. Noble had to end this fast or Santiago would beat him to a pulp.
Noble slammed him against the bank of buttons and half the floor numbers lit. The doors slid shut and the elevator started down. Noble slammed him again, forcing all the air out of Santiago’s lungs. He lost his grip and the gun clattered across the floor. The car stopped and the doors slid open. Noble blocked a flurry of knees and elbows. The doors slid shut. Knuckles mashed Noble’s bottom lip. The taste of copper filled his mouth. The elevator stopped on fourteen, thirteen, and again on ten. Santiago’s knee threatened to re-break Noble’s rib with a painful blow. Noble clapped both hands over Santiago’s ears.
The attack was designed to burst the eardrums and disorient an attacker. It worked. The cartel lieutenant screamed and reeled backwards. A trickle of blood dribbled down his cheek.
Noble dived for the gun. Santiago wrapped him up in a headlock. It took all Noble’s strength, but he managed to lunge forward and grab the weapon. He stuck the pistol around his side and fired blind. Santiago jerked, let go, and slumped against the wall.
Noble turned, lost his footing on an empty shell casing, and sat down hard.
Santiago sat across from him, one hand pressed against his stomach and blood soaking through his shirt. His eyes held Noble like he could continue the fight with the depth of his hatred alone. But he wasn’t getting up. They both knew it.
He struggled for breath. “Your friend… he died… like a coward.”
“When you get to hell, tell them Jake Noble sent you.” He pulled the trigger. The gun clapped thunder. Blood painted the wall in a violent red shout.
The elevator stopped on two. Noble limped out and took a moment to collect himself. Pain marched up his body in ranks. He probed his aching ribs. They were intact, but they would be bruised. Before the elevator doors closed, Noble tossed Santiago’s gun into his lap.
He took the stairs to the parking garage, eased down the latch on the heavy door, and opened it enough to peek. Three of the convoys were still parked. Police cruisers had barricaded the exit ramp. Officers ordered them to surrender, but the cartels were armed to the teeth and not going down without a fight.
“Mexican standoff,” Noble muttered to himself.
No one was watching the stairwell. Noble opened the door, aimed over parked cars, and shot the nearest thug in the back. The Kimber roared. In the concrete cave of the underground garage, the report echoed, making it impossible to tell where it had come from. Everyone started shooting at the same time. The sound was deafening. Bullets skipped around inside the parking garage, obliterating windows, setting off car alarms, and blowing out tires. Men screamed in pain.
Noble swung the door shut before one of the bullets bounced into the stairwell. He raced up to the first floor. There were two doors on the landing. One led to the lobby. The other was a fire exit. He holstered his weapon and shouldered his way through the fire door into an alley.
“Hands up!”
A pair of police officers in tactical gear pointed AR-15s at him. Their car blocked the mouth of the alley. The other end was open, but too far to run. Noble would just die winded. He raised both hands.
They ordered him to lay down.
He played the hapless foreigner card. “Er… perdón… no hablo español.”
One of the officers came forward while his partner hung back near the car. Noble stared down the barrel of the AR-15 and reminded himself to breathe. The cop could end his existence with a twitch of his finger. Noble’s heart drummed against the wall of his chest. He put his hands up.
The officer lowered the weapon. It was attached by a single point sling around his neck. He let the rifle dangle and grasped Noble’s outstretched arm. Noble reversed the hold. Now he was gripping the officer’s wrist. He pulled the officer in close and jammed his knee into the cop’s groin. The officer doubled over in pain and Noble snatched the AR-15.
The second cop couldn’t fire without hitting his partner. He started forward, shouting orders. Noble brought the rifle up, and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the cop in the chest and he went down flat on his back.
Noble pressed the quick release on the rifle sling and struck the first officer with the butt of the weapon. His legs buckled and his eyes rolled up. He went over on his side.
The second cop coughed and clutched at his chest. Noble had been counting on the cop’s vest to stop the bullet, but from this distance it was a gamble. He probably had broken ribs and tomorrow he’d have one hell of a bruise, but he’d live. He tried to lift his rifle with hands that flapped around like dying butterflies.
Noble centered the front sight on his forehead. “Toss it.”
The cop released the buckle and pushed the weapon aside. It clattered on the asphalt. Fear flooded his eyes.
Noble collected two full magazines from the unconscious cop at his feet and then stepped over to the fallen partner. He kept the barrel aimed at the officer’s head while he pulled two more magazines from the man’s tactical harness. In Spanish, he asked, “Did it penetrate?”
The officer shook his head.
“Keys?”
“In the car,” he croaked out.
“Count to one hundred, slowly,” Noble told him. “Then call an ambulance.”
The officer nodded.
Noble grabbed the second AR-15, climbed into the driver seat of the police cruiser, and tossed the rifles into the passenger seat.
The wounded officer rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled over to his unconscious partner. They were probably good cops. Noble felt bad about taking them down.
He reversed out of the alley. Traffic around the high rise was at a standstill. Cops poured bullets down the ramp into the parking garage. Motorists panicked and tried to back up, causing dozens of fender benders. Noble searched the dash, switched on the flashers and drove on the sidewalk until he had worked his way past the traffic jam. He headed east, past the American embassy, following Alejandra. He didn’t see Hunt going the opposite direction.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Tonight marked the first presidential debate. Rhodes was squaring off against the loud-mouthed real estate tycoon from New York. The debate would be moderated by Shawn Hennessy from Fox. The cable news pundit would grill her with questions about the deaths of four Americans in Libya, her private email servers, and the recent allegations that she had planted false evidence against the head of the FBI.
There’s nothing worse than a journalist who doesn’t owe allegiance to the establishment. They ask tough questions instead of sticking to the narrative. After thirty years in politics, Rhodes knew what the plebeian masses really wanted; someone to keep the lights on so they can swill beer and watch football.
She was backstage in a private dressing room. A colored girl was doing her makeup. Rhodes believed in the work of Margaret Sanger and thought blacks
should be sterilized. Crime and rising welfare costs were their only contribution to society, but they voted democrat. Herd them into slums and supply them with enough cash to toke up, they’d keep voting democrat. Much as she hated to admit it, she needed the black vote. The redneck, inbreeds in flyover country certainly wouldn’t be voting for her.
While the colored girl applied concealer, Rhodes read over her talking points, mouthing silently to herself. Her staff was making too much noise: working social media, making telephone calls, and discussing contingency plans for any embarrassing questions that might come up. Under all the racket, Rhodes thought she heard the crowd chanting the insurgent’s name. Her left eye started to twitch.
“Try not to do that,” the colored girl said, “It messes up your mascara.”
Her Chief of Staff, Mateen Malih, appeared over her shoulder holding a cellphone and whispered, “Call for you.”
“What idiot would be stupid enough to call me fifteen minutes before a debate?”
Mateen dropped her voice another octave. “It’s him.”
“Be more specific.”
“Our biggest donor.” Mateen raised her eyebrows.
“Blythe?”
Mateen shook her head. “Him.”
Her nostrils flared. “He knows better than to call me. That’s not how it works.”
Mateen put the phone to her ear and started to issue an excuse. She stopped mid-sentence. The color drained from her face. She listened for several seconds and then handed the phone to Rhodes. Her lips trembled. “He threatened me.”
Rhodes snatched the phone. “I’m about to go on stage. What’s so important?”
It sounded like he was in a car. Rhodes heard the engine revving. Machado yelled into the phone. “The CIA assassin sparked a war between the cartels and blew up my car!”
Rhodes flicked a hand at the colored girl, who politely stepped away. “And you decided to call me on a cellphone?”
“Worried somebody might be listening?”
Rhodes lowered her voice. “I understand how that might be upsetting, but there is no reason to be uncivil. I’ll see what I can do to remedy your little problem. Right now I’m about to go on stage.”
“It is not a little problem,” Machado said. “Noble just destroyed everything I spent the last two decades working on. I want him dead.”
She stood up and stamped a foot. “Who do you think you are? You don’t give me orders!”
Everybody in the room was watching her.
“You ignorant cow!” Machado exploded. “How would you like the American public to find out about our little arrangement? How would that affect your poll numbers?”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I don’t make threats,” Machado said. “I make promises. I have recordings of every conversation and a paper trail of every dollar I ever donated to your campaigns over the years.”
Rhodes gripped the edge of her stool and lowered herself onto the seat. Her eye twitched.
“Now, listen to me very carefully,” Machado said. “I want Jake Noble dead or I’ll have your daughter kidnapped and mailed back to you in pieces.”
The threat against Kelsey was immaterial. The twenty-two-year-old ball and chain could drop dead for all Rhodes cared. But the threat of leaked recordings… that would destroy her. It was an effort to keep her voice in check. “Don’t do anything rash…”
The line went dead.
The colored girl made a motion to ask if she should continue. Rhodes shook her head. She dialed and put the phone to her ear.
“This is Clark S. Foster.”
“I said I wanted the rogue agent dealt with,” Rhodes said. “Was I not clear?”
“My best officer is down there right now,” Foster said. “But we’ve hit a few snags. The Wizard is running interference for Burke. Instead of hanging in the wind, he’s on administrative leave. Once you’re president and I’m in charge, I’ll clear out the riffraff. Cowboys like Burke will no longer be a problem.”
“It’s too late for that,” Rhodes said.
“What are you talking about?”
She retreated to a corner of the room. “I’m talking about Machado. He’s become a problem. He needs to go away.”
“I’m not sure I understand you,” Foster said.
Her voice was a dangerous whisper. “Eliminate him.”
“I would need to clear an operation like that with the Director first,” Foster said.
Rhodes gripped the cellphone so hard her bony knuckles cracked. “You don’t work for the Director. You work for me. I’m going to be the next president and I’m giving you a direct order. Kill Machado or pray I lose this election.”
She hung up before Foster could protest. She missed the days when you could slam a phone to make your point. Everybody was watching her. She barked, “Show’s over, people.”
Chapter Seventy
Three blocks up, police waged war against cartel. The hard crack of automatic rifles echoed along the boulevard. Pedestrians ran for cover. Drivers fought clear of the traffic jam and then stepped on the gas. Hunt watched as a squad of Mexican cops in riot gear advance on the parking garage, pouring round after round from AR-15s down the ramp. One of the officers took a bullet in the leg, staggered, fell.
Hunt sheltered in a recessed door and watched the battle unfold. He felt his cell vibrating in his pocket, dug it out and recognized Foster’s number. He put the phone to his ear. “Now’s not really a good time, sir.”
“Do I hear gunshots?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jake Noble’s not dead, is he?”
Hunt frowned. “Er… no, sir. Not yet.”
“Good,” Foster said. “The situation has changed. Machado needs to be eliminated.”
Hunt turned away from the action and plugged an ear. “Say again.”
“I’m switching the op. Make contact with Noble and support him in any way you can.” Foster said.
“You want me to help Noble?”
“It’s complicated.” Foster sounded like a school teacher lecturing a dimwitted student. “I don’t have time to educate you on the intricacies of foreign policy. All you need to know is, Machado’s continued existence threatens America’s best interests. He needs to be dealt with. Can you handle it?”
“Yes, sir,” Hunt said. “What about Noble?”
“If he lives, fine. If he dies, all the better. But make sure Machado is taken care of.”
“Consider it done.”
Hunt stood there fuming. His plans for Noble would have to wait. He pocketed the phone and watched the battle, eager to see how things shook out. He was in no hurry to square off against a drug cartel. That kind of thing was better left to the military. Then, Hunt recalled, Noble was a former Green Beret. Still, even with Noble on his side, Hunt didn’t like their chances against a narco army. With any luck, the Mexican police would make a clean sweep of it.
His hopes were dashed when a police cruiser shot backwards out of an alley. Tires screeched. The rear bumper stopped just short of a paneled van. Noble was behind the wheel. He jammed the car into gear and stamped the gas. The engine roared. He used the sidewalk to get past the line of stalled cars.
Hunt turned his face away as Noble rocketed past.
Where is he going?
Hunt walked out into traffic where a motorcyclist was walking his bike backwards. The biker cleared the worst of the jam and got turned around. Hunt drew his gun and let the biker see it. The guy passed the handle bars over without further prompting.
Hunt threw a leg over the seat, popped the clutch and the front tire jumped into the air. He threw his weight over the handlebars, forced the wheel back onto the pavement and swerved around a tractor trailer. The police cruiser was less than half a kilometer ahead. Hunt eased off the throttle. He kept low over the handlebars, making himself harder to spot in a rearview mirror. Noble wasn’t checking for tails. Wherever he was going, he was in a hurry. He used the sidewalk again and ran a re
d, forcing Hunt to keep up or be left behind.
Chapter Seventy-One
Noble’s headlamps reflected off the back of the Suburban parked on the shoulder. The driver side door was open. Rocky, hardscrabble terrain and stunted trees flanked both sides of the road. Dark storm clouds boiled overhead. Noble slowed down as he passed. No blood. No bullet holes.
He pulled over, parked, cranked open his door, and waited. A lone cicada buzzed. Electric light limned a ridgeline on Noble’s right. He didn’t need satellite to tell him Machado’s compound lay just over the hill of broken teeth. Alejandra was probably already on the other side.
He took both rifles and started up the rocky incline. Loose rock shifted underfoot. Thorny brambles raked his thighs. He was forced to go slow or risk turning an ankle. A collar of sweat formed around his neck. Near the top, the grade turned sharply upward. Noble used one hand to pull himself along. It took ten minutes to reach the summit.
On the other side of the hill lay a sprawling complex of stucco buildings surrounded by a high wall, complete with an Olympic-sized swimming pool, tennis courts, and a garden maze full of Greek statuary. Arc sodium security lamps banished the darkness. The armored SUV that had escaped the hotel was parked in front the main building.
From atop the ridge, Noble counted twelve guards. There would be more inside. A jagged fork of lightning blazed across the sky, leaving its afterimage printed on his retinas. A low rumble followed. The first promise of a breeze lifted his hair.
He scanned the dark crags and boulders, spotted movement near bottom. Alejandra crept along the rocks twenty meters below. She was planning a single handed assault on the compound. Hate was eating her up. She had been living with it so long now it overruled her common sense. Hurt anyone deep enough and they’ll storm the very gates of hell for revenge.
A little voice at the back of Noble’s head asked; And what are you doing in the middle of the desert with a pair of automatic rifles?
Noble Vengeance Page 23
