“Yes, sir.”
Briones keyed his radio and relayed his instructions to Major Gutierrez, and then they waited as the sound of heavy trucks rolled down the dirt road from the larger artery around the bend. Three armored trucks approached and stopped a few yards from where Briones and his men were huddled. The lead vehicle passenger door opened, and a captain stepped out onto the dirt. Gunfire chattered from the house, but had diminished in intensity once the men were out of the line of fire.
“We’ll go in together. Let my men open up with the heavy artillery, and then your men can follow up,” the captain said. Briones was torn, but then thought about the six men lying dead inside the compound, and gave his assent.
“Fine. Let’s do this.”
Soldiers poured from out of the backs of the trucks until there were thirty heavily armed men, faces drawn with determination, prepared for the worst. The captain made a hand gesture and the three trucks eased forward through the gates, the soldiers using the first two for cover and the Federales shadowing the last one as the gunfire from the house increased to a barrage. Answering volleys from the soldiers tore through the building’s windows, and bullets ricocheted off the vehicle armor and the driveway pavers as the gunmen in the house intensified their efforts.
Briones motioned to his men and they joined the fray, pummeling the cartel shooters with a deluge of fire. One of the men near Briones grunted and dropped his weapon, and then fell towards him, half his face blown off by a Kalashnikov round. Briones’ jaw quivered and he took the man’s place, letting loose with burst after burst from his M16, enraged at the number of casualties they’d suffered from a supposedly low-intensity home invasion.
One of the soldiers tossed a grenade at the windows and got lucky. The detonation was deafening, and then the shooting from the house stopped. A few more scattered shots emanated from the guest house, and the roar of a big .50-caliber army machine gun silenced them with a three-second sustained volley.
Briones signaled to his men. They fanned out in a loose formation, approaching the house cautiously, crouched, weapons sweeping the area, wary. When they reached the door, the sergeant turned to Briones, anxious for his approval, a thin bead of sweat trickling down his face, grime smeared on it from throwing himself onto the driveway. Briones nodded, and the sergeant gestured to the two assault team members who were carrying an eight-inch diameter iron pipe filled with cement. They slammed it against the door and the flimsy wooden slab tore off its hinges with a crash, and then the nearest officer rolled into the opening, weapon searching for targets.
The interior of the house was a shambles, the grenade’s shrapnel having shredded everything in the main room. Bodies lay everywhere, bloody stumps a testament to the explosive force unleashed by the blast. Briones crept stealthily to the rear hallway and pointed at three of the officers. They edged by him and moved down the narrow corridor to where three doors stood intact – the main bedrooms.
Two of the men framed the first doorway, pressing themselves against the wall, and then the third knelt and pressed down on the bronze lever, pausing for a moment before swinging it open. He rolled out of the doorway and they waited for shots. When none came, the two on either side swung their guns into the room and did a fast search of the guest bedroom. It was empty.
Four more men inched down the hall and repeated the process at the next door, with the same results. The rooms were deserted.
The final door stood closed at the end of the hall, and the men listened intently for any hint of movement behind it. Briones nodded from his position, and they threw it wide.
“Nooo. Please. Don’t hurt me!” a female voice screamed, terrified and very young. The officers moved through the room and the sergeant motioned to the girl to stand up. She did, shivering from fear, wearing only panties and a T-shirt, and followed their directions to stand against the side wall. It was obvious that she wasn’t carrying any concealed weapons, so she wasn’t a threat.
Her eyes darted to the bed. Briones froze, and then pointed to the king-sized mattress. The sergeant motioned to two of the men, who fixed it with their assault rifles, and then he spoke softly.
“We know you’re under the bed. Slide any weapons out and show yourself, or in three seconds we’ll use it for target practice, and you won’t survive. One...two...”
A Glock 19 slid from under the bed, and then a man’s muffled voice followed. “I’m coming out. Don’t shoot.”
“Crawl out face down. Once you’re out from under the bed, put your hands behind your back and lie on your stomach. Now, or you’re dead.”
A man slid slowly from beneath the bed and did as instructed, lying face down while an officer cuffed him.
“Turn him over,” the sergeant instructed, and when the officer complied, a frigid smile crossed his face.
“Well, well. Look who we have here. If it isn’t our friend El Gato. Hiding under his teenage puta’s bed. Very nice,” he said.
The drug lord glared at him hatefully. “You’re brave men when I have cuffs on and you can hide behind your helmets, eh? I bet you’re praying I don’t learn your names,” he growled.
“Coming from a man who was whimpering under the bed, the irony isn’t lost on me,” the sergeant responded, then gestured to his men to pick El Gato up. “Make sure this shitbird doesn’t hit his head on anything on the way to the lockup van. I want to make sure he’s in perfect health to answer for killing the officers outside. Now get him out of here.”
Two muscular policemen in full assault gear lifted El Gato to his feet and dragged him down the hall. Briones watched them without comment, and then keyed his helmet mike. Cruz’s voice came over the channel.
“We got El Gato. Everyone but his girlfriend is dead.”
“That’s good news. He’s the most important. What about casualties?”
“We’re checking now. It’s hard to tell until all the smoke clears. I’d say we lost eight, maybe nine men, and have at least four more wounded. They’ll probably make it. But this was ugly. I’m...I’m sorry, sir. They had some sort of early warning system that surveillance didn’t spot. Motion detectors is my guess. They cut us down before we could find cover. I should have been more cautious,” Briones spat.
“It’s always easy after an assault to find fault with your actions in the heat of battle. Don’t beat yourself up. You took the objective, captured El Gato, and eradicated a key player in the Sinaloa cartel’s power structure. I’d say that’s a good day’s work,” Cruz said.
“Not for the dead men, it isn’t.”
“Everyone knows the risks going in. Sometimes we take casualties. Sometimes they do. That’s the job,” Cruz reminded him.
“Their wives and children aren’t going to be reassured by that.”
“I know. Get me a list of the names. I’ll make the calls myself.”
Briones nodded silently as the crime scene technicians stepped around the bodies and began photographing the devastation. He had no doubt that the dead cartel gunmen would be replaced by the weekend, if not sooner. And nothing would change except the names and faces. Drugs would still flow like water, and guns and money would work their way into the cartels’ hands, to be used against men like himself, who were trying to make the country safer. A thankless job that seemed pointless on nights like this one.
About the Author
Russell Blake lives full time on the Pacific coast of Mexico. He is the acclaimed author of the thrillers: Fatal Exchange, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, The Delphi Chronicle trilogy (The Manuscript, The Tortoise and the Hare, and Phoenix Rising), King of Swords, Night of the Assassin, The Voynich Cypher, Revenge of the Assassin, Return of the Assassin, Blood of the Assassin, Silver Justice, JET, JET II – Betrayal, JET III – Vengeance, JET IV – Reckoning and JET V – Legacy.
Non-fiction novels include the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography) and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks (while drunk, high or incarcerated) – a joyfully vicious parody of al
l things writing and self-publishing related.
“Capt.” Russell enjoys writing, fishing, playing with his dogs, collecting and sampling tequila, and waging an ongoing battle against world domination by clowns.
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Table of Contents
Blood of the Assassin
Author’s Notes
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Excerpt from Blood of the Assassin
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
About the Author
JET V - Legacy Page 28