The Apparatus (Jason Trapp Book 5)

by Jack Slater

  There were seven machine gun nests in total, and the same number of sniper teams. He’d argued for more of both, but had been overruled by his own men, who responded that the sharpshooters needed spotters, and the machine gunners needed assistance reloading. Grover seethed at the intervention but was forced to concede the matter.

  But if things went wrong, he vowed, they would have to pay.

  “Contact Carreon’s guards. Get a status report.”

  “Sir – are you sure that’s wise? Wouldn’t it be better to wait? The plan is in motion. Anything we do now will only increase the likelihood of something going wrong.”

  Grover stared venomously at the man. “Are you questioning my judgment?”

  The man adopted a deliberate, deferential tone, in what was an obvious attempt to mollify his paymaster. “We get one shot at this, sir. If we blow it, then that’s it. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Cracking his knuckles, Grover was forced to concede the point, though he didn’t have to like it. He swiveled the binoculars to the left, searching for the point at which Carreon’s convoy would emerge in just a few short minutes. He could almost taste victory, but that was part of the problem.

  Because just as prominent in the air was the scent of defeat. And only time would tell which would be his fate.

  Trapp, Burke, and Ikeda were accompanied by Hector and eight of his men. The small band numbered 12 in total and was split between four vehicles – all personal trucks and SUVs owned by the Mexican Marines. Sprawled across the back seats of the rearmost vehicle as it jolted at sixty miles an hour over the rough desert mud road, Trapp attempted to strap his equipment on as beside him, Burke continued to monitor the rapidly evolving situation.

  “Okay,” he yelled into a walkie-talkie that was clamped to his lips. “Looks like we’ve got a second group approaching from the northwest. About twenty-five vehicles. Everything from an 18-wheeler to a Range Rover. It’s a freaking carnival down there.”

  “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve seen in a long time,” Trapp grunted darkly. “What the hell is going on?”

  Burke pulled himself away from the screen for a few moments. “Your guess is as good as mine. We’ve got three different groups spoiling for a fight. And we don’t have a clue who any of them are.”

  “Four,” Trapp said.

  “How?”

  “Four groups,” he repeated. “Grover, the two convoys – and us.”

  “Oh,” Burke muttered, looking somewhat startled, as though he appreciated the true gravity of the situation for the first time. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

  Trapp grabbed a duffel bag from the trunk, dragging it over the back seat and pulling it onto his lap. He pulled the zipper open roughly and reached inside to retrieve several loaded magazines, which he stuffed into every available pouch and pocket before passing them forward to the two Marines in the front seats. He suspected that the same scene was being repeated in each of the four vehicles.

  “You guys look like you do this every week,” he said, grinning at the two Mexicans to bleed off a little of his own building anxiety.

  The guy in the passenger seat checked his rifle and shot him a thumbs-up of appreciation for the extra ammunition. His face was as expressive as his reply was short. “This is Mexico.”

  “I hear that.”

  “We’re about five minutes out,” Burke said into the radio, his words tumbling out. “We need to slow down once we hit the dogleg up ahead. About three minutes. Otherwise they’ll hear us coming a mile off.”

  Trapp pointed at the laptop and clicked his fingers urgently, practically dragging it off Burke’s lap. The DEA man didn’t seem to notice and busied himself stocking up on his own ammunition.

  He stared at the screen intently, even as the computer bounced on his lap as the SUV’s front wheels hit an enormous pothole, causing the entire vehicle to lurch violently upward.

  The three groups that Burke had mentioned were clear in the satellite feed. The group they’d followed all the way from Mexico City – Grover’s men – were up on the ridgeline. It was hard to make out exactly how many of them there were, but they were exceedingly well armed. The only consolation was that as far as he could tell, each of their firing positions was pointed down toward the dry lake below.

  Still, Trapp’s ragtag team was outnumbered by at least two to one, and probably closer to three. However the next few minutes was to proceed, it had every chance of going sideways – and fast.

  But then – what choice did they have? If Grover had caused this mess, then the United States had a moral duty to do something about it. And in the absence of the cavalry, Trapp, Burke, and Eliza Ikeda were all the help that Hector’s men were going to get.

  Still, Trapp thought, not entirely honestly. I’ve seen worse odds.

  “Okay, guys,” he said, speaking into his own lapel mic. “The first group is on the move. I think this thing is going down.”

  Carreon’s SUV was at the head of a long convoy of his men’s vehicles as they proceeded to the meeting point. That was potentially unwise, but he couldn’t bear the thought of dragging this out a moment longer than was necessary. His stomach was a bubbling cauldron of acid, which wasn’t helped by the presence of two of Grover’s jackbooted thugs sitting in the back seats.

  Not long now…

  “Stop here,” he said, stabbing the air with a pointed finger to reinforce the point.

  Iker did as he was instructed, and one by one, the remaining twenty or thirty trucks, pickups, and sedans coalesced into a loose arrangement around him. He put his fingers on the door handle, but before opening it, he turned to his lieutenant.

  “You’re a good man, Iker,” he said. “Believe me, I won’t forget that.”

  He received a frown in return, then the bobbing of the man’s head. “Thank you, boss. I’m here for you, you know that.”

  “Okay,” Carreon said, clapping his hands together. “Time to go.”

  He pulled the truck’s front door open and jumped out, instantly bursting into action, ordering and cajoling his men into position. What was about to happen was akin to a Cold War spy swap – and had about the same chance of someone getting a twitchy trigger finger and blowing everything to hell.

  Especially with what he had planned.

  First, he created a defensive circle composed of expensive, tricked-out pickup trucks, complete with alloy wheels and custom entertainment systems. Even now, Grover’s guards stayed within a few feet from him, close enough to hear every word that escaped his lips.

  “You!” Carreon called out, pointing at one of his men. “Get everyone into a circle. Now!”

  The sicario ran off as though he’d been stung to carry out his master’s command. Within a minute or so, all one hundred of the fighters that Carreon had brought with him were arrayed in loose ranks. Most wore jeans, T-shirts, even a smattering of soccer shirts. In place of Kevlar helmets, they had adopted baseball caps.

  But most had body armor strapped to their chests, sourced from the same suppliers that outfitted soldiers worldwide. That was the good thing about the military-industrial complex, Carreon thought. They were incredibly un-discerning when it came to their customers. The only language they cared about was money, and he had plenty of that to go around. They had webbing around their waists and extra magazines stuffed into pockets and underneath their belts. They were a messy, ragtag bunch, but every man among them was a killer. Every single one had fired a weapon in anger, and most armies around the world couldn’t claim something similar.

  They wouldn’t break in a fight.

  At least, he thought dryly, not if things are going well.

  Behind them, Reyes’ wife was surrounded by four of Grover’s guards. The men were masked, unreadable, and implacable. They carried their weapons like the professionals they were. The girl’s presence had attracted his men’s attention, and not just because of her unusual beauty. She was wearing denim shorts and a baggy, block-shaped man’s T
-shirt which did little to disguise her figure. Unsurprisingly, she was greeted with a regular procession of stolen glances and bawdy comments, to which she did not respond.

  Carreon lifted his pistol from the holster at his hip and tapped it gently against the windshield to attract the attention of the gathered crowd, though this was hardly necessary. He waited until he had absolute silence before he began.

  “Everybody knows why we are here,” he called out in a booming voice, knowing that this was entirely impossible – for even he did not know how the next few minutes would unravel. “Nobody wanted this war, but those pussies from Culiacán started it anyway. They hit us in the night like women. They have no honor. No cojones. Isn’t that right?”

  A growl of agreement followed.

  “So it’s time to end this thing. Right here, and right now. Are you with me?”

  “Hell yeah!”

  The comment roared out of a more general, and now slightly louder, rumble of accord, bringing a smile to Carreon’s lips. “Good. Because Reyes didn’t count on one thing. He didn’t count on us taking his wife.”

  Pointing at Jennifer Reyes, he allowed his voice to build in both strength and volume. His men, he knew, needed to be excited – but they also needed reassurance. To know that he would do everything he could to preserve their lives. That he was not a vicious, capricious general, but a father figure.

  “So I expect you to fight. I expect you to win. But…” He lowered the volume, leaning forward and adopting an almost conspiratorial tone. “Believe me when I tell you that I will do everything possible to resolve this without bloodshed. I never wanted this war. I hope to end it without spilling blood. But that’s in her husband’s hands.”

  He paused, appearing to glance casually out at the horizon. Instead, he was studying the hillside that towered above him, knowing that somewhere up there, Grover’s men were already entrenched, aiming their weapons down.

  Hopefully not at me.

  This was a huge gamble. There was every chance that even if things went well with Ramon Reyes, and Grover’s men cut him down, that he would break their agreement and they would turn their weapons on him too.

  But what choice did he have? There was a reason you went for the Hail Mary play, and it wasn’t because things were going well. He blinked, realizing that his men were still staring expectantly up at him and beginning to glance uncertainly at each other.

  Knowing that he could not afford that, he hefted his pistol above his head and looked each of his men in the eye in turn – or at least, as many as he could manage. “And never forget, I’ll be right by your side. Not hiding in a bunker. Not on some beach somewhere. But to your left, and to your right. And if I die today, then so be it. But trust me, I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

  A shrill, excited voice rang out with warning of Reyes’ arrival. “They’re coming!”

  44

  Ramon Reyes stepped out of his car, surrounded by a hundred of his deadliest friends. Mindful of the risk of being hit by a sniper’s bullet, he was careful to keep himself low and out of sight. Mendoza handed him a slim, black pair of binoculars.

  He pressed them to his eyes, steadying himself by placing an arm on a nearby truck, and as he did so, he murmured, “You really think she’s there?”

  Mendoza shrugged. Reyes couldn’t actually see that, but he knew his friend too well, knew what that little exhalation of breath meant.

  “Probably,” he said. “We know they have her. Why take a bargaining chip if you don’t plan on using it?”

  Although they had trodden this same ground over and over again these past couple of days, always coming to the same conclusion, Reyes gave voice to his fears. “And what if it’s an ambush?”

  “It probably is,” Mendoza replied offhandedly, not seeming flustered in the slightest. “So it’s a fight. It was always going to end this way, right?”

  Reyes played the binoculars over the assortment of vehicles across the lakebed from him. His boots sank into the delicate, thin sand underfoot as he examined the opposing force. He saw faces, but no weapons. No visible weapons, anyway. They were doubtless armed as heavily as he was. It would be foolish not to do so, and Fernando Carreon was anything but a foolish man.

  Though that was certainly true, Ramon still did not understand why he had started this fight in the first place. It made no sense. Why go to all this effort, expend so much blood and treasure, court media attention and government displeasure, only to end up in the exact place you started?

  It didn’t make sense. Not unless this was Carreon’s final move, his checkmate. Maybe then the reward would prove worth the risk. Maybe.

  “You’re right. I guess we’re about to find out.”

  Mendoza nodded as Reyes dropped the binoculars from his eyes. The picture they painted for him was nothing more than an illusion. Information without illumination.

  “Do you see her?” Mendoza murmured.

  “No.”

  His lieutenant reached out and squeezed Reyes’ shoulder. It was a comforting gesture, overly familiar, but he did not mind. There were few men in the world who could get away with doing that – fewer still after the losses he’d already sustained in this pitiless war – but Milo was one of them. “We’ll know shortly. One way or another.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he pointed out across the lakebed. “Look. They’re giving the signal.”

  Reyes followed the outstretched arm and saw that Mendoza was right. One of Carreon’s men had tied a dirty piece of cloth to a pole, climbed on top of his vehicle, and was waving it back and forth. It wasn’t quite a white flag of parley, but it would have to do.

  He closed his eyes, steadying himself for his part in this. The agreement had been for both men to meet at a spot in between the two camps, unarmed and without guards. The security would be assured by the fighters at their backs – but in no man’s land, they would be forced to trust each other.

  It had sounded good in principle. Less so now he had to do it.

  “Ramon,” Mendoza said in a low voice. “When he walks out, hold back. Just for a couple of seconds.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t trust them. That’s all. Perhaps he means to shoot you the second you step out into the open.”

  Reyes grimaced. “A comforting thought. But someone has to take the first step.”

  “Just a second. That’s all I’m asking. Long enough for me to get a bead on him. Call it mutually assured destruction. Once Carreon’s in the open, he won’t dare let one of his men take a shot at you. It would be signing his own death certificate.”

  That sounded right, Reyes thought. It would provide a short measure of comfort for the long walk.

  “Okay. One moment, that’s all. I can’t risk delaying any longer. His conditions were plain, and this thing’s precarious enough as it is.”

  Mendoza nodded. “Thank you.”

  Now that the moment had finally arrived, Fernando Carreon was no longer nervous. He didn’t know when the acid had drained from his stomach, when his palms had dried and saliva had once again started to flow inside his mouth, but he was pleased on all three counts.

  He tapped the pistol at his hip.

  “You sure about this, boss?” Iker grumbled. He was still a little stiff in his mannerisms and speech, but Carreon liked that he didn’t mince his words. “What if it’s a trap?”

  It is a trap, he thought. Just not the way you think.

  But since he could not say as much, he instead replied, “Are you ready?”

  Iker nodded. “You know I am.”

  Carreon nodded cryptically. “Let’s hope so. For both our sakes.”

  The squat lieutenant glanced at the pistol on Carreon’s hip but said nothing. He knew that his boss wasn’t supposed to wear it to the meeting with Reyes, they had discussed as much, but perhaps he assumed that something had changed. Regardless, he didn’t question it.

  The cartel chief raised his voice. “Bring the girl.”

  Jenni
fer Reyes stumbled forward, pushed by her four guards. Like his own, they were not bodyguards. The welfare of their charge was not the primary concern of the men behind the masks.

  Carreon waited until they brought her right to him. He was now surrounded by all eight of Grover’s men. They held their rifles expertly, fingers resting only a couple of inches away from their triggers.

  He leaned into his act. “Remember, when I call her name, don’t hesitate. Send her right out. Any delay and Reyes might think something’s gone wrong. All I want tonight is a screw and a drink. The last thing I need is a bullet in my back. Understood?”

  “Indeed,” one of Grover’s men replied.

  “Good,” he replied curtly.

  It was all an act, of course. Grover’s thugs knew the plan as well as he did. Reyes was never supposed to make it more than a couple of feet from his convoy. His own role was simply to draw the rival cartel leader into the open. One of Grover’s snipers was to finish the job.

  That was the plan, as Grover’s men knew it.

  At least, they thought they knew the plan.

  He turned away from the masked guards, fixing their positions in his mind. It would only take a few seconds; they could not move very far. Perhaps not at all. He bowed his head, breathing out, then sucked in as much oxygen as his lungs could handle. He steadied himself.

  Then he started walking out of the circle of trucks and pickups toward Reyes. His hand rested on his holster.

  Iker, conscientious as always, called out, “Boss!”

  For an instant, Carreon closed his eyes, grateful that his man had taken the bait. He could have done without it, probably. But it was better for Iker to call for him to stop instead of doing it himself. It would raise fewer suspicions.

  He stopped.

  Not so fast. Make him work.

  He looked over his shoulder and yelled angrily, “What?”