by Vince Flynn
56
C astillo rode in the first Suburban. A mile short of the house he told the men in his vehicle to get ready. A short while later the gate came into view, and Castillo hit the switch for the emergency lights. The driver crossed over into the oncoming lane, down onto the shoulder, and then jerked the vehicle to the right and skidded to a stop directly across from the tall black gate. The second Suburban pulled up alongside the first, and the third one continued just past the entrance, came to a sudden stop, and then backed up. Two men in blue coveralls and FBI baseball caps jumped out and wrapped a heavy chain around the center of the gate. They hooked the other end to the trailer hitch on the truck and scrambled out of the way. The vehicle lurched forward in four-wheel drive, slowed for a second as the gate resisted, and then there was a loud screeching noise as the metal began to twist. One after another, the anchor bolts that held the gate to the stone columns popped free and the gate came crashing down. The truck dragged the twisted black bars out of the way and the two waiting Suburbans raced up the long driveway.
They were going close to 60 mph by the time the house came into full view—their engines roaring and the red, white, and blue emergency lights flashing their official warning. A man in a suit was waiting for them at the edge of the circular drive. He had a radio in one hand and his other hand rested on the butt of his still-holstered gun.
Castillo smiled and told his driver, “Run him over.”
The heavy Suburban took the turn, its wheels squealing and emergency lights flashing. The man in the suit was still under the illusion that he was about to have a confrontation with a fellow federal employee. He’d been told by Kennedy that Director Ross wanted to put Rapp under protective custody. At the last second the driver jerked the wheel to the right, blew through a three-foot hedge, and hit the guard with the Suburban’s front right fender. The passenger-side rear wheel came to a stop on the man’s chest. Every door on the Suburban flew open except the driver’s. Five men, all dressed in matching coveralls and baseball caps, jumped out. Castillo was barely out the door when a second guard came around the corner of the house. This man had his gun drawn. Castillo raised his Uzi submachine gun with one arm and pulled the trigger.
Castillo wasn’t the only man who had seen the guard. Within two seconds the man was hammered to the ground by no fewer than ten bullets. A third guard was dispatched in roughly the same manner as he came around the other side of the house. One of Castillo’s men dropped to a knee to line up the first RPG shot on the house. Castillo banged his fist on the hood of the Suburban and yelled at the driver to move the vehicle farther away. Two seconds later the truck was clear and the first RPG was fired.
Four men, three of them with machine guns and one of them with an RPG, were headed around to the back of the house. Castillo surveyed the scene. So far everything was going according to plan. The debris from the first RPG was beginning to settle and the third vehicle had just arrived after getting rid of the gate. Castillo looked at the door. As far as he could tell, it was still intact. “Hit it again!” he yelled.
A second round was loaded. Castillo checked the area behind the man to make sure no one was standing in the back blast zone, which was a good way to get killed or severely burned. “Shoot!” he screamed.
The round hit the door squarely and a large section of the portico’s ceiling broke free and crashed to the ground. Castillo ran along the sidewalk and up the three steps. He covered his mouth against the cloud of dust and gave the door a solid kick. He might as well have been kicking the side of a mountain. The door didn’t budge an inch. As more of the dust settled Castillo bent over to examine the damage done by the RPGs. There were two holes in the door not quite big enough for him to fit his fist through. The wood was splintered away but beneath it, he could see the rough edges of bent steel. “What the fuck?” he exclaimed.
The Salvadoran ran his hand along the door and gave the handle a twist. This was when he noticed that the door opened out, not in. Aware that he didn’t have all the time in the world, Castillo ran back to the driveway and grabbed the RPG from his man. “Give me that damn thing!” He loaded another round, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. There was yet another explosion, and more of the porch ceiling came crashing down. Castillo’s men were now firing at the windows and fanning out around the house. When enough of the dust had settled, Castillo was happy to see that there was a hole where the door handle used to be. He barked at one of the drivers, “Grab a crowbar and go open that thing.”
Castillo realized his ears were ringing and he worked his jaw from one side to the other to see if it would help eliminate the harsh noise. It was then that he noticed the pock marks the bullets were making on the windows. “Why am I fucking around with this door?” he asked himself. “Here,” he handed the RPG to the man standing next to him, “reload this thing.”
How stupid, Castillo thought. He heard an explosion from the rear of the house and hoped the other men were making better progress.
57
R app raced into his bedroom and didn’t bother with the light switch. There was no sense letting them know where he was. The bag of stuff Coleman had brought him was on the floor next to the bed. Rapp dropped down a little too quickly and pain shot through his left knee. He swore under his breath as he screwed the silencer onto the end of the Glock, slammed in a magazine, and chambered a round. He grabbed the two extra magazines and stuffed one in each back pocket. Training, skill, instinct, and a little bit of luck was what kept people alive in these situations. It was his training that told him to grab the earplugs, the tactical knife, and the flashlight.
Holding the earplugs in his hand, he paused for a split second, his mind registering that something didn’t seem quite right. He’d been through enough of this stuff before to know what certain types of battles sounded like. This one was decidedly not covert, and although Rapp had yet to stop and think of who might be attacking a CIA safe house, he had noted that something seemed out of place. Professionals preferred silenced weapons for three reasons. The first was that they drew less attention and they allowed you to sneak up on people. The second was to differentiate yourself from the opponent. If everyone on the team used a silenced weapon and you heard an unsuppressed weapon fired during an operation, you knew the bad guys were on to you. The third and last reason was practical. Silenced weapons saved your hearing.
With that in mind, Rapp put in his foam earplugs and crawled over to the window. He stayed off to one side and peeked down onto the patio area around the pool. The first thing he noticed, he’d expected. There were four men, three of whom were firing machine guns at the house. They were all dressed in dark coveralls. A fourth man was loading an RPG and doing a very clumsy job of it. Rapp looked beyond the men toward the stables and was relieved to see no one paying any attention to the place. Irene, Tommy, and Steven should be safe by now. Rapp turned his attention back to the four men and noted again that something wasn’t right. Tactical teams didn’t use RPGs. They used shaped charges to blow open doors and windows. The RPG was an infantry weapon, originally designed to be used against tanks. The next oddity that Rapp noticed was that these guys were standing way too close to one another, and they were firing their weapons from the hip. Rapp’s eyes and brain were experiencing what a fine art dealer goes through when he looks at a reproduction of a well-known original for the first time. From a distance everything looks fine, but upon closer inspection all of the details are wrong. He noticed for the first time that the men were wearing FBI baseball caps. Rapp knew his fair share of FBI agents. They had a certain demeanor about them, and none of these guys fit the bill.
Rapp reached out and turned the lock on the window. With his hand as close to the edge as possible he slowly pushed up on the bottom half of the double hung window. The din from outside rushed into the room along with the chill night air. Rapp was on his right knee, his left foot planted firmly on the ground, the sill of the window at his chest. He took a quick peek, noted the posi
tion of each man, and then raised the silenced Glock and held it next to his face, the thick black silencer pointed at the ceiling. They were approximately fifty feet from the house and standing still as they fired at the house. This was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel. Rapp took in a deep breath, extended his left hand through the open window, and revealed only a third of his body as he moved into firing position. As was his habit, he started on the left and moved to the right.
The night sights on the Glock were neon green—two dots on the rear sight and one dot front and center. Rapp had done this so many times he didn’t even have to think about it—it was pure instinct. The front sight fell on the first target, the glowing green dot covering half the man’s head. Rapp squeezed the trigger with a steady, even pull—the dot remained perfectly still and in focus, the target’s head a slight blur. The trigger tripped the hammer and a hollow-tipped bullet spat from the end of the weapon. The front sight instantly fell on the next target, and Rapp repeated the process three more times in rapid succession. In less than two seconds all four men were down on the brick patio, limbs askew, weapons nearby, bullet holes in the center of their heads, and very much dead.
Rapp closed the window, left the room, and crossed the hall into another bedroom. An explosion rocked the house just as he was approaching the window and he heard something crash to the ground on the first floor. He quickly stepped off to the side and peered around the heavy drapes. He counted eight men, all dressed like the four he had just dispatched in the backyard. There were three black Suburbans parked in the driveway with emergency lights flashing.
Rapp again noted the poor tactics and discipline, and asked himself, “Who in the hell are these clowns?”
A second later Rapp noticed Vince Delgado, the head of Kennedy’s security detail, lying on the ground. Rapp assumed he was dead. His jaw momentarily clenched in anger, and then he noticed one of the men barking orders at the others. He was holding an Uzi submachine gun in his right hand and looked really pissed off. The guy pointed his gun toward the west side of the house and yelled something at two of the men. Rapp started to move before they did. He backed away from the window and out of the room. As he moved quickly down the hallway, he caught a whiff of cordite that must have been coming from downstairs. If they got inside the house with all those guns, things might get a bit hairy. Rapp reached the small study at the end of the hall and went straight for the window. He twisted the lock and opened it. He heard voices almost immediately. A second later two men appeared beneath him, moving at a fast walk and talking to each other in Spanish.
Rapp frowned. Absolutely none of this was making sense. He let the men pass beneath him, leaned out the window, and shot each one through the top of the head from about fifteen feet. Rapp took a quick look around. No one else was in sight. He closed the window and wondered just what in the hell a couple of guys speaking Spanish were doing coming after him.
He hustled back to the bedroom at the front of the house and looked down to find only two men in sight. They were standing in front of the closest Suburban. One held a gun against his hip like some bored prison guard and the other an RPG. There had been eight before, minus the two that he had just killed. That meant there were at least four more men that he couldn’t see. Rapp decided to thin the herd a little more and slowly opened the window. He heard a voice come from almost directly beneath him and assumed that the other four men were on the front porch trying to get the door open. The guys by the Suburban were at least eighty feet from the house, and the angle of the shot required him to kneel down. Rapp leveled the silenced pistol and squeezed off two quick rounds. Both men dropped to the ground, one of them propped up against the front tire of the nearest Suburban.
Rapp closed the window and did a quick magazine change, placing the partially used one in his back left pocket. The smell of cordite was growing stronger, and Rapp wondered if a fire had started on the first floor. He left the room and went for the center staircase. The explosions had knocked out the lights in the front entryway and the living room. A faint stream of light spilled down the hall from the kitchen, and Rapp thought he caught the glow of a small fire coming from somewhere in the living room. The smoke was definitely getting worse. A fresh volley of gunfire erupted, and Rapp heard rounds thudding into the bulletproof glass in the living room.
He was about to start for the back staircase when he noticed the holes that had been punched in the front door—undoubtedly from armor-piercing rounds. Rapp had an idea and moved down the main staircase as quickly as his injured legs would carry him. He eased his way up to a hole in the center of the doorway just as they started banging on the window in the living room. He peeked through a soda can–size opening, and sure enough there was a man standing no more than eight feet away with his back to him. Rapp figured they’d given up on the door and were trying their luck with the windows. He placed the silencer in the hole and nestled his head in behind the rear sight. The man’s head looked as big as a beach ball at this distance. Rapp squeezed the trigger and sent a round straight through the guy’s ear. The guy went limp as a noodle and right as he fell another guy came into view. The man watched his friend fall to the ground; the why hadn’t yet registered with him. He was starting to open his mouth to sound the warning when Rapp sent a shot straight through his right eye.
The guy took a tumble off the porch into the bushes and someone started yelling in heavily accented English. Rapp decided two things at that moment. It was time to move to a new spot before these guys pumped another RPG through the front door, and he needed to take one of these morons alive so he could find out who in the hell they were and who had hired them. Staying in a crouch he hightailed it down the center hall to the kitchen. By his count there were at least two guys left on the porch and maybe more. He took a left through the kitchen and crossed the dining room. Straight ahead he saw a small fire in the corner of the living room and decided to scrap his plan. He went back to the patio door in the kitchen. The backyard was still flooded with security lights and he stopped to make sure no one was waiting for him. Rapp undid the lock and stepped onto the back patio, closing the door behind him. He decided to go left since that was the side of the house where he’d killed the two men who’d walked under the window. The other direction was the garage, and he had no idea what the situation was like over there. He stayed low and worked his way between the bushes and the house.
58
C astillo stood near the edge of the porch with a man on each side. He was getting more frustrated by the second. This was supposed to be easy. Slam a couple of RPGs through the front door, rush the house, and let loose with the machine guns. Just like Scarface. That’s what he’d told his posse. There wasn’t a guy in the gang who hadn’t seen the movie at least ten times. “Shoot anything that moves,” he’d told them, “other than each other.” That had been his only real worry—that and getting back to the city without the cops stopping them. The tricked-up Suburbans would take care of that, though. They’d already deceived the stupid guards. The one dumb son of a bitch was so fooled he hadn’t even drawn his weapon. Castillo realized that was about all that had gone right so far. They were supposed to have been inside the house almost five minutes ago. The boys had been pumped. He’d told them they’d all get $10,000 cash for a night’s work, and get to kill a bunch of feds in the process.
One minute into the operation Castillo had been counting his money, and now things weren’t looking so easy. Having given up on the door after four shots, he fired his last RPG round through the window. It created a nice clean hole, but other than that the window was still intact.
Castillo pointed his Uzi at the window and asked, “Are you guys ready?”
The two men raised their Car 15s and nodded. Castillo opened fire and the other two did the same. In less than five seconds they’d drained their magazines. Castillo yelled for them to reload as he inspected the pockmarked and spider-veined glass. When everyone had reloaded, they unleashed another volley at th
e window. Shell casings littered the porch along with chunks of plaster that had fallen from above. The men themselves were sprayed with tiny shards of glass that had chipped under the deluge of bullets. There wasn’t an unblemished spot left on the window, but it was still intact.
“Goddammit,” Castillo screamed. His Uzi was jammed. “Where in the hell are those two idiots?” Castillo had sent two of his men around back to get a couple of RPG rounds. He had five and the team around back had five. He couldn’t be sure with all the noise, but he swore he’d heard only one explosion from the back of the house. “Give me that crowbar!” he yelled to one of his men.
Castillo set his Uzi down on a chair and grabbed the three-foot steel bar with both hands. He took a couple of huge swipes at the window. The glass made a cracking noise. Castillo redoubled his effort and put all of his weight into it. The upper left corner began to peel away and he was finally making some real progress when one of his men started screaming obscenities. Castillo turned around to see what the man was so exercised about and saw one of his guys lying on the ground with a pool of blood growing around his head.
“What the fuck?” Castillo barked.
“I think you guys killed him.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The bullets! They bounced off the window.”
Castillo actually considered this for a second, and then he saw the boots of another one of his guys. The man was lying in the bushes with a hole where one of his eyes used to be. Castillo’s ears were ringing from all the gunfire, and his head was starting to hurt. He moaned out loud and wondered where in the hell his luck had gone. Leaving them here would be stupid. Their bodies were covered with MS-13 tattoos. He looked up toward the vehicles to tell Hernandez to load the bodies into his truck, and that was when he saw two more of his men laying down on the job. The very next thing that popped into his head was a vision of $500,000 vanishing into thin air.