Looking for justice, Noble thought.
Justice? Or vengeance?
Tomato, to-mah-to.
He heard an engine and turned. There was a tiny spark of light, like a lightning bug in the dark. It grew to a single headlight. A motorcycle pulled up and stopped in back of the parked cars. Even from this distance, he recognized the rider.
“Damn, that guy is persistent.”
Hunt swung his leg off the motorcycle, looked around, started up the incline.
While Hunt was working his way up, Noble started down the other side. Going down was faster, if no less dangerous, and he caught up to Alejandra as she hunkered behind a large outcropping of rock.
“Machado was in the lead car,” she said without preamble.
“I figured as much,” Noble said. “What’s your plan? Go in guns blazing, like Butch and Sundance?”
“Who’s Butch Sundance?” she asked.
“Butch and Sundance,” he corrected.
“Who’s that?”
“Never mind,” Noble said.
“I’m not asking you to come with me,” she said.
Noble caught her arm. She turned to face him. He said, “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t planning on going over that wall.”
“No more tricks,” she said. “No more traps, no more bombs underneath cars. This ends tonight.”
“Fine.” Noble handed her a rifle and two full magazines. “But if we are going to do this, let’s at least do it right.”
She checked the action on the weapon. “I’m listening.”
“Hang on a second,” Noble told her.
Atop the ridgeline, a dark shadow move against the deeper black of the night sky. Noble used the flashlight mounted on the AR15 and flashed twice. Several minutes passed. Nothing happened. Noble signaled again. Finally, Hunt started down the embankment, staying low and skirting the larger rock formations.
Another loud rumble announced the storm. Lightening flashed across the sky. Noble felt a heavy drop on his shoulder. A moment later the sky opened up and rain came down in thick sheets, cutting visibility to a few yards.
Hunt swam out of the darkness a few minutes later.
“Him again?” Alejandra said. She had to raise her voice over the driving rain. “Should have killed him.”
“Nice to see you too,” Hunt sneered. His GQ model hair was plastered to his skull. Water ran off his chin. All his swaggering confidence was gone, replaced by a sullen, hangdog look.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Alejandra asked.
“Looking for answers.”
Noble made a surprised face. “I was starting to wonder if the CIA was still in the fact-finding business.”
“Think what you like, Noble. I’ve got my orders.”
“And those are?”
Hunt looked like he had just swallowed a slug. “To help you take out Machado.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Noble remarked. “Why the sudden change of heart?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Noble grinned. “You didn’t ask, or Foster wouldn’t say?”
“I follow orders. You should try it some time.” Hunt drew a Soviet-era 9mm Makarov from his waistband.
Noble cocked a brow. “That thing will probably blow up in your hand.”
“Someone stole mine,” Hunt said.
Alejandra said, “We’re wasting time.”
Noble passed Hunt the other AR15.
“What’s the plan?” Hunt thrust his chin at the compound wall. “There are a dozen guys in there and a lot of AK-47s.”
“Alejandra and I are going over the wall,” Noble told him. “You’re going to cover us from that ridgeline. Think you can handle it?”
“That’s your plan?” Hunt said. “Not exactly Winston Churchill, are you?”
“You aren’t exactly Eugene Sledge,” said Noble. “Work your way back up the slope until you’ve got a good view of the layout. Signal with your flashlight when the coast is clear.”
Hunt nodded. “Alright, but if this goes sideways, I’m back over that hill and you’re on your own.”
Chapter Seventy-Two
Machado doubled the men on the front gate before retreating to his private study. He poured a finger of scotch from the side bar, knocked it back, and refilled the glass. Liquor calmed his nerves. He wanted to kill: to break and rip and destroy. Jake Noble had pulled the rug out from under his feet. Instead of negotiating with the other cartel leaders for a cut of their revenue, he was running for his life. The damn Yankee would die badly, but first Machado needed to get out of Mexico. The other cartels would be out for blood.
He dialed Santiago and got no answer. Next he dialed his new pilot and waited.
The man came on the line after a dozen rings. “Si, el Jefe?”
“What the hell took you so long?”
The pilot started to stammer out an excuse.
“Never mind,” Machado barked. “I want to be in the air in thirty minutes.”
“Perdón, señor, but there is a storm.”
“I don’t care if fire is raining from the sky,” Machado screamed into the phone. “Be on the runway and ready to fly by the time I get there!”
He hung up and sipped his scotch. Maintain control, Machado told himself. Have every man at the compound escort him to the airfield and once he was safely in the air, he would have Noble’s family—if he had any—assassinated. After that, he would call a meeting with Helen Rhodes. He had lived up to his end of the deal. It was time for her to flex the might of the American border patrol. With her help, he could still bring the other cartels in line. He nodded to himself. Perhaps it was not a complete loss.
There was a two-way radio in a charger on a side table. Machado picked it up and turned it over his hands, trying to figure out how the thing worked. Usually Santiago handled communications. Machado founded the power switch and then toggled the transmit. His head of his security answered. Machado said, “Prepare the convoy. Take every man you can spare. We are going to the airfield. Let me know as soon as you are ready to move.”
“Sí, señor.”
Thunder shook the house. The first drops of rain pattered on the window panes, then the clouds opened up, lashing the house with all the fury of mother nature. A small knuckle of fear twisted in his belly. Would they be able to take off in this mess?
Machado sloshed more scotch into his glass. Minutes passed. What the hell was taking so long?
The sporadic burp of small arms fire climbed above the pouring rain. So much for making a clean getaway. He would have to fight his way to the airfield. He put down his drink and drew a pump action shotgun from under the desk.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Noble and Alejandra crept across ten meters of open ground to the wall. Alejandra used the flashlight mounted under her rifle to signal Hunt, then they waited. Noble checked the action on the Kimber and let out a nervous breath.
Alejandra said, “You don’t have to do this, you know. It’s not your fight.”
Noble thought of Torres. If the roles were reversed, if he had been killed by Machado’s butchers, Torres would chase the kingpin to the ends of the earth. That’s why Torres stayed while Noble was pinned beneath a dead horse with mortar shells raining down on them.
Noble said, “Yeah, it is.”
“We’re going to die,” Alejandra said.
“Probably,” Noble admitted. “Nervous?”
She shook her head, throwing droplets of water. “I’m not afraid to die.”
“Once we get inside, keep moving,” Noble told her. “That’s key. A moving target is hard to hit.”
She gave another jerky nod.
“It’s going to be chaotic,” he said, then added, “Don’t get jumpy and shoot me in the back.”
Minutes felt like hours. Noble’s legs started to cramp. Finally, Hunt returned the “all clear” with two quick beats from his flashlight.
“Can we trust him?” Alejandra asked.
�
�We’re about to find out,” Noble said.
Before they could move, the sound of a machine gun ripped through the gusting wind and rain. Alejandra had her rifle up looking for targets but the shots came from the front gate. Several automatics answered. One of the other cartels had decided to pay Machado back for the dust-up at the penthouse.
“Now’s our chance,” Noble said. “Go.”
Alejandra slung her weapon and laced her fingers together. Noble put his foot in the stirrup. She hoisted him up. He grasped the top of the wall and hauled himself onto the ledge. A dozen pickup trucks and SUVs pulled up to the compound. Muzzle flashes winked like fireflies through the downpour. Bullets hissed and snapped overhead.
Alejandra jumped and Noble latched onto her wrists. His bruised ribs gave a tortured cry but he managed to pull her up. They dropped down on the other side with a splash. No need to worry about the noise. The battle would disguise their movements. The arrival of the enemy cartel had improved the odds of getting inside. Getting out was another matter. Noble took the lead. He hurried across the lawn, past the tennis courts, through the pouring rain to the main house.
Hunt counted two dozen attackers and seventeen defenders. The attackers had rolled up to the gate in pickups with belt-fed machine guns mounted in the beds. The home team had the advantage, though; they had good cover behind the wall and plenty of firepower. It was a full-scale war and Hunt had bleacher seats. This must have been what the Romans felt like sitting in the Colosseum. Hunt was halfway up the slope, a few short meters from the top. He wanted to be close enough to scramble over the ridgeline, back down the other side and be on the motorcycle if things went south.
He settled the barrel of his rifle in a wedge formed between two rocks and steadied his breathing. His pulse raced. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears. This was the first time he had ever been in a pitched firefight. And it was an ideal situation. For him at least.
He checked on Noble and the girl. They were moving south towards the main building, past a swimming pool big enough to float a yacht in. At the front gate, Machado’s men were decimating the attackers. Hunt cursed. He needed the Los Zetas to lose. If the rival cartel overran the compound and killed Machado, Hunt could call it a day and go home.
He aimed at one of the defenders, let out his breath and his fingertip tightened on the trigger. The rifle kicked. The Los Zetas soldier tumbled from the wall.
Hunt, his heart tap dancing inside his chest, ducked down behind the rock, anticipating a hail storm of lead. He had just killed a man, shot him in the back. It was like a video game. Aim. Squeeze. Bang. One minute the guy was standing there, the next he folded up and hit the ground.
This was the second time Hunt had fired his weapon in the line of duty. The first time, he had been sprinting across a snowy parking lot in Pushkin. The whole thing happened so fast, Hunt never knew if he had hit the Russian agent and never found out what happened.
This was different. His bullet had found the mark. No doubt about it.
He chanced a peek over the rock. No one was shooting at him. The narco armies were caught in the fog of war and didn’t realize someone was shooting at their backs. Why would they? A single rifle didn’t attract any attention in the deadly barrage.
Hunt steadied his weapon, fired and watched another Los Zetas soldier collapse.
“I could get used to this,” he told the rain. He felt invincible, like a god dispatching his enemies with cool detachment. He lined up another shot, missed, frowned, and then remembered to check on Noble and Alejandra.
Noble was at the side of the main building, moving in a half crouch, toward the backyard. One of Machado’s men was going the opposite direction. They would both reach the corner at the same time.
Hunt held his breath. If Noble got himself killed and the rival faction took out Machado, all of Hunt’s problems would be tied up in a neat little bow. He thought about breaking the news to Sam. Sorry for your loss. Awful shame. If only he hadn’t insisted on going in alone.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Noble heard boots in the gravel and pressed himself against the stucco wall. Alejandra fell in beside him. He put a finger to his lips. It was too early to start shooting. He didn’t want the Los Zetas to know the compound was breached. If he could take out Machado quietly and slip back over the wall, he might make it out alive.
An underfed Mexican in a faded T-shirt and combat boots hurried around the corner with an AK-47. Noble stepped up behind him, snatched a fistful of hair in one hand and clapped the other hand over his chin. Breaking a man’s neck is no easy task. Neck muscles are some of the strongest in the human body—they carry an object the same approximate size and weight of a bowling ball all day long—and vertebra have more flexion than most people realize.
Noble wrenched the thug’s chin over his shoulder and felt the muscles reach their limit. The guy tried unsuccessfully to elbow Noble. The tendons in his neck stood out like cords stretched to the breaking point. Noble smelled sweat and unwashed hair as he fought to control the struggling man.
He forced the guy down to one knee, getting the leverage he needed and gave a heroic twist. He felt the vertebra pop. The cartel soldier went limp. A dark stain spread over his pants. The harsh stench of urine filled the air. Noble dragged the dead man around the corner, dumped him in the gravel, and took his AK-47.
Hunt took his finger off the trigger. Noble had broken the guy’s neck. It was like something out of a movie. Hunt watched, a little jealous, as Noble dragged the body out of sight. It was one of the coolest things Hunt had ever seen.
Noble took the dead man’s weapon, checked the corner and then moved in a crouch—AK-47 leading the way—around the main building toward the back doors.
Hunt shifted his attention to the front gate. The battle had reached a stalemate. The Los Zetas had the advantage of position, but the attackers were entrenched behind their vehicles. They seemed content to wage a prolonged assault on the compound: popping up, squeezing off a few rounds, and then ducking back down. It was like they were waiting, but for what?
As if in answer to Hunt’s unspoken question, a belt-fed machine gun opened up atop the ridgeline. A group of attackers had mounted the far side of the hill and come up directly in back of Hunt. They raked the compound wall with an M60. Bright green tracer rounds zipped through the rain, leaving a glowing afterimage. Three Los Zetas soldiers died before the others turned and sprayed the hillside. Lead hissed and snapped overhead, digging up puffs of sodden earth. A bullet whined off a rock, inches from Hunt’s ear. He cowered behind the boulder, caught between the two opposing forces.
Machado opened the MacBook Pro on his desk and brought up the feed from state-of-the-art video surveillance. He zoomed in on the front gate. Cartel soldiers didn’t wear uniforms, so it was hard to be sure, but it looked like Escobedo’s men.
The whip crack of high powered rifles was punctuated by a blast of thunder so close it shook the house. The lights blinked. Machado unlocked a tall cabinet and took out a pair of night vision goggles in case the storm knocked out the power.
He tried to get his head of security on the two-way but got no answer. That left Machado on his own. If he could make it downstairs to the garage he could escape in one of his armored vehicles. Several of his hotrods had been outfitted with Kevlar plates and bullet-resistant glass.
He checked the surveillance feeds and spotted two figures creeping up to the back doors. Machado zoomed in. He recognized Alejandra at once. The man would be Jake Noble, the bothersome fly who had killed his accountant, and brought Escobedo’s men to his doorstep. While Machado watched, Noble tried the back door, found it locked and put his elbow through the glass.
A vein stood out like an engorged python in Machado’s forehead. His muscular frame shook with rage. The gringo had ruined everything. Now he had the nerve to break into Machado’s house? Does he think he can walk in here and assassinate me in my own home? Machado fumed at the arrogance of the American.
They reached the back doors. Noble knocked out a pane of glass while Alejandra covered him. He reached through, felt around for the deadbolt, and let himself in. Evidence of Machado’s hubris was everywhere. The house was a palace. There was a painstaking recreation of the Sistine Chapel painted on the ceiling. Only in this version, Adam looked suspiciously like Machado. The floor was pink marble. A crystal chandelier hung overhead. Intricately carved pillars held up the roof. A sweeping staircase led to the second floor.
Alejandra shuddered. “He keeps it freezing here.”
Noble grunted. He was too keyed up to pay any attention to the temperature. His senses were on high alert. His stomach muscles clenched in nervous excitement. So far, the operation had gone off without a hitch. The thunderstorm and the rival cartel had been an unexpected bit of luck, but that sort of luck never lasts.
“Where’s the kitchen?” Noble asked.
Alejandra pointed.
“Lead the way,” he said.
She took him through an expansive dining room, past a table long enough to host a UN summit, to a kitchen with a range big enough to feed the delegates.
Alejandra shut the door and put her back to it. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” Noble told her. He hadn’t eaten since lunch, but he wasn’t thinking of food. He slung his rifle, grasped the stove and scooted it out from the wall until he could reach behind and jerk the gas line loose.
The smell filled the kitchen. Alejandra covered her nose.
Noble rifled the cabinets and said, “There aren’t any power lines running to the compound and it’s too far for underground cable, so Machado must have his own power source. You’ve been here before. Do you know where the generator is stored?”
“It’s in another building,” she said. “Why?”
Noble Vengeance Page 24
