Asteroid Destruction

by Bobby Akart

  Gunner didn’t hesitate as he fired a single well-placed shot into the man’s head.

  “Five,” he whispered to himself. The Beretta’s magazine held fifteen rounds, and it was important for him to maintain an ammo count.

  Gunner rushed into the kitchen and scanned the room for threats. Satisfied that it was clear, he noticed the hallway on the other side of the house also entered the kitchen. He concluded it led to the bedrooms and then back into the front living area.

  The barrel of the gun guided him into the dark part of the house. Gunner had one more flash-bang grenade left to be used to clear a bedroom, if necessary. He squinted, forcing his eyes to adjust to the dark space.

  He heard a whimper emanating from one of the bedrooms. A fresh wave of adrenaline punched through his body as he thought of the brutality administered by Blanco. He now assumed the man was holding a hostage, a human shield, like the coward he truly was.

  Gunner approached an open door, and he was surprised by a whooshing sound. A machete appeared out of the darkened hallway and knocked the rifle out of his left hand. A husky guard appeared from a curtain-covered closet that Gunner didn’t see in the dark.

  He lost his balance, and the machete-wielding man moved toward him, swinging wildly in an effort to rip the sharp blade into Gunner’s body.

  Gunner jumped backwards to evade the man’s weapon, slipping slightly as he did. He fired two rounds toward the man, one of which found the steel blade of the machete. The force of the hollow-point bullet knocked the man’s arm back, causing him to grunt.

  Gunner gathered himself and took aim toward the man’s hulking shadow. The next two rounds embedded in his thigh and stomach. As he collapsed to his knees merely four feet from Gunner, a final round to the top of the head sent him crashing to the wood plank floor.

  Ten, thought Gunner. He’d have to make these final rounds count, or he’d have his bare hands and little else to exact revenge on Jorge Blanco.

  He heard whimpering again. Not cries for help. Not the muffled sounds of voices. Whimpering.

  The kid!

  Gunner realized that Blanco was using the deaf-mute boy as a shield against his attackers. He set his jaw and gripped his pistol a little tighter.

  He approached the bedroom door, easing up to the frame to listen. It was a young boy whimpering, and it infuriated Gunner.

  “Blanco!” he shouted. “Come out and leave the kid alone. It’s just you and me, asshole. No guns. No knives. Mano a mano.”

  “Die, DEA man!” Blanco shouted in return. He fired several rounds from a pistol through the doorway, splintering the wall across from Gunner.

  He had to be careful because these flimsily built walls wouldn’t provide him any ballistic protection. He lowered himself to a crouch, knowing that most untrained shooters had a tendency to shoot high, toward the head, the smallest and most difficult target on the human body.

  His mind raced as he pulled the last stun grenade from his waistband. One of the biggest dangers to anyone coming in contact with the dangerous device was suffering from burns, temporary blindness, and permanent hearing loss. Burns and temporary blindness were fixable. Deafness was not.

  The child, the only human he truly cared about in this scenario, had already suffered the loss of hearing. So Gunner performed some calculations. He considered the angle of Blanco’s gunshots by studying where they’d embedded in the hallway wall. He was in the back right corner of the room, Gunner deduced.

  Sorry, kid, he thought, hoping that the boy was cowering in fear with his eyes shut.

  Gunner intentionally threw the grenade with a lot of force into the opposite corner of the room where Blanco was likely hiding. The pronounced impact against the wall insured its quick detonation.

  The flash-bang grenade created a thunderous boom in the completely enclosed room. The walls shook and dust fell off the primitive ceiling that barely kept the rain out.

  Gunner moved quickly to take advantage of his disoriented enemy. He circled around the door frame and moved in at a low crouch, focusing his senses on where Blanco was located.

  He found the boy lying facedown on the floor next to the wall, but Blanco was not there. Gunner checked the boy’s pulse. It was weak, but he was still alive, only knocked unconscious by the concussive effect of the blast.

  How could Blanco disappear?

  Gunner noticed a nightstand slightly askew. Then he saw a square hole cut in the wall and a panel knocked through on the other side.

  He raced out of the room and toward the front of the house. Blanco was almost through the door when Gunner caught up to him.

  The two men crashed into the open doorframe and spilled out onto the porch. Blanco was muscular, strong, and determined to live. He got the upper hand initially, laying punch after punch to Gunner’s ribs and chest, which had been subjected to the cattle-prod torture repeatedly.

  Gunner fought back with a staggering uppercut, ripping his fist through the air like a heat-seeking missile searching for Blanco’s jaw.

  The sound of fist crunching against bone revealed the result. The blow struck Blanco hard enough to smash his lower teeth off their gums, cutting into his tongue and sending his head snapping backward like a whip.

  Blanco landed on his back next to one of the dead guards, his head hitting the ground with a thud. Gunner didn’t hesitate. He pounced on his torturer, clamping his hand around the man’s throat, fully intending to choke him to death.

  The men stared at one another, a test of wills as Blanco gripped Gunner’s wrist with both hands. He tried to bring his knees up to kick Gunner in the groin, but failed. The primal adrenaline running through Gunner’s body caused the veins in his forearms to bulge through his skin.

  Gunner looked demented. Deranged. Unhinged.

  And, in that moment, he was.

  He began to pound Blanco’s head into the ground as he squeezed his thumb against his throat. He leaned over to apply all the pressure he could using his body weight. He smacked the back of Blanco’s skull against the ground three more times.

  Blood began to pour out of the man’s ears as his eyelids began to flicker. His defensive grip on Gunner’s wrists loosened and then fell away completely. Then a final gasp of air released from Jorge Blanco’s lungs as he died.

  Angry and frustrated, Gunner gave the man’s head one more pounding against the ground before he pushed himself up. He waved for the older woman to come out of hiding and help him.

  “Por favor! Aquí!” He reached for her arm, but she pulled away. “El niño. Por favor.”

  Reluctantly, she rose from the floor and left with the other two children as they rushed down the hallway. With the threat extinguished inside the residence, Gunner made his way to the porch as he realized the gunfire had stopped.

  Sunshine was peering through the jungle canopy, and the morning fog was beginning to clear. The heavy, moist air did little to alleviate the smell of burning gasoline, gunpowder, and death. Dozens of armed men lay around the compound. Most had been killed by Cam’s and Bear’s bullets. Others were still smoldering after being caught up in the carnage caused by the incendiary devices.

  “Clear!” Bear’s voice echoed through the compound.

  “Clear!” responded Cam.

  The two approached from opposite directions, carrying their weapons at low ready, but appearing relaxed.

  Cam arrived at the residence first. She kicked Blanco’s head. “Is this our kingpin?”

  “Was,” replied Gunner. “Jorge Blanco. One sick asshole.”

  Blanco’s lifeless body was sprawled out in a pool of blood that belonged to him and his men. His eyes bulged, but nobody did him the honor of closing his lids.

  “How’re ya doin’?” asked Bear.

  Gunner simply nodded. He turned to Cam. “Your Spanish is better than mine. Down the right hallway, there’s an old lady with three kids. One of them is a deaf-mute who helped me. Would you—?”

  Cam raised her hand. “Say no more. I�
��m on it. Under one condition.”

  “What?” asked Gunner.

  “Dude, now will you get some damn clothes on?”

  Gunner looked down at his muscular body, which was covered in a combination of dried and wet mud mixed with blood. He began to laugh. “Yeah, kinda scary lookin’.”

  Bear motioned for Gunner to follow him. “We’ll rinse you off in the donkey’s water trough and I’ll find some shoes and pants your size.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said Gunner as he turned his attention toward the barn. “Did the whole thing burn?”

  “Nah, only this side. The rain doused the fire before it spread.”

  “Follow me,” said Gunner as he jogged across the compound, studying the killed guards as he did. Bear trudged along, trying to keep pace.

  Gunner arrived at the still-smoldering structure, and after confirming that it wasn’t about to collapse, he made his way into the corner of the barn where the accountant had emerged the day Blanco tortured him with the cattle prod.

  “I knew it! It’s here.” Gunner reached into a pile of loose hay and retrieved his blue duffle bag with his name screen-printed on the front. “I’ve got clothes. Now, show me to the donkey trough, and see if you can find me a pair of size elevens that aren’t covered with blood or full of toe jam.”

  Bear shook his head and chuckled before he began his search. Gunner washed off and slipped on a pair of khakis and a white polo shirt. His mind flashed back to his first day of training in Building 9 at the Johnson Space Center. A lot had happened in the last two weeks.

  “Gunner, do you know this young guy?” asked Cam, who’d emerged from Blanco’s residence.

  The boy who had befriended him ran across the compound and crashed into Gunner, almost toppling them both over into the water trough. Tears streamed down his face as he made eye contact with Gunner. Then the boy buried his face in Gunner’s stomach.

  Gunner ran his fingers through the kid’s black hair. It was a kind, gentle gesture that the boy probably hadn’t experienced since he was in the arms of his mother.

  He dropped to a knee so they were face-to-face as he spoke, overemphasizing the words so the boy could read his lips. “Tu madre. Sí?”

  A wave of sadness came over the boy’s face and he began to cry. He shook his head slowly from side to side and withdrew within himself once again.

  Gunner gently took the boy’s wet cheeks in his hands and forced the distraught child to look at him again. He smiled, fighting back the tears. With his two thumbs, he wiped the moisture off the boy’s face.

  He patted the boy on the chest and then pointed at the prison building. He repeated the words. “Tu madre. Sí! Sí!” As he spoke, he smiled and nodded his head rapidly while pointing toward the building.

  Like an excited puppy wanting to go see something, but unsure if it was okay, the boy raced toward the building, suddenly stopped, and turned toward Gunner in search of affirmation.

  Gunner repeated, “Tu madre. Sí! Sí!”

  The boy pointed toward the building. Gunner rose from his crouch and walked briskly to catch up to the boy. He wrapped his arm around his shoulder and the two walked side by side inside.

  Moments later, shouts of happiness and celebration filled the air, letting everyone in the compound know of the joyful reunion between mother and son.

  Chapter 42

  Drug Cartel Compound

  The Darién Gap

  Colombia, South America

  Gunner found the keys where he’d left them and released Caroline first so she could reunite with her son. As he opened the other cells, the women were fearful at first, but after realizing they were free, they ran out of the prison building and toward the front gate. The elderly woman who cared for the children convinced them they were safe, and eventually, most everyone gathered in the center of the compound.

  Gunner introduced Cam and Bear to Caroline.

  After exchanging some pleasantries, Caroline spoke in a hushed voice. “I need to help these women get home. Most of them are probably from Colombia or local villages.”

  Gunner glanced around the compound and counted half a dozen vehicles that were probably in operating condition. “We can try to top these cars off with fuel. Do you know your way around after you leave the compound?”

  “Yes, but it’s not that easy. The Darién Gap is full of bandits and other drug cartels. We’ll need guns and money, or dope.”

  “Protection currency,” offered Cam.

  “Yes. None of these women would be able to fight their way through the roadblocks, but at least they’d have something to trade besides themselves.”

  Gunner wandered away with his hands on his hips, studying the buildings. He paused and studied the building that Bear had identified as the warehouse. “That’s where they keep the drugs?”

  “Yes,” replied Bear. “Everything from coca plants to finished product. It’s like an assembly line process in there.”

  Cam joined Gunner’s side. “That gives them drugs and guns to barter. I say we burn up the rest of their product, as Bear calls it, when we leave.”

  “Agreed,” said Gunner. “But something’s off here.”

  “What?”

  “Where’s the money? This is a cash business. They had an accountant-looking guy who—”

  Cam cut him off. “Yeah, Bear found him. He shot himself in the head.”

  “Another coward,” mumbled Gunner. He continued to stare at the buildings. “C’mon, Cam, where’s the drug money?” He turned to Caroline and continued. “Caroline, do you know where Blanco and his accountant kept their cash? Did they hide it in the jungle?”

  She shrugged. “I doubt he’d leave it outside the fence. He never confided in me, you know. I was there for one purpose.” She hung her head in shame.

  Gunner had a hunch and he began walking toward the barn. It was a one-story structure with a loft full of hay. On the side that wasn’t burnt, pens for animals were built together with a couple of toolsheds.

  Cam and Bear followed him, leaving the women and children alone to talk among themselves.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Bear.

  “The first time they tortured me, the accountant guy showed up out of nowhere. I just thought he was creepy, you know, getting his jollies in the dark corner of the barn while they stuck it to the DEA guy.”

  “What’s up with that, by the way?” asked Cam.

  “They were convinced I was a narc,” replied Gunner. “Trust me, being white, American, and DEA wasn’t a good combo around here.”

  “Didn’t you explain that you were an astronaut?” asked Bear.

  Gunner chuckled. “Yeah, I tried the truth. They laughed hysterically and then stuck me with the cattle prod some more.”

  The trio arrived at the barn and looked around. Gunner made his way to where he’d found his duffle bag earlier. At the time, he hadn’t given the layout of the barn and the stacked hay bales a second thought.

  Gunner looked up to the rafters and then walked around the pile of hay to study the walls.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered before slapping Bear on the back. “Help me out, would ya?”

  Gunner climbed on the first row of hay bales and started grabbing the upper bales by the string, systematically moving the stack with Bear’s assistance. Within a few minutes, he’d created an opening to the back wall of the barn.

  Only, it wasn’t a wall but, rather, a hidden storage room.

  They worked faster now that Gunner might have solved the mystery. Cam casually strolled to the large opening of the barn that also served as the boundary between the charred remains and the undamaged side where they were removing the bales.

  Gunner reached a door. “Bear, let me have your blade.”

  The metallic sound of the knife sliding out of the leg sheath could be heard. Bear gripped it by the steel blade and handed it to Gunner grip first.

  Gunner went to work on the simple padlocked door. The drug carte
l never imagined any of their adversaries getting this close. He easily jammed the knife into the door’s latch and broke it free. After handing the knife back to Bear, he pulled the door open.

  “Holy smokes!” exclaimed Bear. “This is the freakin’ mother lode!”

  “Literally,” added Gunner, referring to the bags of gold stacked on the shelf.

  Cam squeezed in between the two men like a little sister who wanted to see too.

  The enclosed storage space was made of concrete block throughout. Walls, ceiling, and floor were white painted block. Inside, wooden shelves lined every inch of wall space except for a small desk at one end. A stack of ledgers and a calculator occupied the desktop.

  But none of that was of interest to Gunner. It was the money and gold that astonished him. Bundles upon bundles of hundred-dollar bills, American, were shoved onto the shelves. In addition, ziplock bags of gold coins could be seen.

  Cam entered first and walked around the room, staring at the amount of currency in absolute wonderment. Bear was next. He immediately grabbed a baggie of gold, commenting on how heavy it was considering it fit into the ziplock.

  Gunner turned to see if they were still alone before entering. He tried to estimate how much cash and gold was in the small room. He studied the accountant’s numbers, which were written on the stacks using masking tape. He marveled at the simplicity of their methods, and then his mind raced as his calculations entered the millions.

  He touched Bear and Cam on the arms. “Guys, I think we’ve seen enough. Let’s go outside and talk about this.”

  Each of them gave the drug cartel’s ill-gotten gains a final touch and then reluctantly exited. Gunner pushed the door closed and led them to the outside of the barn.

  “Okay, listen up, guys,” he began. “I know what you’re both thinking. But you gotta consider this. What we just found is blood money, earned by selling illegal drugs that landed on the streets of America. Do we really feel good about—?”

  Cam spoke first. “Gunner, are you seriously considering leaving that behind? When did you get all moral and stuff?”