by John Lansing
Roman had assigned another fifteen heavily armed gangsters and Lil’ Angels for on-site security.
Mando checked his watch, got the go-ahead from Delgado, and addressed the men. “Ten minutes max and you’re on the road. No speeding. No tricks. Don’t bring down no heat. I want calls from every one of you when you land, and then that number turns to dust.”
Murmurs from the gangsters and proud fist pumps. This was a big payday, the beginning of a new era for the 18th Street Angels.
The first panel came off and a cadre of Angels started pulling down kilos of cocaine wrapped in dirty tan cellophane. The first 120 keys went to Hector, who stashed them in his trunk, threw a tarp over the bricks, and carefully lowered the lid.
“Yo, Hector, man, where’s Johnny?” David Reyes asked, filled with nervous energy as he sidled up behind Hector.
Hector did a slow turn and just stared. No words. Dead eyes. Reyes quickly moved away, picked at a scab on his face, and waited for his allocation.
Hector got behind the wheel of his Impala, turned over the engine, and waited for the go signal.
The drugs were methodically handed off in a bucket brigade and secured in car trunks. The drivers started their engines, ready to exit as planned.
Arturo Delgado watched as the 18th Street Angels worked with military precision and felt optimistic about the future.
—
Three minutes to go.
Jack pulled up his binoculars and scanned the rooftops surrounding Royce Motors. It was all quiet. And all clear.
Two minutes to deployment.
Jack could feel the ground vibrate before he could see what caused the disturbance.
Two eighteen-wheel tractor-trailer trucks rumbled down the street in his direction. In a surprise move, when they were twenty-five yards from Royce Motors, the rear truck pulled alongside the lead truck, and they drove side by side, filling both lanes of traffic.
The big rigs pulled to a squealing stop, totally blocking the road in both directions plus the entrance to Royce Motors.
The truck driver blocking oncoming traffic powered down his passenger window and waved a manifest, as if asking the other driver for directions.
“What the hell’s going on?” Gene McLennan’s voice crackled, breaking the radio silence.
Jack watched with growing alarm as McLennan jumped out of the surveillance van and marched toward the big rigs, red faced. When he had covered half the distance, he waved his arms and signaled for the drivers to move on.
The back hatches of the eighteen-wheelers dropped down, creating ramps.
A commando dressed in full military cammo gear stepped out from behind one of the trucks and open fired with a MAC-10 machine gun.
The back of Gene McLennan’s head vaporized. His body pulsed as the force of the bullets slammed through him. Red sprayed from his back in a downward pattern, and he fell to the ground, dead before anybody could react.
Los Zetas, Jack thought. The drug cartel was retaliating against the Angels on American soil. The operation was turning into a full-blown cluster fuck.
Two armor-plated narco tanks powered out of the bowels of the trucks and smashed through the wall of Royce Motors with their folding battering rams.
The black steel-plated beasts with gun turrets looked like something out of a Mad Max movie.
—
“What the fuck was that?” Mando shouted. To the men whose cocaine was already loaded, he cried, “Go! Go! Go!” He swung around the AK that was strapped to his neck and prepared for the assault.
The second bus panel fell to the service-bay floor.
“It’s a fuckin’ tank, man,” shouted the Lil’ Angels spotter who had run into the service bay white faced. He slapped his AK-47 nervously, fighting to maintain.
The first of the Angels cars sped out of the service bay and was promptly rammed by the lead monster, which pushed it up against the wall of the building, crushing the driver-side door and instantly killing the driver.
“Fuck!” Mando said as he let loose with a deafening chatter of firepower. He was forced to find cover when four guns snaked out of the side portholes of the tank and returned fire. High-velocity bullets ricocheted off the concrete floor and cut down the fifteen-year-old Lil’ Angels spotter.
Arturo Delgado picked up the fallen gangster’s automatic weapon and squeezed off a few tight bursts. The last time Delgado was this close to an AK, he was staring at the wrong end of the barrel. He was happy to return the favor but didn’t plan on staying long enough to see how this shitstorm played out. There would be time for retribution later.
—
“Go! Go! Go!” Kenny Ortega shouted over the radio deploying the team. “Man down! Use extreme caution, there are two Zetas narco tanks heading into Royce Motors. I repeat, there are two monsters headed into the front of Royce.”
The second tank stopped as Ortega speed-dialed for reinforcements. The top-mounted gun turret rotated in his direction, and Kenny could see, on the video screen, something glint in the afternoon sun.
“The fucking thing’s going to fire on us! Out! Out! Out!”
Ortega pushed the three-man crew out of the step van and followed in their wake.
An RPG was launched.
A flash of light and the explosives whistled across the distance, leaving a contrail of death, and slammed into the side of their command center. It exploded on impact, sending debris flying, blacking out all communications. Ortega and his men dove for cover.
Jack Bertolino’s jaw tightened. He threw his car into gear. His foot hit the gas pedal, unleashing 426 horses. His tires spun, smoked, engaged, and roared away toward the back lot of Royce Motors. Nick Aprea would need his support, and it was the only way out for Hector and the Angels.
The lead narco tank’s turret turned in the direction of the bus.
Mando and the 18th Street Angels unleashed a barrage of automatic-weapons fire. Their bullets pinged off the inch-thick steel plates that protected the men inside.
The Zetas commando stepped from behind the monster and unleashed his own firepower.
Armando “Mando” Barajas’s body pulsated in place and then dropped down hard with full-metal-jacket bullets shredding his throat. His Angels gangsters backpedaled.
The men with the welding torches had just completed their job, but stood frozen in place as one of the men’s welding helmets was hit by incoming from the interior of the monster, knocking him to the ground and out.
Bullets rained into the cocaine that was left unpacked in the undercarriage of the bus, creating a massive crystal white cloud of dust. Bullets tore into the second welder’s shoulder. He spun with the impact, staggered backward, and raised his torch.
The high-intensity flame ignited the cloud of cocaine powder into a flash bomb that enveloped his body. He went running out of the service bay, a human torch. The commando killed him with one short burst of his weapon.
A rocket-propelled grenade was launched from the turret.
It impacted the bus’s gas tank and exploded. Instantly the large metal vehicle flung out a wide spray of shrapnel. The ensuing secondary explosion blew out the front of Royce Motors and knocked Roman to the ground.
Delgado reached down a hand, and raised his comrade to his feet. The two warriors backed deeper into the cavernous recesses of Royce Motors, and rapidly made their way past the long line of million-dollar buses. Blood dripped from Roman’s ear.
The Zetas commando silently stalked his targets, waiting for a clear shot.
Roman stopped, listened. All he could hear was ringing in his ears. But he detected movement. He leveled his AK and gave a whistle and a hand gesture.
The commando raised up, getting a bead on Delgado. His finger depressed the trigger.
One of Roman’s dogs leaped. One hundred and eighty pounds of English mastiff clamped its jaws on
the Zetas warrior’s neck. The man’s MAC-10 fired multiple wild rounds that shattered mirrored bus windows and punctured painted metal, until the weight of the dog pulled them both to the ground. The second dog appeared on the instant, teeth bared, drool flying. His razor-sharp teeth tore into the man’s thigh. The commando’s screams were overwhelmed by deep guttural growls as the two dogs, in full blood frenzy, ripped the man to shreds.
An Angels driver saw the dogs and panicked. Swerving to avoid them, he lost control and crashed his car into the front of one of the showroom buses. His body was thrown headfirst through the windshield, where he lay slumped on the hood.
—
Jack skidded to a stop just outside the rear gate, which was flapping open and closed. He could hear automatic weapons’ fire and peered carefully inside the lot, staying low to the ground.
Nick Aprea was hunkered down behind his assault vehicle, being fired upon by men positioned next to the double-wide, and another crew of 18th Street Angels who used junked cars and buses for cover.
“Lay down some suppressing fire, I’m coming in,” Jack shouted.
Nick got up and raked automatic bullets in an explosive arc.
Jack scrabbled low and slid to safety next to Nick.
“Somebody tipped the Zetas,” he said. “They’ve got two narco tanks pushing through the front. We’ve gotta hold down the fort.”
The first of the Angels cars drove out of the back entrance, down the ramp, and powered toward the gate.
Then a second car.
Jack fired into the first one. The windshield spidered and caved in on the driver. It was David Reyes. The thug managed to juke his car around Nick’s vehicle, smash the gate off its hinges, and skid sideways onto the road, where Ontario PD blew out his tires.
Nick stood up, took dead aim, and fired an assault rifle as the second car passed. The driver was dead before he hit the street. His car drove straight into one of the unmarked police cars and ramped up the hood.
The trunk of the Angels car snapped open.
One hundred twenty kilos of cocaine were flung out in a cascade. They smashed as they hit the concrete road. Billowing clouds of crystal white powder scattered in the wind. The car flipped, rolled, and came to rest, spinning on its roof.
The ten armed men who were part of Nick’s assault team fanned out and slowly exerted pressure on the gangsters.
One of the Angels showered the team with AK cop-killer bullets.
“Ahhhhhh! My leg. I’m hit. I’m hit . . . !” came the primal scream of a wounded detective.
Nick ran out without any hesitation. Automatic-weapons fire sizzled by his ears and sent up plumes of dirt at his feet. Nick grabbed the wounded man by the collar and dragged him to the safety of his vehicle. He tightened his belt around the cop’s leg and returned to the battle.
The Angels shooter let out another short burst and ran up the metal ramp. He turned and aimed his AK at a pursuing agent.
Hector’s speeding car exited the building and hit his own man squarely in the back, breaking his body. The impact sent the gangster flying, his arms flailing, his rifle spinning, off the platform to the ground below.
Hector’s blue Impala missed the ramp and went airborne, out and over the broken dirt surface.
Jack saw his chance and ran from cover. He held pistols in both hands and fired into the engine block. The car landed hard, the chrome bumper ate dirt. The tires bounced, fought for purchase, and Jack emptied his clip into Hector’s car, being careful not to hit his prey. He wanted Hector Lopez alive.
Jack holstered the Colt and slammed a full clip into the automatic.
Hector floored the vehicle, but the steering column locked. He lost control, and smashed into the front of the double-wide trailer, splitting it open like an aluminum can.
The Impala’s engine dripped fuel and caught fire. Hector shouldered the twisted car door open and fell to the ground seconds before flames inundated the front seat.
He dropped his gun and scrabbled for it as the blaze spread to the wood-paneled walls of the trailer.
Hector desperately extended his fingers, reaching for the Glock nine millimeter, but Jack’s boot savagely kicked it away. “You!” Hector roared. He grabbed Jack’s leg and dragged him down. He raised a bloody fist to smash his face. Jack saw the blood, saw red, and exploded a left into Hector’s neck. The big man grabbed for his throat, gulping for air. Jack flashed on Mia and hammered a right into Hector’s face, knocking him back.
—
Kenny Ortega and the eight government cars were now fully deployed in front of Royce Motors. One of the DEA agents, in a heroic move, ran up to the second tank, pulled the pin on a flash grenade, and dropped it down the turret. It clattered, men shouted, and it blew. Smoke poured out of the turret and all of the gun portals. Seconds ticked down. Kenny and the men had weapons trained on the monster. The side door was flung open, and four Zetas gunmen stumbled out of the armored vehicle, where they were met with overwhelming force. “Drop your weapons! Now! Drop your weapons now!” They assumed the position and were led away in handcuffs.
The men in the lead narco tank were firing from the gun portals on both sides of the armored vehicle. The four Angels cars that were supposed to exit the front of Royce Motors had been disabled, the drivers dead or on the run.
Kenny Ortega and his team responded to the attack by shooting out the tires of the monster, crippling the behemoth but not shutting it down. Reinforcements were on their way, but Kenny had to stop the killers inside the tank before there was any more loss of life. He slammed a four-shot magazine extension into his TAC 4 and started cautiously forward.
—
Arturo Delgado and Roman shook hands and split up. Delgado headed toward the back entrance, where he thought he had the best chance of escape. He slapped another clip into his assault rifle and hugged the shadows.
Roman climbed into one of the million-dollar buses and fired up the engine. He shifted the vehicle into gear and slowly pulled out of the row and into the center aisle. He opened the door and whistled. Roman was joined by his dogs.
The bus gained speed as it drove through the spotlit pools, past the crashed Angels car and the downed Zetas commando. Roman was doing twenty by the time he got to the end of the long line of buses.
Roman pulled hard on the wheel, and the bus jerked to the left, barely making the opening that led past the service bay to freedom. He clipped the back of the lead narco tank, stunning the occupants, and shearing off the bus’s mirror. He was doing thirty now. The Zetas gunmen shattered the bus’s rear windows as it powered past, gaining more speed.
Roman was doing a Hail Mary play with his life on the line. He’d had a good run, he thought. Time to pay for some sins. He drove straight toward the feds, cops, and sheriffs.
—
Kenny Ortega thought the mission couldn’t get any worse until he saw the bus clip the back of the tank and power toward his men. He stepped front and center and fired his Remington TAC 4 shotgun, once, and again and again into the bus’s windshield. Red blood sprayed from Roman’s mouth as he choked and stomped with his full weight onto the gas pedal. Ortega dove out of harm’s way as the bus hit the retaining wall that surrounded Royce Motors, ramped sideways onto its left eight tires, and continued to barrel-roll over onto its side. The bus’s forward momentum wiped out four government vehicles before coming to a spark-flying, metal-screeching halt beyond the big rigs that were beached in front of Royce’s blown-out front entrance.
The door to the bus wheezed open and the two English mastiffs jumped out, green eyes ablaze. Ortega’s men were about to fire on the beasts, but without Roman to give the kill order, the dogs were docile, in shock, and walked in aimless circles. Blood still dripped from their muzzles as they waited faithfully for their master.
It would be a long fucking wait, Kenny Ortega thought as he slapped a
fresh magazine into his shotgun and ran toward the lead tank with the blown-out tires.
The turret turned toward the cops and Kenny could see that a rocket-propelled grenade was about to be launched. He leveled his TAC 4, fired, and missed. The concrete around Kenny pinged with bullets. He chambered another round and fired.
His second shot found its mark.
Buckshot filled the turret like angry wasps, and the grenade launcher dropped out of sight.
There was a muted explosion. Kenny could hear screams from inside the armored tank. The door opened, smoke poured out, and three Zetas gunmen dismounted with their hands held high. The man who was going to fire from the turret was dead, and the driver fell out of the vehicle, dazed. He assumed the position where he landed.
—
Hector Lopez spit blood, wrapped Jack in a bear hug, and rolled him farther inside the burning double-wide. Grunting fiercely, he grabbed him by the throat and muscled him down with all of his might. Pieces of the insulation and tar roof were raining down like flaming pieces of napalm. The smoke was thick and noxious. But the men were oblivious.
Jack was not going to tempt death again. He let a roundhouse fly that found its mark on the side of Hector’s head. The bear of a man flinched and Jack let loose with a blistering combination of punishing blows to Hector’s head and face and neck that knocked him onto his back. Jack rolled to his knees and threw a punch from his core. He felt Hector’s cheekbone shatter, and he hit him again and again. For Mia, for himself, for Hector’s father, and for all of the people Hector would have killed in the future if he wasn’t taken down at this very moment. Jack unleashed so much fury that his knuckles bled, sweat stung his eyes, and when he pulled himself back from his blinding rage, Hector was out cold.
Jack saw his stolen weapon on the floor of the flaming double-wide. He reached over and pulled his old Glock from underneath a smoldering ember.
He thought about leaving Hector behind. There would be a certain poetic justice. Instead, growling at his own conscience, he grabbed the killer by his hair, and dragged him from the burning office structure, down the steps, to the hard-packed dirt. Hector’s eyes blinked open and he was about to put up more of a fight when Jack yanked back his head, and shoved his Glock into the killer’s mouth.