Deadly Intent

by Brent Towns

  Brick gave an uncertain smile and nodded.

  “We also have a non-fraternization rule too,” Axe added.

  “Shut up, Axe,” Reynolds snapped.

  Cara threw an empty plastic coffee cup at him.

  Axe ducked. “What did I say?”

  “OK, that’s enough,” Thurston said over the growing noise.

  Things quietened down, and the general began their briefing.

  “Over the past few days, Slick has been trying to run down our two MIAs. His search has led us to believe that Ward Collins and his mercenaries were involved. What it also does is give us a link to Montoya since he was the one Collins broke out of federal prison. What’s going to happen is this. Cara, Pete, and Carlos are going over the river. Pete has a contact or two over there he can talk to. If we’re lucky, we might even get a lead on either Collins, Montoya, or hopefully, Reaper and Spencer.”

  “I thought there was only going to be two of us,” Traynor said.

  “There was. But it’s Cara’s team now, and she insisted she go. Problem?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “The rest of the team, Axe and Brick, will stay on alert just in case. All of Bravo will provide their usual support.”

  “UAV, ma’am?” asked Teller.

  “Not this time. But there’ll be one on standby in the event that it’s needed.”

  “Ma’am, if me and Brick are to provide any kind of effective support, we’ll need to be on the other side of the river too,” Axe pointed out.

  “When I was in Washington, I asked for more assets,” Thurston explained. “We now have two Black Hawks at our disposal, an HC-130, two UAVs, and we should also be receiving new armored Humvees and Tahoes. You’ll be out at Biggs Airfield on standby.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “All right, gear up and let’s get out there.”

  The cell in Thurston’s pocket rang, and she dragged it free. While the team dispersed, she listened intently and then said, “Thank you, sir,” before hanging up.

  “They’ve found the house where Montoya made the broadcast from,” she said out loud. “SEALs are about to kick the doors in now.”

  Everyone stopped and stared at her.

  “Slick, find it and get it on the screen. The Whitehouse has a live feed going into it.”

  Swift’s fingers danced across his tablet, and the screen lit up with an aerial view. Sound followed with the SEALs’ comms being fed back too.

  After fast-roping to the street from a pair of Black Hawks, two six-operator teams were now moving on the house where Montoya was supposed to be. Separating, the second team moved to take the rear.

  More voices over the comms and they breached.

  “Something’s not right,” Cara said. “There are no guards. There should be guards.”

  Thurston nodded. “You’re ri—” she never got the word out before a bright flash turned the screen white then receded.

  “Son of a bitch,” Axe gasped. “The fucker blew the house.”

  The group stood transfixed in a drawn-out silence, shocked by what they’d just witnessed. Over the feed, they could hear radio chatter and a voice calling for the leader of the insertion team to respond. Each transmission was met with static.

  After a while, Thurston said to Swift, “Shut it down.”

  The screen went black.

  “You’ve all got jobs to do,” Thurston continued. “Get it done and we might just be closer to finding that bastard and bringing our people home.”

  Cannon Airforce Base

  Clovis

  New Mexico

  Captain Sean Richards was in his office when the call came through. He was writing up reports for his commanding officer in the 33rd Special Operations Squadron, which specialized in the General Atomics MQ-9 Reaper UAV when the phone on his polished desktop screeched at him.

  He muttered under his breath and dropped the pen on the uncompleted form. Picking up the handset, annoyed at the interruption, he spoke gruffly, “Richards?”

  “Is that Captain Sean Richards?” a male voice asked.

  “It is.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I’m Doctor Michael Sweet from Plains Regional Medical Center in Clovis.”

  Richards felt his heart lurch. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

  “Sir, I have to inform you that your wife and daughter were involved in an accident earlier today. And …”

  “Oh, God. Tell me they’re OK.”

  “I’m afraid, sir, that they were both badly injured and we need you to come in to make some decisions before we proceed.”

  “I’ll leave right now,” Richards blurted out, his thoughts only of Megan and Rachel. “I’ll be there soon.”

  Richards hung up and ran from his office.

  Five minutes later, the captain hit the 84 and headed towards Clovis.

  Reaching the outskirts of the town, he turned left onto North Wheaton, blew past Madison Road and made it as far as Coyote before a stolen truck T-boned him and put his SUV on its side.

  Within moments, a dark-blue van arrived, and four men climbed out, armed with M4A1s. The larger pair dragged a stunned Richards from his vehicle, piled him into the back of the van and followed him in. Climbing into the front seats, the remaining two quickly scanned the scene, and then the van drove away. The whole thing was achieved with military precision and had elapsed no more than two minutes.

  Richards began to gather his wits after a short time and then realized he couldn’t move. His hands and feet were bound, but worse still was the fact that he couldn’t see due to a hood having been placed over his head.

  “What – What is going on?” he managed to get out.

  “Shut up,” a voice snapped.

  “My wife and child,” he continued. “They’ve been hurt. I need to get to them.”

  “They’ll be fine as long as you do what we say.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  The hood was ripped from his head, and he blinked to clear his vision. Two men were in the back with him. Both wore masks over their faces. One thrust a cell in front of Richards’ face and showed him a live-stream feed of his wife and daughter sitting on the sofa at their home. Beside them was an armed man.

  Richards looked up. “Please don’t hurt them.”

  “That depends on you.”

  Isla del Volcán,

  Peru

  A branch lashed Kane’s face, and he felt the sting as sweat flooded the nick on his cheek. The next one he managed to duck before he broke out into a small clearing. Slung across his back was the Dragunov, while in his hands was the AK-74. He looked up and saw the last of the parachutes coming down, figuring there to be still at least a mile to go before they would come across the first of the food crates.

  The crashing sound behind him signaled the arrival of Petrov. Dropping his AK at his feet, the Russian bent over with his hands on his knees and drew in great gulps of air. He straightened and said, “This is chush' sobach'ya.”

  Kane looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

  “Bullshit!”

  “It may be, but we have to keep going if we want to get to that food,” Kane said and started to run across the clearing.

  “Fucking cowboy,” Petrov hissed, scooped up his weapon and followed.

  When the plane had first passed over the island, it had been low enough for Kane to recognize it as an Alenia C-27J Spartan. It had then circled and come back for its cargo run. Now all Kane and Petrov had to do was get there before the others.

  When Reaper topped the low ridge, he broke out of the thick foliage and stopped. Below him, perhaps five-hundred meters away, were three crates with parachutes attached. The open piece of ground was perhaps a thousand square meters. Good ground.

  Petrov reached him and collapsed with exhaustion. He threw up onto the grass and moaned. “I not hungry anymore.”

  “You will be,” Kane assured him. “Now stand up and get down there and find us someth
ing to eat.”

  The Russian gave him a cold stare. He wiped a hand across his mouth and grated, “Who make you boss?”

  “I could go, but I don’t think you can hit shit at five-hundred meters. That leaves me. Now get down there.”

  Petrov came to his feet and started forward. He mumbled something under his breath, and Kane asked, “What?”

  “I said, don’t miss.”

  “I’m sure I’ll hit something.”

  When Petrov reached the crates, he found one of them busted open, and some of the contents had spilled onto the ground. Tins, shiny and silver. He stuffed some in an empty bag and moved onto the next crate. For a few minutes, he worked, grabbing all he could. He was about finished when Ortega and the other faction leaders showed with their followers.

  A shout alerted Petrov to their presence, and he whirled about to see them at the edge of the clearing. They were between him and the ridge, cutting off his direct escape route to where Kane waited. The Russian guessed that if he was going to trust the American, now was the time. Instead of running away from them, he started to jog back the way he’d come.

  That was when the first shots erupted from one of the captured AK74s.

  Kane expelled a slow breath and squeezed the trigger on the Dragunov. The weapon slammed back into his shoulder. A 7.62 round erupted from the barrel and flew straight and true. An unlucky Haitian who’d stepped in beside his boss, who had been the original target, lost the side of his head a second after the shot was fired.

  Blood and brains splashed across Janjak’s face and made him flinch. The involuntary movement made Kane’s next shot miss, albeit, not by much. The Haitian faction leader felt the heat of the round streak past and knew the bullet had been intended for him.

  He dropped to the ground just as a third bullet from the hidden shooter smashed into the side of a FARC member, tearing up the man’s insides.

  “Get down!” someone shouted. “He is killing us!”

  Kane’s fourth shot kicked the right leg out from under a Dominican who fell in a heap, screaming and clutching at his leg.

  Reaper’s work was cold and methodical. If the shoe had been on the other foot, they would have killed him without compunction. He paused for a moment to glance at Petrov. The Russian was lumbering under the weight of his load, but he seemed to be managing.

  The Dragunov pivoted back towards the factions, and through the scope, Kane could see them gathering themselves under the instruction of a tall man armed with an AK74. He dropped the crosshairs onto the target’s head and had just taken up the pressure of the trigger when a bullet slammed into the ground not far from his head. Dirt spewed upward in a violent eruption, spraying his face and making him flinch.

  “Fuck!” Kane exclaimed as he jerked the trigger on the Dragunov. The slug flew wide, missing its intended target. Immediately, Reaper rolled to his left, taking the rifle with him. Just in time as another bullet scorched the air where he’d been laying. If he’d remained there for even two more seconds, he was sure it would have blown a fair-sized hole in his head.

  Then it dawned on him. There was another fucking Dragunov out there somewhere, and the shooter knew where he was.

  Using the ridge for cover, Kane moved further to his left and then bellied back up to the edge through some long grass and eased the Dragunov forward. Below him, Petrov was laboring heavily under the load he carried. Kane had to give it to the man who refused to drop it even though he was in dire straits.

  The factions had reorganized and were once more closing on him. The problem was that if Kane went back to work on them, the sniper would see where he was and target him again. His first priority had to be finding the shooter before he could even think of helping the Russian.

  Kane used the sights to sweep the tree line behind the factions as they advanced. The thick green brush revealed nothing, not even the flash of sunlight on the glass of a scope.

  Suddenly he heard the loud bark of the enemy Dragunov. He braced for the impact of the 7.62 round but then castigated himself. Such was the firepower of the sniper weapon that the slug would have killed him before he’d heard the shot.

  That meant they were now targeting Petrov. It wouldn’t take long before a bullet found a home in the Russian, so Kane had to find the shooter now more than ever.

  Scanning the tree line slowly, he failed to see anything but lush green vegetation. He started a sweep back the other way when the shooter fired again. A burst of flame was followed by the sound of the weapon. Kane dropped the crosshairs on the position and squeezed the trigger.

  He didn’t have to wait to see if he’d hit his target. He’d been shooting guns long enough to just know. And even if the sniper wasn’t dead, with a 7.62 round in him, he wasn’t long for this world.

  The Dragunov moved, and Kane placed the crosshairs on the lead prisoner and fired again. Arms and legs flailed, and the target went down in a heap. The rest hesitated, and it gave Petrov a chance to get further away. A minute went by, and Kane held his fire. He figured he’d killed enough of them to make them think twice. And they did, then slowly backed away, retreating towards the tree line.

  The Russian reached the ridge, and Kane stood up. He was blowing hard and out of breath. Reaper said, “Enjoy your run?”

  “Fuck you,” Petrov hissed. “You think this is funny? They not shoot at you?”

  Kane just smiled at him as he remembered the shooter with the Dragunov. “Come on, Ivan. Let’s get out of here. I’ll buy you dinner.”

  Chapter 18

  Ciudad Juárez

  Mexico

  Cara hesitated then said, “Reaper One, comms check.”

  “Reaper Two, comms check.”

  “Bravo Two, comms check.”

  “This is Zero, read you loud and clear. Out.”

  It felt weird to Cara. This was Kane’s job, not hers.

  “Are you OK?” Arenas asked her in a soft voice.

  Cara nodded. “Yes.”

  “You will get used to it. Have confidence in your decisions. I do.”

  She smiled at him in the orange illumination of the street light. The sun had been down for a good two hours. They’d crossed the border under the cover of darkness and made their way to the west of the city. All three had changed their clothes before crossing the river. Traynor wore jeans and a shirt with the sleeves ripped from it, exposing his tattooed arms. Arenas wore jeans and a T-shirt. Cara also wore jeans, but she wore a navy-blue singlet crop which exposed the tops of her breasts and part of her flat midriff.

  Both men had their M17s stuffed down the back of their pants, while Cara had hers hidden away in a black handbag that was slung over her shoulder. She looked at Traynor and asked, “How do you want to do this?”

  “Roberto was a soldier in the Mexican Army,” Traynor explained. “He bought this place after he got out. Most of the people who come here are military people.”

  “Most?” said Cara. “What about the rest?”

  “Occasionally he has cartel come in to collect their protection money. Just how it works. That way they leave him alone.”

  “How long since you’ve seen him?”

  “About a year.”

  “Let’s hope he’s still friendly. Lead the way.”

  When they entered the premises, all three stopped. The club should have been jumping; after all, it was a club. Instead, the place was dark and dingy. Standing pride of place in the center of the main room was a chrome pole extending all the way to the ceiling. Slowly and sensually, a young woman with long black hair and small, rose-tipped breasts, wearing nothing but a lacy red thong, wrapped herself around it. The music from the speakers was meant to be sexy, but it was far from it.

  What had once been an energetic, vibrant club, was now nothing but a gutter-class strip joint.

  Cara said out of the corner of her mouth, “This looks interesting.”

  “I have a bad feeling, amigo,” Arenas said warily.

  “Yeah, me too.”

/>   “All right, let’s see if your guy is here.”

  They started across the room towards the bar when a waitress appeared in front of them. She looked to be in her early twenties. Like the dancer, she wore nothing but a thong, but hers was black. She ran a finger over Traynor’s muscular arm and asked, “Puedo ayudarte con algo, señor?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Traynor told her in English.

  Her eyes lit up at the prospect of making extra money from the border-hopping gringo. “American? I can give you house special if you wish? Just for you.” She looked at Cara. “The dama can join us too if you want?”

  Cara caught a whiff of her nauseatingly cheap perfume and screwed up her face. She stared at her and said, “Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll pass.”

  The waitress pouted. “Shame.”

  Traynor looked around the room through the haze of cigarette smoke. Without looking back at the stripper, he said, “I’m looking for Roberto. Is he here?”

  “He is in his office.”

  “Is that still where it used to be?”

  “Sí.”

  Traynor reached into his pocket and took out a fifty. He handed it to her, and she tucked it into her panties. “Thanks for your help.”

  “El gusto es mio.”

  As she walked away, he said, “Not tonight it wasn’t.”

  Carlos said, “This is bad. I count four guys on security, and they aren’t the type you would hire for the job.”

  “I counted six,” Cara said. “Every one of them has the look of cartel about them.”

  “This way,” Traynor said and started to walk towards the far corner of the room.

  As she followed, Cara said, “Zero, can you still hear everything we say?”

  “Copy, Reaper One. Loud and clear.”

  “It looks like we’ve walked into the lion’s den here, Zero. Proceeding on mission.”

  “Copy. Anything you want me to do, Cara?”

  “Notify the local morgue that they’re about to get busy.”

  They reached the door to the office and ran into a six-foot-four roadblock. The man had cartel stamped all over him by the way of ink. Not to mention the two dirty great .44 caliber Desert Eagle handguns tucked in holsters on either side of his body.