Alpha watched it all through his scope. If others were coming, they would have hurried in to help and to be ready to go, but the man worked alone. When the tailgate closed and the sniper moved to his truck door, Alpha settled his crosshair. He aimed for his enemy's thigh where the impact would shatter the big bone and plow on, perhaps to pierce the opposite leg. The sniper would be anchored with no escape possible. Hurting badly, he might be persuaded to talk about his mission before . . . Alpha's trigger finger tightened.
The .338 Lapua's blast was tremendous. Dust flew and leaves moved. Recoil lifted the muzzle, but Alpha was almost instantly back on target. His bolt operated smoothly, and his finger was back on the trigger. The sniper was down . . . of course. He was on his back, and his sniper rifle lay on the seat beyond his reach. A spray of blood surrounded a ragged hole in the pickup's side.
The enemy sniper appeared at least momentarily stunned by a horrendous leg wound, but he would not be dead, and Alpha had to wonder what other weapons the man might be carrying. The safe thing would be to wait and let the man bleed out, but Alpha had wounded rather than killed in the hope of gaining information. He could not wait too long.
The sniper moved, and Alpha watched through his scope as the man struggled to prop his body against the truck side. Most would have curled into a fetal position and waited to die. A tough man who had been hurt before, Alpha decided. He resolved to be very careful.
The hard-hit enemy raised both arms so that his empty hands could be seen. Then he moved one and reached inside his clothing to secure a small pistol and toss it clear. A very large jackknife appeared. The sniper slashed away his pant leg. He hastily jerked his belt free and wrapped it around his leg—above the wound, Alpha assumed. He twisted the knife handle into the belt and rotated the tourniquet as tightly as he could manage.
The sniper had propped himself against the truck, but Alpha judged he would move little more. Alpha thought he saw bleeding from the other leg. It was time to get down there . . . after he had glassed the area one more time.
The shot had come from nowhere, and the bullet had blown both of his legs out from under him. He had struck the ground hard on his back. Shock held him immobile and confused his efforts to judge his injury and his predicament.
He hitched himself up against the truck to examine his wound, and it was terrible to behold. He got his hands into the open and quickly dumped his pistol. He would certainly be frisked and lose the gun anyway.
What had he been shot with—certainly some sort of large caliber expanding bullet? The wound was completely numb, but that would not last long. Then, he would be in agony too massive to contemplate.
The leg lay at an angle frightening to examine and bled from a small entrance hole and a massive exit crater. Tension and fear made his fingers clumsy, but he tore his belt loose and using his knife as a handle managed to tighten a tourniquet enough to almost stop the bleeding.
He was done. Wounded as he was, there would be no entrapping the shooter who had got him and driving away in the truck.
Yet, the ambusher had not finished him. Why? Information, of course. Perhaps he could survive, although, even in his frantic reasoning, he could not imagine his enemy sparing him.
He was slumped, staring directly at his tom and naked flesh. His mind wondered what had happened to his pant leg? He supposed he had slashed it away as he began work, but he could not remember, and that warned him that his thinking was not as clear as he might believe it to be.
Pain was still absent, and he tried again to judge his wound. Horrendous! The great bone within his thigh had shattered, and he saw a jagged end protruding.
What the hell? Although not bent out of normal position, his other leg was also shot through. The bone seemed intact, and the bleeding did not appear severe, but there would be no strength in the leg, and it too would soon pain as if jammed into a furnace. He truly was finished, and he slumped lower, waiting stoically for his killer.
The shooter had been long in coming, and the first bursts of pain were beginning. The wounded sniper supposed his enemy had been making sure that they were truly alone—as he would have.
His killer came from around the rear of the pickup, also just as the wounded man would have done. He drew a large pistol from its holster and placed a scoped rifle on the ground. The sniper's mind automatically recognized the handgun as a Colt .45. No wimpy 9 mms for him. This fighter, as he did, clearly liked large and powerful bullets.
When the man who would finish him looked down, the sniper felt his guts collapse. Doctor Don Byrne, alive and well and prepared to shoot him dead. How in the devil's name had the man escaped the outhouse explosion? Probably he had a cave or a tunnel prepared for just such an emergency—which meant that Byrne had known they were coming. Damn—but far too late now.
A hope flared. Byrne was a medical doctor. He could stop the bleeding; he could rush him to a hospital. All doctors swore a Hippocratic oath to do no harm. He had a chance after all.
Alpha stayed well away. Common sense told him the man's wounds left him incapable of much, and his medical training further convinced him, but he took no chances. He studied the sniper closely. This, he accepted was one tough hombre. That he stayed conscious was surprising. That he studied his enemy as closely as he was being examined added warning to Alpha's awareness of danger.
Alpha asked, "Do you speak English?"
"Of course, I speak English. I was born in Arkansas for Christ's sake." The man's voice held pain, but Alpha detected no fear.
Alpha nodded coldly. "Well, you will die in Idaho—maybe swiftly or perhaps very slowly. It's going to be up to you.
"Do you have a name you would like me to pass on?"
The man groaned and almost snarled, "Pick one. I've got too many anyway."
Byrne said, "How about John Doe?"
The wounded man said, "I'm not worried; you're a doctor, Byrne. You have sworn to do no harm."
Alpha did not smile. "That means to patients and in my doctoring capacity, neither of which applies to you."
Pain was increasing rapidly. "So, we will deal. Ask me what you want to know, Byrne, and get me to a hospital."
"Who sent you?"
"The deal, Byrne. Agree to the deal."
His voice like ice, Alpha said, "No deal, you piece of shit. I know who sent you. It would just be nice to have you name them."
Desperate now, the man said, "I can tell you more, Byrne. We can deal."
"So tell me something, and I'll decide if it's worth anything."
"I can tell you where to find the next man up the line. He's the one who will send another team after you."
Alpha appeared to think. "That would be worth something, but not the deal you want. Give me names I can believe, and I'll make your dying quick."
The wounded sniper flared. "Then go to hell. I'll tell you nothing."
Alpha nodded. "Thank you. Years ago, I had some adventures with people like you. It will be interesting to rediscover those times."
Now in agony so blinding that he could barely think, the sniper heard Byrne fumbling in the truck bed. He could also hear Byrne humming to himself—as if accomplishing a pleasant task.
When he reappeared, Byrne roughly frisked the agonized man causing more pain to blossom.
Unapologetically, Byrne said, "Just making sure."
When finished, Alpha looked down and said, "A last time. Do you have anything to tell me?"
There was no answer, but the wounded man wondered that he stayed conscious and even more curiously, why he did not tell Byrne what little he knew and get it over with.
Alpha held up the end of a strap tie-down meant to secure cargo. "I'm going to loop this around your best foot. The other end is fastened to your trailer hitch. Then, I'll drive slowly away. Every once in a while I'll stop and see how you are making out. Once you're gone, I will speed up and let you dismember for a few miles along the way." Byrne paused as if recalling. "One bad guy down in Columbia lasted for mile
s and was still howling after a sharp rock disemboweled him."
Byrne shook his head. "He stayed alive and awake with his guts dragging a hundred feet behind. An amazing thing to see." Byrne appeared to examine the long unused logging trail. "I expect this is going to be a little rough on you, so enjoy what you can before we get going."
The sniper hung on until agony added as Byrne pushed him aside and climbed into the driver's seat. Byrne fastened his seat belt, and the sniper said, "All right, all right. What do you want to know?"
"Who sent you?"
"Man is called Jocko. He works out of Chicago. Hires mercenaries for all kinds of jobs."
"This isn't mercenary work. This is murder." Byrne sounded annoyed.
"So tell him. I'm just a hired hand." The sniper sounded exhausted.
"Where do I find him?"
The address meant nothing to Alpha, but he went over details with the hired killer until he thought he could believe them.
Byrne asked, "Your team did the California job?"
"Yeah, the guy looked easy, but I lost a man before we finished him. Tough son of a bitch. Hit my guy in the throat, and he died strugglin' to breathe."
"What were you being paid?" Alpha wondered how much they were worth.
"A hundred grand."
"Good payday for three easy marks."
"Three? We only had you two."
Byrne was not surprised. Shipping a team all over the United States would have been foolish. Better to have a second team that could strike simultaneously. Alpha hoped Charlie had gotten into gear and gotten out before bad guys arrived.
Satisfied he said, "You won't be dragged. Got any other preferences?"
Somehow amused, the mercenary said, "Got any suggestions?"
"Yes, I could just loosen that tourniquet. It won't take long and will be hardly noticeable."
The dying man nodded acceptance. Then rousing, he asked, "Who are you, Byrne? No ordinary country doctor could have managed all of this."
Alpha loosened the belt pinching off bleeding and saw spurting restart. He almost felt sympathy for the nearly dead man. He shook his head and said, "A long time ago, I worked for the government in a messy situation. I went to some hard schools and saw some other bad things. You people should have just left me alone."
Alpha got in a final question. "What happened to your men when the bomb went off?" The dying man managed a weakened snort. "They stood together like a flock of ducks. They all got blown up." He shivered, suddenly chilled to the very marrow. Alpha watched his skin fade to a ghastly gray.
In a last effort to understand, his voice barely audible, the mercenary asked, "What did you use?" A professional to the last, Alpha thought. "Ordinary dynamite, a pull-type detonator, and some prima cord. I couldn't get anything else."
The man sighed, "Yeah." His last word.
His body chattered as if freezing, and his head sagged.
Alpha waited until he was dead.
Chapter 2
Mexico, 1985
Nine men sat with their backs to the hidden Americans. Three were middle-aged, bulky overweight Spanish speakers with loud voices and arrogant gestures. They occupied center positions with younger, less important, acolytes gathering to either side.
They were related, three fathers who were brothers, with six sons among them. All wore expensive white silk shirts with open collars and more than one gold necklace. The fathers had once been muscular, and exposed below their short sleeves were the thick arms of men who had known heavy work but were now beyond menial and demeaning tasks.
The sons were less developed. Their demeanors were American with less dramatic gesturing, and when they spoke in English their voices were softer and accent-free. Although this was their first close sighting, the hidden Americans knew the men, particularly the older three.
There were other men with shoulder-holstered pistols. Each seated person of importance had a personal body guard positioned three steps to the rear and directly behind his employer, protecting his back against intruders—like the three watchers.
A large, tent-like awning sheltered the gathering from the brutal Mexican sun that blasted a nearby dirt runway and the handsome airplanes parked along it—three expensive multi-engine aircraft known to be from three different North American cities.
Like the watchers, the important Spanish speakers were also American citizens, but their native language and birthplaces were Central American. Important business interests still lay beyond North American borders, and on occasion, the businessmen met secretly and safely far from authorities that hungered to convict and jail them for heinous crimes, crimes that were known to many but always unprovable—by anyone.
To a side, well beyond hearing, food and drink were being prepared, and a number of trucks and cars that had delivered local cooks and waiters were casually parked. An older Mercedes touring car was positioned closer. The powerful diesel engine grumbled softly, servicing its air-conditioned interior. A guard, that the watchers noted wore an armored vest and occasionally displayed a short-barreled shotgun, waited within the luxurious vehicle while observing the proceedings through the driver's side, open window.
The seated men of importance and dignity were sharing wine and strong talk. They had flown in an hour before and were discussing business matters before enjoying the sociability of the planned dining.
Seventy-five yards from the assembly, the American team lay one-man forward and two close behind. The two provided security and were armed with Russian AK47s. The forward-man struggled with a long distance microphone and a huge-lensed 35 mm camera. Within the thick jungle growth concealing their presence, he appeared to be having only limited success.
Jungle shade nourished mosquitoes. The insects droned in visible swarms among the watchers, fighting their proboscises through heavily greased skin to sting with exasperating regularity. DEET could have held off the insect horde, but even military repellent had scent and could not be risked.
Ants, real biting ants, too, lived within the jungle growth, and they sought warm and moist flesh. The trained and experienced military men stoically endured their within-clothing intrusions and sharply stinging bites.
Charlie, the photographer and sound man, was a less experienced field soldier. Charlie's service had been primarily behind desks and his agency's newly acquired computers, but he had lobbied for and won this ticket-punching mission. So far, he had done well. His intelligence had been accurate, and their presence remained undetected.
It was clear to his companions, however, that the tension and sweat-soaking physical misery was finishing Charlie. He thrashed and scratched. He sweat buckets, and sometimes his entire body shivered in tension. Charlie was nearly wiped out. He would soon call it quits, and they could safely slide away.
Beyond insisting on quiet and concealed movement, the two lying side by side paid their companion little attention. The bad guys meeting almost in their laps held their interest.
There they were, three families of them, some of the most untouchable of drug lords—men of one name—who were rarely seen together and who were never found near their product. Men so stunningly rich from drug trafficking that they would be difficult to convict even if they were discovered wallowing in cocaine and surrounded by dead bodies.
Money could speak loudly in any country, and these Santos men controlled riches beyond counting. Their wealth granted influence and protection in both highest and the lowliest of societies.
Because they remained extremely careful, the Santos feared few, and even with the agency's long reach it had taken months to locate and prepare for this most select of secret meetings.
Today, judgments and decisions requiring face to face discussion would be concluded, and planning needing the ears and minds of the older men and their American educated sons were being formed and developed.
There was nothing illegal in meeting here in southern Mexico. These powerful men of business had no arrest warrants pending in Mexico or in the U
nited States. Here, they sought uninterrupted privacy and perhaps a bit of relaxed family camaraderie that was difficult to arrange where law enforcement and more dangerous enemies always lurked.
For convenience, the watchers had labeled the Santos family leaders as Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie, and they had accepted as their own the nicknames they had bestowed on the drug lords.
Don Byrne—Alpha, and Tommy Shepard— Bravo, were military. Dewey Lavender, called Charlie, was CIA, DEA—or something. Charlie, the technical expert, kept his affiliation and his situation cloudy. Their mission was to observe, photograph, and listen to the Santos meeting—then to report it.
Charlie had been photographing and listening for some time before Alpha leaned his head close to Bravo's ear and whispered, "There they are, like ducks sitting on a pond."
As if startled, Bravo's head jumped on his neck, and he waited a moment before answering.
Then he nodded slightly before whispering, "We could solve a lot of problems, if we wanted to, Alpha."
Slightly surprised by the ready acceptance, it was Alpha's turn to feel his way. "I might chance it, if I had a good man with me."
Understanding exactly what his companion was working around, Bravo was quicker.
"What about Charlie?"
Alpha understood. Dangerous, illegal, and unscheduled acts were being hinted at. Charlie was some sort of spook, but he was hugely unlikely to risk anything not called for by the book or ordered by a superior. Anything unplanned, or of questionable legality, would receive a thumbs down from Charlie—and Charlie was in charge of everything except security. Charlie led. The military pair only protected.
Pardners Page 3