Deadly Intent

by Brent Towns

  “I’m here to see Roberto. Tell him it’s Pete. He’ll know who I am.”

  The security guard pressed the talk button on a radio and said, “Hay un gringo aquí para verte. Dice que su nombre es Pete.”

  A voice came back, “Voy a estar fuera.”

  “He says he will be right out.”

  The door suddenly jerked open, and a tall man appeared. Seeing the smile on his whiskered face, one would assume that he was happy to see them. The MAC-11 in his right hand pointed at Traynor’s face said otherwise.

  “Tell me why I should not kill you right now, asshole,” Roberto growled and for the first time in a long while Traynor had nothing.

  “What’s happening, Reaper One?” Ferrero’s voice filled her ear.

  “You pull that trigger, and you’ll have American Special Forces crawling up your ass so fast you’ll think you got lucky,” Cara snapped.

  “Talk to me, Reaper One.”

  Roberto smiled coldly and said to Traynor, “Who is the puta?”

  Before Traynor could answer, Cara snarled, “I’m the bitch who’ll put a bullet in your fucking head if you don’t lower the gun.”

  “Oh shit.”

  While she’d been talking, her hand had slipped into her bag and was wrapped around her M17. Arenas had seen it and was poised for what came next.

  In a flurry of movement, things happened which could have ended very badly. Roberto started to shift his aim, but a glint in his eyes telegraphed the move. Cara’s hand came free of her bag, bringing with it her handgun. Behind her, Arenas had seen the muscles in her arm tense and started his own draw. Traynor relied on the pure instinct of a man used to doing undercover work for years and was moving too.

  Cara’s M17 settled on Roberto’s face before the MAC-11 had completed its traverse. Arenas had his weapon stuck in the crotch of the big guy with the Desert Eagles, while Traynor had his handgun rammed into Roberto’s guts.

  Behind them, the sound of scraping chairs and stools could be heard. A few muffled yelps from the girls were accompanied by mixed curses. The noise of weapons being cocked and ready to fire rattled loudly across the room.

  A smile touched Cara’s lips, and she winked at Roberto. “This is a little awkward.”

  “Why don’t you lower your weapons and we can talk this over?” Roberto suggested.

  “Not frigging likely,” Traynor hissed.

  “Reaper One, report.”

  “We’re all good, Zero. Just saying our hellos before we settle down to business.”

  “Copy.”

  “What’s it going to be, Roberto?” Cara asked. “We could be all nice and civil about this. Or we could do it the other way, in which case, I’ll put a bullet through your head.”

  Roberto lowered the MAC-11 and stood aside. “You best come into my office then.” Roberto looked at his security guard. “Espera aquí.”

  The man with the Desert Eagles took up his post again beside the door. Once it had closed, one of the cartel men in the bar, took out his cell and punched in a number.

  The office was small, cramped. It had a pungent odor about it which made Cara wrinkle her nose. “Did someone take a shit in here?”

  Roberto shook his head and chuckled. “You come into my place looking for help, point a gun at my head, and then insult me. Great way to go about it.”

  “What happened to your club, Roberto?” Traynor asked.

  “The cartels. They run everything now. You do as they say, or they kill you.”

  Traynor nodded, remembering his last trip below the border when he’d seen a similar story. “We need your help, Roberto.”

  “Why should I help you? I should be killing you. You’re DEA. You’re worth money to me. Ten thousand dollars.”

  Cara reached into her handbag and pulled out a wad of notes. She tossed it on the cluttered desk. “There, three thousand dollars. All you have to do is answer a few questions, that’s it.”

  The club owner reached out and picked the money up. He flicked through it and then said, “What do you want to know?”

  Cara said, “American mercenaries have been working with the cartels below the border.”

  “Sí.”

  “Which ones?”

  “I don’t know. It could be any of them.”

  “These ones are professionals. We think they’re working with Juan Montoya. They’re the ones who broke him out of prison.”

  Roberto went quiet and tossed the money on the desk. “I know nothing.”

  “Come on, Roberto,” Traynor said. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. Is it Montoya who owns this place?”

  “I own this place!” he snarled.

  “Fair enough. Look, we’re missing a couple of friends. We’re pretty sure that Montoya and the mercs are in this up to their balls. All we need to know is what happened to them after Montoya got hold of them.”

  “They’re dead.”

  The answer was too quick, and Cara knew it. “Cut the crap, Roberto. Carlos, our friend here needs a little persuasion.”

  Arenas moved around behind the now nervous club owner and whispered in his ear. “You better answer the señora. She is lacking paciencia.”

  “I told you, I know nothing.”

  Arenas grabbed a handful of hair and slammed Roberto’s head into the desk. There was an audible crunch and blood squirted. The club owner’s knees buckled, but the strength of Arenas stopped him from falling to the floor.

  The ex-special forces commander dragged Roberto erect and pointed his face towards Cara. Again, she tried. “Tell us about Montoya. Does he have our friends?”

  “Fuck you,” he snarled, a spray of bright red blood escaping his lips.

  “Carlos.”

  Arenas reached around with his M17 and pressed the barrel hard against the back of Roberto’s right hand which was on his desk, supporting him. “Last chance, amigo.”

  “Wait!” Roberto blurted out. “Word is Montoya took them. But he doesn’t have them now.”

  “Where are they?”

  Suddenly the door and wall behind them exploded in a spray of razor-sharp wooden splinters. Bullets punched through the flimsy material in a deadly hail of lead stingers. Cara and the others dived to the floor as the office seemed to disintegrate around them. A lamp on the desk shattered in a small explosion of ceramic shards. Papers took on a life of their own and were ripped into confetti from multiple bullet strikes.

  Roberto’s chest was decimated into a mass of red mush from several slugs. His was a macabre dance as each round punched into him until he fell to the floor. Hugging the floor, the three team members waited for the firing to stop before they came to their feet, M17s extended and ready to fire.

  “Reaper One, copy?”

  Cara spoke quietly. “Can’t talk, Zero, they’re trying to kill us.”

  She nodded to Arenas who crossed to the door. Debris crunched under his boots with each step. The others followed him, expecting another round of devastating gunfire to erupt through the perforated walls and door.

  Nothing happened.

  Arenas reached out and let his hand rest on the doorknob. He looked back at Cara, and she nodded.

  The former special forces officer flung the door back and walked through the opening. On the other side, an armed Mexican had the same idea. His hand was extended, about to grasp the knob himself. Instead, Arenas grabbed the outstretched hand and dragged the killer close. He rammed the handgun into the man’s belly and pulled the trigger three times on the M17. The slugs ripped through the soft tissue of his guts, and he fell away to the floor.

  Cara followed him through and immediately her M17 settled on a shooter armed with an AK-47. Her first shot blew a hole in the man’s chest, knocking him back. The second punched into his skull, killing him.

  Once Traynor was through the congested opening, a flurry of shots ensued, and more cartel men fell. In all, the three team members put down seven shooters, every one of them armed with AKs.

  The echo
es of the gunfire died away as Cara swept the room with the M17, looking for any further targets. There were none. All that remained were a few patrons and strippers who’d ducked for cover when the shooting broke out.

  Behind her, she heard the crunch of boots on scattered debris. She turned and saw Traynor disappear back into the office. She said, “Carlos, are you OK?”

  “Sí.”

  “Sweep the room. See what you can find and keep an eye out just in case.”

  “Copy.”

  “Reaper One, copy? Over.”

  “Copy, Zero.”

  “What happened?”

  Cara turned and started to walk back into the office. “We had a small altercation with some of the natives. We’ll be out of here in a moment.”

  “Is everyone OK?”

  “Yes. All except for our informant. He took multiple rounds in the exchange.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Copy. Out.”

  Traynor leaned over Roberto. By some miracle, he was still alive and conscious. Although not for much longer judging by the state he was in.

  “Come on, Roberto,” Traynor said to him. “Don’t die just yet. Where are they?”

  The dying man coughed, and blood spilled from his mouth. His chest rose and fell with frequent shallow breaths. He tried to say something, but it was only a soft whisper.

  “What? What did you say? Don’t die, you son of a bitch. Tell me again.”

  The former DEA agent leaned in close as the dying club owner’s lips moved one last time. He rocked back onto his knees and stared up at Cara. “He gave us a name.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Las Puertas del Infierno.”

  “You’re shitting me?”

  “Nope. That’s what he said. The gates of Hell.”

  Chapter 19

  Team Reaper HQ

  El Paso, Texas

  “Are you sure that’s what he said?” Thurston asked Traynor again.

  “Yes, ma’am. Those were his exact words.”

  It had been three hours since the shootout across the river, and the team was gathered once more in their briefing room. This time, however, it was early morning hours. As they’d been driving away, the first police cars were starting to arrive on the scene.

  Thurston shook her head. “I’ve heard of it but thought it was just bullshit. What about you, Luis?”

  Ferrero nodded grimly. “It exists. Off the coast of Peru, about a hundred miles out. They keep the worst of the worst there. If we’re going to mount some kind of rescue mission, we should do it now.”

  Thurston stared at Cara. “This is your mission. Start planning for it. I’ll get in touch with General Jones and get approval. Make me a list of what you need when you’re done. It’ll be you, Carlos, Axe, and Brick as the insertion team.”

  Cara glanced at Brick and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Thurston eyed her recruit. “Make sure you have everything you need in your Unit One Pack.”

  The Unit One Pack was a backpack full of medical supplies. From IV fluids and catheters to tourniquets, a catheter for chest decompression, bandages, and morphine. Plus, anything else that might be required.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Slick, find Reaper Team a photo of the island they can work with,” Thurston snapped. “And somebody get a fresh pot of coffee on. It’s going to be a long night.”

  “The question is, where do we find Reaper?” Cara asked out loud as she looked at the color satellite picture that Swift had acquired.

  The team agreed that the best way onto the island was by parachute. They’d picked out a drop zone on the north side of the island, which would allow them to enter under the cover of darkness with relative safety. From there they would work their way south. Hence the question, where would they find Reaper?

  Axe said, “If I were Reaper and I was still alive, I’d take to the jungle and stay far away from anyone else.”

  “That’s ninety percent of the island,” Brick pointed out.

  Cara frowned. “How old is this photo?”

  “Hot off the press,” Swift told her.

  “Is there any way you can put this on the big screen and blow it up?”

  “Sure, give me a minute.”

  “What have you seen?” Arenas asked.

  “I’m not sure yet,” she said. While she waited for Swift, she looked at Axe. “You’ll be packing the M110 this time out.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Brick, you’ll be Reaper Four for this op. Take only what you need in the medical kit. I know this is our first time out together, but I’m sure it’ll be all fine.”

  Brick nodded. “I may be speaking out of turn, but we seem to be going to an awful lot of trouble for two men. Not that I’m complaining, because there’s no way I’d like to leave a man down range. If it were me, I’d like to know you guys were doing everything to get me back. It would be good to know who these guys are.”

  There was pride in Axe’s voice when he spoke. “John Kane. He is the original Reaper. He’s served in Africa, the Philippines, Colombia, and any other small shithole you can think of. He and Cara are the backbone of the team. When it was first formed, Ferrero chose Reaper to head it up.”

  Cara continued. “It all started in a small Arizona town called Retribution. Montoya killed my boss. I was a local deputy sheriff. Kane was just passing through, but I knew him from my time in the Corps.”

  A light went on in Brick’s head. “There was something on the news a while back about a blowup on the border. That was you guys?”

  “Yes. We stole Montoya’s money, and he didn’t take it so well. He got lucky and killed the DEA administrator. After that went down, Carlos joined us and so did Axe. We all went into Guatemala together after Montoya. Although we got him, we lost one of our own. But Axe is right. Reaper is the backbone of this team. And every one of us would do whatever it takes to get him back.”

  “When you guys are done with the history lesson, I have that picture you want,” Swift interrupted.

  They turned and looked at the screen. Cara’s eyes danced across it, and she saw it again. A lot clearer this time. “There.”

  She walked closer to the screen and poked it with her finger. “Does that look like what I think it does?”

  They all stared at it, and it was Brick who broke the silence. “Antonov. Russian.”

  “Exactly.”

  Axe said, “I suppose if Reaper is going to be anywhere then that would be it. Spencer too. It’ll give us a place to start anyhow.”

  “Who’s Spencer, again?” Brick asked.

  “CIA guy,” Axe answered. “We don’t talk about him much because we don’t like him.”

  “I see.”

  In the background, Swift had been researching something on his tablet. His eyes widened, and he gasped, “Fuck me!”

  They all turned to look at him, and Cara said, “Something you want to say?”

  “I managed to pick out a number on the fuselage of the plane,” he said excitedly. “This particular Antonov belonged to one Anatoli Petrov.”

  “The arms smuggler?”

  “The same. He disappeared from the radar a few years ago. Looks like we now know why.”

  “Can you capture us some live feed from across the island between now and when we jump? I’d like to know what the hell is going on down there.”

  “Consider it done. I’m sure the NSA or CIA won’t mind if I borrow one of their birds.”

  “Just don’t get caught. Now, all we have to do is convince Thurston and Luis that this is how we do it.”

  Thurston and Ferrero listened patiently as Cara laid out the team plan. It was simple. They parachute in, find Reaper and Spencer, and get out.

  Thurston nodded. “I can get you in, and I can get you out. But I don’t want to be sending you into harm’s way for no reason. We need to somehow confirm that Reaper and Spencer are there.”

  Cara said, “Swift is rigging up a live-fee
d so he can keep a watch and see if anyone there might be Reaper, ma’am. He can do that right up until jump time.”

  The general’s eyes narrowed. “Have you parachuted before?”

  “Yes, ma’am. A while back.”

  “How far back.”

  “Ten years.”

  “Shit. Don’t break your damned neck.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Thurston sighed. “All right. It’s a long haul so I’ll see if I can get you a C-17 for the trip down. Also, if we can get a destroyer down there to pick you up, they’ll have an RHIB to be able to take you off the beach. However, if we can’t confirm that Kane is there before you jump, I’ll pull the pin.”

  Cara looked across at Ferrero. He said, “That’s the plan. No need to be sending you into a hot zone if there’s no need.”

  “He could be anywhere down there, and we not see him,” Axe protested.

  “That’s right.”

  The team knew there was no winning this one. There was a moment of silence which Thurston took to mean acceptance of her ultimatum. She asked, “Anything else that you might need?”

  The team stared at each other like they were holding something back. Their commander picked it up straight away. “Out with it.”

  Cara said, “Any chance of a Spectre?”

  Thurston chuckled. “You want an AC-130 gunship?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The general stared hard at her. “You’re serious?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I figure that with Petrov’s plane crashed down there, he could have been smuggling arms. If so, then we have to assume that there are a lot of unfriendlies on the ground with guns.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like the First Marine Division too?”

  “Spectre will do just fine, ma’am.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “There’s something you need to be aware of,” Ferrero said.

  “There is a ten-mile exclusion zone around the island, enforced by a special branch of the Peruvian navy. Their ships have special detachments of marines on them. They are dispatched from the mainland at the first sign of trouble.”