by Alex Ander
Vengeance Is Mine
(Special Agent Cruz FBI Action #1)
By Alex Ander
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Vengeance
Is Mine
Special Agent Cruz
FBI Action
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This story proudly
Made in the U.S.A.
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Copyright ©2017 Jason A. Burley
All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be published in a newspaper, magazine or electronically via the Internet.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real events or locations or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
FOR READERS OF THE AARON HARDY SERIES: Vengeance Is Mine begins 6 months before the first book in the Aaron Hardy series, The Unsanctioned Patriot.
…for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.”
—Romans Chapter 12, Verse 19
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Chapter 1: Cabin
January 7th, 5:32 p.m.
18 miles southwest of Tallahassee, Florida
Near the eastern edge of the Apalachicola National Forest
Special Agent Raychel Elisa DelaCruz opened the trunk of her black Dodge Charger, slipped her arms out of her dark blue blazer and tossed the garment into the compartment. She grabbed a bulletproof vest, the letters FBI emblazoned on the front, and handed it to her partner. She donned a similar vest over her pastel blue blouse, cinched the straps and pulled her ponytail from under the protective apparel. She inserted a communication device into her ear, tapped the earpiece and glanced toward her partner. “Check, check…one—two—three.”
Special Agent Curtis Ashford paused from securing the straps on his vest only long enough to give her the ‘thumbs-up’ sign. “I’m reading you loud and clear, Cruz.”
During her time in the military, her fellow soldiers called her Cruz. They had joked that her full name was too difficult to pronounce. To this day, the nickname had stuck and everyone who knew her used the shortened version of her name.
Ashford double-checked the status of his Glock 22 and shoved it into his hip holster before touching the spare magazines on his left hip. He stared over the trunk lid toward the winding dirt road that led to a small shabby cabin, surrounded by dense woods. “We really should call this in and wait for backup.”
Cruz’s reply was sharp and monotone. “We probably should.” She dropped the magazine from her Glock 23 pistol into her hand. Verifying the magazine’s capacity, she rammed it into the butt of her weapon and pulled back on the weapon’s slide. Seeing a shiny brass case in the chamber, she let go of the slide, holstered the Glock and adjusted the black belt supporting the hardware and her dark blue slacks.
Ashford curled up the right side of his mouth. “Something tells me we’re not going to do that though, are we?” Not getting a reply, he studied the woods on either side of the long driveway. Darkness enveloped the vegetation a few feet inside the tree line. “If anyone slips by us,” he lifted his chin toward the forest, “it’s going to be hard to find them in this.”
Cruz tapped the button on the back of her Surefire flashlight and a brief beam of white light appeared inside the trunk. She closed the lid, stowed the flashlight and observed the surrounding area. “Then, I guess we’ll have to make sure no one slips by us.” Ashford’s tone and body language compelled her to offer assurances. “We’ve done this before, Ash…rolled up on scenes and taken down the bad guys without calling in the cavalry.” She motioned toward the direction of the cabin. “Peterson and Lopez are up there and I’m not going to let them get away again.” She gave him the ‘peace’ sign. “Two times is two times too many. One way or another, this ends…tonight.”
“I’m with you on that, Cruz. My concern is…what if there are more people than just Peterson and Lopez up there?”
“Our recon says otherwise.” Hidden among the trees, Cruz and Ashford had watched the cabin for an hour and had only seen two men inside the structure.
Standing at the right-rear corner of the Charger, she squinted at her partner. His black hair, dark eyes and long eyelashes gave him a hardened, attractive appearance. The square jaw and perpetual stubble on his cheeks only added to his ‘bad boy’ good looks. He was not her type, but she was confident he had no trouble getting dates.
Wearing navy blue slacks, a white shirt under his bulletproof vest and black shoes, Curtis Ashford stood six-feet tall and weighed two hundred pounds. He had an athletic frame with wide shoulders, a narrow waist and heavily muscled arms and legs. A football player in college, he made the team as a linebacker. To him, the best part of the game was hitting people. His coaches had determined he was too small to play linebacker and moved him to running back. Disappointed at first, he soon discovered he could fulfill his hitting prerequisite at the new position. He ran over and through defenders on his way to a school rushing record in his first year. A knee injury in the playoffs ended his college career, in addition to his hopes of playing professional football. With his dreams sidelined, he focused on a backup plan—becoming an FBI agent.
“You know I’m always ready for a good fight, Cruz.”
Aware of his penchant for getting physical with criminals and uncooperative suspects, Cruz grinned. That’s an understatement.
“I just want to know what your plan is if this thing goes south.” He saw Cruz’s grin transition into a smile. He rolled his eyes. “So, it’s going to be like all the other times. We pull plan ‘B’ out of our butts.” Shaking his head, he drew his pistol. “Okay, let’s do this.” Ashford extended his arm. “Ladies first…lead the way.”
… … … … … … … … … …
The single-level cabin was made of old wooden planks, dried and cracked from countless years of being unprotected from the elements. Many of the boards were split at the ends. Long gaps appeared where the edges of the wood were joined. Hastily constructed patch jobs could be seen on all sides of the building, ranging from irregular-shaped pieces of plywood nailed to the sides to rags and cardboard stuck into the smaller gaps. The techniques did little to keep out the weather, and the abundant critters looking for food or shelter.
A short porch, less than a foot off the ground, jutted out four feet from the front door and spread out eight feet to the left and right. The handrails that enclosed the porch were made of a rotted horizontal two-by-four resting on several shorter vertical two-by-fours. None of the timber had been painted or stained.
Each side of the cabin had a window at shoulder-height, while the back of the building had a door and a three-step staircase leading to the ground, which sloped away from the back door. White smoke billowed out of the brick chimney on the left side of the cabin. The column drifted to the left every few seconds from an intermittent, faint breeze.
A green Ford truck with larger than normal tires and a lift kit was backed against the porch on the right side of the door. The tree line on the sides and back of the cabin was no more than twenty feet from the shack. The distance from the tree line, near the driveway, to the porch was closer to a hundred feet and the terrain afforded no natural cover. Cruz and Ashford knelt within the cover of the trees to the left of the driveway, studying the cabin and the immediate area. She had half thought about using her Charger to make the approach, but the roar of the engine would have made it more challenging to maintain the element of surprise.
Ashford spoke, his voice hushed. “It’ll be dark soon. Are we going in under the cover of night?”
Cruz shook her head. “I want a little bit of daylight left, in case this thing doesn’t go according to plan.”
“Speaking of this plan…care to share?”
She made an arc with her left arm. “You go left and take the back door. Stay in the trees as long as you can before you make your approach.” Nodding toward the cabin, she added, “I’ll be knocking on the front door.”
“What’s our R-O-E?”
“Rules of Engagement haven’t changed. We fire if they fire at us. I want them to stand trial for what they’ve done.”
United States Border Patrol agents Stephen Peterson and Marcus Lopez had been using their positions of authority to help smuggle drugs and illegal immigrants across the Mexican-American border. Their activities had been on the FBI’s radar for several months, while the agency gathered evidence against the pair. They fled a day ahead of a scheduled raid to apprehend them, moving deeper into the country, finally settling at this location.
“That being said—” Cruz plopped her hand onto Ashford’s shoulder to get his attention. “You’re cleared to go hot.” She poked him in the chest. “Be careful. These people are well-trained agents and they know how to shoot. We’re both going home tonight. Got it?” When she did not get a reply, Cruz re-stated her question. “Are we clear, Ash?”
He smiled. Cruz was four years his elder and he sometimes felt as if she treated him like a younger brother, protecting him from schoolyard bullies or reminding him to look both ways before crossing the street. If any other person had treated him that way, he or she would have been on the receiving end of a severe tongue-lashing. Cruz was exempt, however. Secretly, he enjoyed her concern for his well-being. While growing up, Ashford, the youngest of four male siblings, never had anyone to shield him from the incessant teasing from his older brothers.
He nodded and gave his interpretation of her instructions. “We shoot first, ask questions later, and go home with no new holes in our bodies...Got it.” He leapt to his feet. “I’ll let you know when I’m in position. Watch yourself, Cruz.”
Cruz shook her head and grinned, while her partner disappeared into the thick foliage. His imposing presence and sense of humor had cultivated in her mind the persona of a big teddy bear. He portrayed the image of a tough and surly man, while maintaining his fun-loving and joking demeanor.
Minutes later, her earpiece crackled.
“I’m in position and ready to breach on your order.”
“Copy that. Stand by. I’m moving out.” Cruz took one more look around the area and slipped out of the concealment of the underbrush. Crouching, she sprinted toward the cabin. Fifteen feet away from the truck, Ashford’s voice came over the airwaves.
“I’ve got movement in the house…Someone’s heading for the front door.”
Cruz darted to her right and dropped to the ground, using the truck as a barricade. As long as no one stepped too far out onto the porch, she would not be seen. The door to the cabin opened and closed. Boots scuffed along the wooden boards, creaking under a heavy weight. Thirty seconds passed. Her pulse was pounding in her head. She had no clear view of the man, but she could see smoke rising from beyond the hood of the truck. He’s having a cigarette. Okay, just finish your smoke and go back inside…No need to step off the porch…No need to…The door opened and closed again. Cruz waited.
“All clear, Cruz. Two subjects in the structure. You’re good to go…over.”
Cruz got to her hands and knees and slowly lifted her body to see over the hood of the truck. He’s gone. She raced toward the truck, stopping in front of the vehicle’s grill. Easing to her left, she peeked around the right corner. No one was in sight. She moved back in front of the grill and withdrew a folding knife from her pocket. She thumbed the blade and it automatically locked open. “I’ll be ready to go in two minutes.”
“Copy that.”
… … … … … … … … … …
Stephen Peterson closed the door to the cabin and trotted across the main room. “Get your crap together. We’re bugging out.” He grabbed a duffle bag, dropped it onto the table and started tossing in stacks of hundred-dollar bills. He paused to point at the cache of weapons and ammunition in the corner of the room. “Grab as much ammo as you can.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Lopez had joined him at the table.
Peterson jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “There’s somebody out there. I can feel it and I can smell it.” His ten years of service, guarding the border between the United States and Mexico had ingrained in him a sense of when others were nearby. Spending many nights on patrols, he knew when people were lurking in the dark, waiting for him to move to another position, so they could sneak into the country. Eventually, he gave up and decided to make money from the activities. His choice had gotten him and his friend in their current situation.
“So, now you can smell when people are around.” Lopez stared at Peterson. “I think you’ve been on the run so long, looking over your shoulder, you’re seeing ghosts.”
Peterson stopped stuffing the money stacks and held Lopez’s gaze. “I went for a smoke and I could smell perfume. When was the last time the forest smelled like perfume?”
Lopez laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re spooked because you think you smelled perfume. That’s what this is all about?” He shook his head. “No, it couldn’t be flowers or—”
“Shut up and get the damn ammo.” Peterson zipped the duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder before checking the status of his pistol. He jumped and nearly sent a round into the floor when he heard a fist pounding on the front door, followed by a commanding female voice.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Chapter 2: Surrounded
Special Agent Cruz issued a command, her voice as deep as she could make it. “This is the FBI. The place is surrounded. There’s nowhere to go. Come out with your hands up.”
Peterson shot a glance at Lopez and raised his pistol toward the door. He aimed left of the door, then right of it. She’ll be on one side or the other, but not in front of it. He swung the pistol back to the left. “Aw, to hell with it,” he said and repeatedly pulled the trigger, while strafing the front of the cabin. The slide locked back. He inserted a fresh magazine and charged toward the door, firing as he ran.
… … … … … … … … … …
Squatting near the stairs at the back of the structure, Ashford heard Cruz pummel the front door. Her voice travelled electronically to one ear; live to the other. “This is the FBI. The place is surrounded. There’s nowhere to go. Come out with your hands up.” He cocked his head. ‘The place is surrounded?’ It’s just the two of us.
He sprang forward and reached the back door in three giant steps. Pressing his back to the wall, he heard gunfire. Wheeling around, he put a size-twelve-foot to the door and the rickety barrier flew inward. The top hinge separated from the doorjamb and the door listed to the right. He raised his weapon and had both Peterson and Lopez in his sights. They were running toward the front door. He charged forward and yelled, “Freeze…FBI…don’t move.”
Ashford watched Lopez spin to his right with pistol in hand. He did not give the man a second chance to comply with his order, pressing the trigger when Lopez’s chest was centered in his sights.
Lopez continued his turn. Instead of penetrating his chest, the bullet zipped across it, leaving a half-inch wide trench from his sternum to his right nipple before lodging in his bicep. Screaming, he dropped to the floor and dragged himself toward the out-of-reach pistol. Flopping forward the wounded arm, his fingertips touched the butt of the weapon. Before he could grasp it, searing pain radiated from the hand and through the arm. His head reeled backward.
Ashford had stomped on Lopez’s hand with the heel of his dress shoe before shifting most of his bodyweight forward. “Marcus Lopez, you’re under arrest for t
he illegal smuggling of drugs, weapons and immigrants. You have the right to remain silent...”
Lopez howled, while tears moistened his reddening cheeks.
Shrugging his shoulders, Ashford handcuffed Lopez and said, “…Or not,” before informing the man of the rest of his rights.
… … … … … … … … … …
Cruz stood to the left of the door, balled her fist and rapped on the wooden door. “This is the FBI. The place is surrounded. There’s nowhere to go. Come out with your hands up.” She took a two-handed grip on her Glock and waited, her back pressed against the cabin, her left ear facing the dwelling. She opened her mouth, but before she could issue another command bullets flew out of the cabin, starting on the other side of the door, heading straight for her. She whipped her head around and dove to the right. Landing on her right side, she shielded her head and face from the debris. Splinters from the handrails flew into the air, as bullets zipped through the old wood. Having taken three rounds in her back, her chest heaved and her mind went back to an encounter during her days as an officer for her hometown police department of Dalhart, Texas.
Two years into her job with the Dalhart Police Department, she made a routine traffic stop of a vehicle with a broken taillight. The incident marked the first time she had drawn her weapon and exchanged gunfire with a criminal, who happened to be a Mexican drug trafficker on the FBI’s Most Wanted List. A bullet had grazed the surface of her leg, but she was able to capture and arrest the fugitive, shooting and wounding two of his companions. Cruz received special recognition from the FBI and the Dalhart P.D. promoted her to sergeant. Until this moment, that was the only time she had been shot.
Cruz drew a deep breath, but the pain in her chest forced her to abort the process. She settled for shorter gulps of air. The bullets had ceased flying, so she rolled onto her back and extended her firearm toward the door. She let out a yelp when her back touched the porch. Bad idea, Raychel. Continuing the roll, she propped herself on her left elbow. A second wave of gunfire commenced. More holes appeared on the door. Dust, dirt and fragments flew outward.