by John O'Brien
“Bring me up two of those burritos, mate,” another replies in an Australian or New Zealand accent.
“Ah, fucking great…another night of you bombing the room.”
“Don’t lie…you know you bloody well like it.”
Well, that puts an interesting twist on things.
Some of the larger cartels have mercenaries working with them, but it’s rare. A lot of the hired guns come from the Mexican Army or from various paramilitary groups. The involvement of mercs here possibly indicates some form of special ops training, which also means that we can’t go waltzing through the place like we’re at prom.
The tread of boots starts up the steps above my head as a shadow appears beside the stairs, growing larger with a heavy clomping. My mouth is dry and I force slow, even breathing. From my position crouched under the stairway, a boot comes into view, the rest of the body hidden by the angled ceiling. From the size of the boots, I immediately know that some brute is about to stroll past my position. Huddled, I watch the man take long strides, the thump of his boots sending subtle vibrations through the floor. I keep an eye on his torso, watching out of my top peripheral. There is no doubt in my mind that, if I were to look directly at the man, he’d turn and stare right at me.
In midstep he pauses, the tension that suddenly envelops him plain to see. I tighten my finger on the trigger guard, easing it ever closer to the trigger. Without moving a muscle, I mentally shift to the M-4 at my side to be ready to whip it up in a hurry. If the man turns toward me, I have three rounds with his name on them. In my peripheral, I see him lean forward slightly and stare down the hall. I hope Freeman and Burkhart haven’t left any sign of their passage—a scrape of their boots or their shadows accidentally showing under a lit door. As the man’s head turns, my finger eases off the guard and onto the trigger; my muscles bunch, ready to move. He looks behind him, his massive boots turning a little.
Letting out a heavy sigh, he turns back toward the hall and mutters, “I’ve been here too fucking long. Two more years and I’m out of this fucking business.”
More like twenty minutes.
Even though I’m kind of close to being one myself, I don’t hold a fondness for mercs. There aren’t many rules when it comes to a fight—the one who emerges alive wins—but there are ways to conduct oneself. I’ve always found that those who work for foreign governments or other entities have a bit of cruelty built into them. Maybe it’s just a stereotype that I have, but I’ve yet to come across anyone who hasn’t matched it. Soldiers of nations can be cruel beyond measure as well, but when you remove the constraints of a disciplined military hierarchy, then some serious fucked-upness occurs. I’ve seen some pretty messed up shit that humankind can inflict on one another when there aren’t any consequences for their actions.
The man starts down the hall, his heavy footsteps fading.
“Freeman, Burkhart, remain in place. We have a late night snacker that will pass again,” I radio.
Down the hall, there are sounds of cupboards and drawers opening and closing, dishes rattling, the clink of silverware. From above, there’s some muted chatter, then the clomp of boots descending the stairs. There’s a subdued conversation taking place. Although I can’t hear too much and it’s in Spanish, I know bitching when I hear it, regardless of the language. Roberto and Felix, presumably, cross the foyer, open the door, and head out into the night, slamming the door closed behind them.
A faint “ding” comes from the kitchen area, followed by more shit being moved around.
“The chef will be returning soon,” I radio.
Footsteps grow louder and I hear the man chewing on something. It’s not smacking per se, but more like he’s stuffed an entire cow in his mouth and is attempting to stuff more in. The heavy thuds of footsteps work their way up the stairs and then fade down one of the hallways.
“Clear,” I radio.
A few minutes later, Freeman and Burkhart join me under the stairs and indicate that the rooms are clear. I’m not sure why all of the lights are on in unoccupied rooms, other than as a possible guard against stealthy entries. If the hostages are here and the guards are aware of whom they took, which is all over the news, then they’ll surely be expecting a rescue such as the one we’re attempting.
“Left side first. We’ll save the security room for last in case they make check-in calls,” I brief.
We emerge from our gloomy hiding place into the bright light of the foyer. Without pause, we flow up the stairs, keeping to the edge of the steps to minimize any creaking. While there’s a chance of being spotted from outside, we won’t be in sight for long and hopefully will be mistaken for one of the interior guards.
The stairs branch left and right from the landing. With my carbine trained on the hallway entrance above, I move quickly and silently. Burkhart, bringing up the rear, keeps his eye on the opposite hallway entry. I halt at the top only long enough to crouch and take a quick peek. If we weren’t still in view of anyone who might look through the foyer windows, I’d use a signal mirror or the fiber camera. But we are, and have to move quickly from our current position.
The corridor is much like the ones on the first floor: sconces set into the wall and dim lighting along the hallway. More decorative tables are set at intervals with vases and pictures set in elegant frames hanging on the wall. The difference is that not one of the rooms appears to be lit. In the middle, another hall branches to the interior side, presumably connecting with the other one. At the end of the hallway, blue light flickers out from an open door with voices carrying faintly from within. I move quickly into the hall, hugging the wall and moving past the first doors to take a position. Behind, Freeman quickly shoves the fiber cable under the first door, then the one on the other side.
He signals that there are four sleeping men in each room, weapons laid against walls and nightstands near the beds. The next room has four taking a siesta; the one after that is empty. My stomach tightens at the thought of sleeping guards, as I know what will have to happen later. I don’t enjoy taking another life and wrestle with it on a continual basis. In the quiet moments of my life, the fact of what I do takes a toll. I’m sure payment will come when I’m older and out of this business, but I feel that for all of the harm, there is also good in what we’re doing.
Eliminating someone who is sleeping is fundamentally different than a conscious target. However, if you pick up a weapon with the intent of harm, you have stepped into a realm in which you have to play by the rules that are set. Even if you are just joining in to be macho, you have made yourself part of a larger target and consequently are fair game. Still, there’s a part of me that is sickened by having to do it without giving them a chance. That doesn’t mean that I won’t, I just don’t like it.
Passing the connecting corridor in the middle up the upstairs hallway, I inch toward the room from which the light is flickering, the sounds of whatever show is playing growing louder. My M-4 is held ready, aiming to the side of the doorway in case anyone should decide the food they brought wasn’t enough. Freeman hands me the camera and I quickly bend the fiber cable around the edge to survey the room.
A big screen television mounted in the middle of the outside wall is showing a Star Wars movie. A plush leather couch is arranged in front of it with two lounge chairs to either side. The back of two heads show above the couch, with the outline of bodies visible from chairs turned slightly to the side, the blue light from the TV illuminating their faces. I snap a picture to hold on the viewer and pull back the cable.
Showing the image, I signal that Freeman is to move left into the room when we enter and take the two men on the right. I’ll move right and am responsible for the ones on the left. This will give us good angles on the two in the chairs. Burkhart will remain in place and cover the hall.
Burkhart takes the camera as I remove my signal mirror and poke it around the corner. I signal to hold as one of the men in the chairs is drinking from a glass. The last thing we need is for d
ishes to hit the hard tile and shatter. As much as I’m not looking forward to dispatching men in their sleep, I want them awake even less. The man leans forward and sets his drink on a coffee table, then goes back to his reclining position. Slipping the mirror in my pocket, I nod.
I step through the door, my M-4 up and ready, and sidle to the right to wait for Freeman to enter. Using parallax vision, I center my small crosshair on the couch man’s head. The strobing flash of light barely overrides that of the TV as I send a suppressed round across the intervening space. The bullet strikes the man just above the ear and exits with lumps of bloody tissue splatting on his lap, the arm of the sofa, and floor.
He slumps to the side with a squeak of leather at the same time as the other man sharing the divan falls over in the opposite direction. Without waiting, I place my sights on the man in the chair. The large man who passed me in the hall leans forward in an attempt to leap out of his chair, his instincts immediately knowing what is occurring. However, two rounds slam into his neck and side of his head before he can transfer any weight. Blood spurts a couple of times from his neck, spraying across the chair and floor, and then slows to a stream that pours down and soaks his shirt. His head lolls to the side with lumpy pieces of bloody brain tissue dripping to plop onto his shoulder. The other man in the chair dies in a similar manner, but begins to slowly fall forward. Another step carries me to his side, where I grab his shirt and ease him back into the chair. With the room suddenly smelling of gunpowder, the iron reek of spilled blood, emptying bowels, and burritos, Freeman and I check the bodies to ensure they’ve stepped across the threshold into whatever awaits them on the other side. In the background, the credits of the movie scroll to the Star Wars theme.
The next task is grisly: putting a bullet into the men sleeping in their beds. Some aspects of this world are miserable, and it’s times like this that make me wonder if I’m not adding to it. Yes, they made a choice as to what to do with their life, but to me, it almost seems criminal. They aren’t exactly armed, but it’s also part of what they signed up for. This is a very dark side of my chosen profession, one that I’ll never be proud of doing, but it’s a far cry better than having to face all of them awake.
Each darkened room is filled with faint strobes and muted coughs as dreams fade into darkness. I wonder if their dreams continue until the brain succumbs to hypoxia or if they take a drastic turn from whatever was stirring in their minds. Feeling a little ill but maintaining focus on finding and rescuing the hostages, the three of us move silently through the middle hall to the other side of the manor. Behind us are the remains of sixteen guards, blood seeping from wounds and dripping to the floor or soaking into mattresses and pillows.
Checking that the other side of the hall is clear and that we haven’t created a stir, I see a faint blue glow from under one door. Freeman and Burkhart position themselves to cover both directions, kneeling against the walls in the dimly lit corridor. Crouched next to the door, I feed the fiber cable under. A bank of four monitors is set above a wide desk with two chairs, which partially block the view. While I don’t see anyone seated in them, the movement and soft creaks clearly indicate that they’re both occupied. Scanning the rest of the room, a cabinet and shelves occupy the walls, the equipment contained within glowing with small green, blue, and red lights.
Angling the cable upward, the door latch and a dead bolt come into focus. The rotating handle of the dead bolt is straight up and down, meaning that it’s not set into its locked position. The door itself may be locked, and if it is, we’ll finish with this room last. If we have to bust through the door, that will create more than a few difficulties if the ruckus is heard outside. Sliding the cable out, I motion the others what awaits on the other side of the door.
Grasping the handle and pulling on the door to minimize the sound of the latch sliding, with my carbine held ready in one hand, I slowly turn the knob. I feel the slight bump of the latch disengaging and nod to Freeman. Like the TV room, I’ll go right and take out the left while he heads in to the left. A second nod and I ease the door open, listening for any creak of the hinges. If they make a sound, we’ll have to move faster.
With equipment rooms, there is often a cooling system that can create a small pressure differential. With that in mind, I only open the door wide enough to allow the pressure to stabilize. I don’t want to alert the guards until we’re fully in the room as they may raise an alarm before we can strike.
I slide through the crack in the door, silent and quick like a breath of air, my carbine coming up. It’s taped, so it makes no noise as I bring it to bear. A very faint rustle behind lets me know that Freeman has entered, almost unheard. Taking a step to the right, I pause for just a second to allow Freeman to step around the door.
The two men don’t know what hit them as our rounds collide with the side of their heads nearly simultaneously. Sprays of blood splash across the monitors, over the desks, and against the shelves and cabinets. As both men slump over, I hurry forward to catch the one on my side before he can fall out of the chair. The guard is gasping irregularly, his lungs still trying to draw in air as his synapses misfire. I ease him down to the floor and cover his mouth and nose until he’s silent. The legs of the guard I shot are convulsing. Freeman sets him on the floor and lies across his twitching legs until the man is still.
Like the television room, this one fills with the aroma of feces and blood, with a faint twinge of gunpowder on the very edges. Droplets of blood are splattered across the four mounted monitors, the larger ones beginning to stream slowly down the surface. Presented on the screens is a wide angle of the rear of the compound, the pool reflecting a faint blue illumination with the rest of the yard lit by two bright lights mounted on the manor’s wall. The angle is such that the patrolled ledge of the exterior wall isn’t visible. The two patrolling guards in the yard are in view, halted near the backside of the pool as a flare of light materializes and is followed by the orange glow of a cigarette being inhaled.
Another monitor shows a well-lit front entrance with a circular paved driveway curving around a small statue. A third is a picture outside the gate showing the entrance road, the end of machine gun barrels protruding at the bottom from the emplacements to either side. The fourth is an interior shot of a room we haven’t come across as yet. Loaded and secured to four large pallets are plastic bags full of white powder.
Upon seeing the drugs loaded and readied, my hope of the hostages being in this location diminishes. The purpose of the manor takes on a new meaning, along with the number of guards. We’ll continue the mission and search the premises, as there’s still the off-chance that the hostages are here. After all, the guards and security are already in place.
* * * * * *
“Interior clear,” I radio after dispatching those remaining within.
A quick look into the security room shows the patrolling guards by the pool on another of their rounds. Once they vanish down the far side, Freeman and I move quickly back to the same room from which we entered and wait for the all clear from Taylor on the outer wall. The two of us then slide out of the window and into the darkness along the wall, waiting for the guards to make another round. Burkhart remains inside under the grand staircase in case the guards decide to enter rather than conduct another lap.
From here on out, it’s a matter of timing with a little bit of luck. We’re still outnumbered nine to six in the immediate area. If we’re blown, it may make it difficult for the other team because they would probably alert the security in their location. There’s also the fact that the patrol is out of sight and could change up their pattern.
“Patrol in sight,” Taylor radios from the wall. “Passing the statue.”
He keeps calling their progress; they’ll be our first target in this third phase. Although still feeling the tension, it’s been reduced somewhat since clearing the inside. Interior buildings are always open to more variables: someone heading down a hall at the wrong time to go to the ba
throom or feeling some random urgency to enter a seldom-used room. On the other hand, security is a little more relaxed as they are relying on the perimeter security personnel or systems to trigger any alarms. It’s not like it’s an ultra-secure installation where everyone suspects bad guys to show up at any time, built around security from the outset.
“Entering the side.”
I place my carbine down on the ground, withdrawing a five-and-a-half-inch, double-edged dagger from its sheath at my calf. I’ll have to make sure I stab underneath the vest each sentry is wearing.
“Passing your position…front is clear,” Taylor radios.
At a crouch, I ease out of the darkness and step around a shrub. The patrol is in the shadows between patches of light cast on the grass from the windows. It’s important to catch the two before they enter the light or we’ll have to slink back and wait for another go-around. Still bent low, with Freeman by my side, we come up behind the two at a pace faster than their stroll. With their weapons around their shoulders, there isn’t a worry about a tightening finger triggering a burst of fire. Just behind one of the guards, I rise up, my blade sliding under his vest and through the fabric of his shirt. I feel the resistance as my knife pierces through the skin and plunges underneath his rib cage. At the same time, I bring my hand around and over his mouth, my thumb and forefinger pinching his nostrils closed.
A gush of warm liquid rushes down the blade and over my hand as I push the knife in to the hilt. The man’s entire body goes rigid, his back arching to get away from the sudden flaring agony that has appeared out of nowhere. I pull back on his head, moving the tip of the blade from side to side while twisting it. A smothered scream vibrates against my hand; the body wants to twist away, but the pain is too great to move. After a few seconds, the man gives a heavy shudder and goes limp.
