Operation Zulu: Dos

by Gamboa, Allen

  “What is wrong El Jefe?” Salazar asked as he opened a fresh cerveza. Camacho crossed his arms and turned to his second-in-command. Salazar could tell that something was eating away at his boss; he only hoped it didn’t have anything to do with Blanca.

  “Black. He’s making a move on Mama.”

  “Looks like she’s just having fun.” Salazar waved his bottle in their direction. “You know your mama.”

  “What do you mean, Salazar?” Camacho frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “El Jefe,” he sputtered. “I mean no insult. Your mama she… she just likes to dance, that’s all. She is having a good time, no?”

  “Hmm.” Camacho knew deep inside that his mother had a long line of lovers; she made no secret of it. The Butcher just didn’t like being slapped in the face with her many affairs. “Yes, I think Black is gay anyway.”

  “Si.” Salazar nodded. “Very. Did you see his new watch?”

  “Yes.” He almost spat.

  “He had the million dollar watch. Titanium, I think.”

  “Ah, Black is just fucking with me,” he said, returning his gaze to the dancing couple. “Tonight will be Señor Black’s last night.”

  “El Jefe?”

  “No.” He smirked thoughtfully. “We can run this operation now without him. After the party, I think I-an will be a nice snack for Maverick and Iceman.”

  “Are you sure, El Jefe?”

  “Si. I really hate that man. Look,”—he patted Salazar on the arm—“go fetch me a Zima. I’m going over there to sit with your little sister and enjoy the rest of the celebration. I want to get a picture with that Andrew Dice Clay impersonator I hired.”

  “Seems like you could have got the real one, El Jefe?”

  “He was afraid to come.” Camacho chuckled and again patted Domingo on the arm. “Soon we will also be brothers-in-law.”

  “Have you told your Mama yet?”

  “No.” Camacho said quietly. “Zima. I need that Zima, Salazar.”

  “Si.” Salazar turned to head into the kitchen to grab El Jefe’s beloved Zima. The cartel second-in-command knew tonight was not going to end well; he just had a bad gut feeling.

  I LIKE A LITTLE FIGHT

  CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  “And where are you two going?” Domingo slurred as he watch Tanya and Baylie exit the guest cottage. Both instantly stopped in their tracks as they heard the drunken cartel man’s voice. Tanya slowly turned to face him. The .38 was tucked into the waistband of her jeans, slightly hidden by the large football jersey. “Nice view.”

  “What do you want?” Tanya said, slowly sliding her hand behind her back.

  "Hey don’t get so mean.” Domingo took a swig from his whiskey bottle then offered it to the women. Tanya and Baylie both shook their heads no and cautiously took a step back away from the drunken and brooding man. The cartel officer wiped the excess whiskey from his wet mustache with a dirty hand. “I jus’ wanna have sum fun.”

  “Looks like you already had enough fun for the night,” Tanya said, noticing his right eye was swollen and his face was covered in bruises.

  “Sounds like there’s a party going on out there.” Baylie smiled tightly. “Maybe you can go find some fun over there, amigo.”

  “Nah, ain’t no fine señoritas like you at the party.” He grabbed Baylie by the shirt and jerked her in close against him. Domingo used his free hand to grab Baylie roughly on the ass. She recoiled angrily at his nasty touch and the strong smell of alcohol and unwashed body that assaulted her senses. “Let’s jus’ have a lil’ party ourselves.”

  “Let go!” Baylie, without thinking, slapped him hard in the face.

  “Nice.” Domingo held her tighter; his hot, foul breath in her face. “I like a little fight! Most women like to fight. Gets me hard.”

  “Then you’ll love this,” Tanya said, pulling the handgun out her waistband and slamming Domingo across the back of the head with it. She smashed the gun down on his head two more times as the cartel man groaned and collapsed heavily to the ground.

  “Thanks,” Baylie said, wiping Domingo’s sweaty residue from her shirt sleeves. “Is that creep dead?”

  “No.” Tanya looked down at the man, who was moaning in pain on the floor. “He’s pretty fucked up though.”

  “Good.” Baylie kicked him hard in the crotch. “Motherfucker!” She kicked him again and again. “Asshole!”

  “Come on, Baylie.” Tanya grabbed the younger girl by the arm. “I think you may have just neutered the bastard with your foot. We need to find Tommy and get the hell out of here. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, out of breath. “I’m good. Let’s find Leeland.”

  “Great.” Tanya glanced around the darkened housing area. She could hear the music and noise of the crowd in the courtyard just several yards away. “Where is the Doctor’s office?” she asked Domingo in Spanish.

  “Fuck you, puta!” he spat, venom in his voice.

  “Who's the puta now?” She jammed the barrel of the .38 into his cheek. “One more time. Where is Leeland?”

  “Puta…”

  Tanya smashed the gun across the cartel man’s face. Domingo let out a weak cry then, whimpering, curled up in the fetal position. “Where is my friend?”

  “Okay… okay!” Domingo raised a hand in front of his face to block any more attacks from the American chica. “Behind us there’s a long white building. He’s in there!”

  ‘Thank you. Was that so hard?”

  “Puta!” Domingo shouted defiantly as he struggled to get to his feet. Tanya, moving faster than Domingo thought possible, brought the gun down hard on the side of his head. The cartel lieutenant crashed to the ground, let out a breath, and then stopped moving.

  “Dead?”

  “No, his chest is moving.” She looked over at Baylie. “You ready?”

  “Hell yes. I didn't know you spoke Spanish.”

  “Baylie, I’m Hispanic,” Tanya said, tucking the .38 back in her waistband.

  “I didn’t know that. I thought you were just… dark.”

  “My real name is Lujan, Davidson’s a stage name. Well, it used to be anyway,” Tanya said, shaking her head. “You have your car keys?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good, we find Leeland then we drive the hell out of here. “

  “Asshole,” Baylie said, kicking him again.

  NOT IMPRESSED…

  AREA SURROUNDING CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  “Captain,” Kurtz said quietly into his mic. “We're about two miles from the main gate.”

  “Okay, hold up, Alpha,” Galvan told the sergeant as they moved silently through the thick scrub brush toward the Camacho compound. “Let me check in with Bravo.”

  “Roger.” Kurtz made a hand signal for the men close enough to see him in the dark. “Hold up, Alpha team,” he said into the mic for the other members who were out of visual range.

  Galvan and Kurtz knelt down in the shrub. Ramirez, Ducat, and Cushing were nearby; Cassiday was further up on point followed by Smith, while Meyers and Chaffey covered the rear of the team.

  “Never been to Mexico,” Kurtz said quietly to the captain. “So far, not impressed.”

  “Sergeant,” Galvan whispered as he pulled out his tactical smartphone. “I grew up on the Isla Mujeres until I was fifteen. My pop ran a dive shop there. Beautiful island.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “Dad died and my mother immigrated to California.” He pressed a button on the phone. “You ought to vacation there sometime.”

  “California? I’m afraid I’d end up growing out my hair and start hugging trees.”

  “No, the Isla Mujeres.”

  “Hmm.” Kurtz frowned.

  “Alpha team, we are still en route to target,” Galvan said into the phone.

  “Roger,” Kubicek said on the other end. “LZ secure.”

  “Roger.” Galvan glanced at his watch. “Contact in fifteen. Alpha out.”

&
nbsp; “You ever go back home?” Kurtz asked the captain.

  “No.” He pressed another button on his phone. “Alpha, Bravo.”

  “Bravo,” Morgan said on the other end. “We are still en route. Negative contact.”

  “Roger. Will contact in fifteen.”

  “Roger, Alpha.”

  “Let’s get moving, Top,” Galvan said to Kurtz as he tucked his phone into his vest. “Always wanted to take my wife and kids there. Just haven’t had the time.”

  “What does Isla Mujeres mean anyway?” Kurtz asked as he slowly rose up into a crouching position.

  “Island of women.”

  “Sounds very interesting. Is it?”

  “You bet.” Galvan smiled. “Least from what my fifteen year old brain remembers. Alpha team, up.” As Kurtz and the rest of Alpha team started to move, Kurtz' neck exploded in a dark spray, his headless body dropping heavily to the ground. Before Captain Galvan could react, a .50 round from a far-off Barrett sniper rifle turned his head into a dark mist of blood, brain matter, and bone.

  HERE YOU GO HERO…

  ON THE APPROACH TO CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  Lieutenant John Kubicek lay hidden in the safety of a weed covered berm. The officer was flat on his stomach watching the surrounding area through a night vision monocular. The Sea Stallion helicopter had dropped both Alpha team and Kubicek off and then had flown off to a safer landing zone twenty miles away. Kubicek’s job was to keep the Alpha and Bravo team's pick-up point secure. Sweating and shaking a little from nerves, the lieutenant tried to make himself one with the warm dirt floor of the LZ. He was armed with a mini-14, a Beretta handgun, four grenades, and several magazines for both weapons. Breathing a little bit too fast, Kubicek carefully removed the combat cell phone from his vest pocket and laid it out on the ground next to him.

  Kubicek really felt like the bitch the whole unit thought he was. The West Pointer was kept out of the action and enlisted to babysit a patch of scrub-covered ground. If he had any shame, the lieutenant would be feeling really bad about himself, but at that moment he was just angry that his post wasn’t aboard the chopper. Of course it was all part of the plan; in his mind, he could see his cushy Senate office from there.

  “Hey,” a voice said from behind. Kubicek almost pulled the trigger on his rifle as he jumped in surprise. Before he could roll to his side, a booted foot planted itself heavily on his rear. He could see several more pairs of booted feet out of the corners of his eyes. “Don’t move.”

  “Who—?”

  “Quiet,” the man said in a low growl. “Alpha team has been removed.” Both Galvan’s sat and combat phones dropped heavily onto the middle of Kubicek's back. “Here you go, hero,” the man said, contempt thick in his voice. “They work. Don’t fuck this up. You know the price.”

  “Y… yes.” Kubicek swallowed. “No problem,” he said, his voice cracking.

  ‘‘The only problem we’ll have is if you fuck this up.” The booted foot pressed down harder on the lieutenant’s backside. Kubicek let out a groan as the pain shot through his crotch. “Comprender?”

  “Yes, yes!” In pain, Kubicek quickly released his grip on his rifle and dug his free hand into the dry ground.

  “Good. Do not look up until you’ve counted to one hundred or you’ll have more than my boot up your ass,” the man commanded, grinding his boot into Kubicek’s rear end some more. “Let’s go.”

  The lieutenant let out a breath as the boot up his ass disappeared into the darkness. Kubicek counted to one hundred then rolled over onto his sore rear. In the distance, he could hear the roar of the twin engines of the Bell JetRanger helicopter as it sped off into the thick, night sky. Thrilled the mercenary team was gone, he scooped up the sticky, blood-splattered phones and crawled away to find a safer place to hide.

  HIT ME HARDER, YOU BITCH

  CHEREPOVETS, RUSSIA

  “Hello?” the Russian man said angrily as he tucked the telephone receiver under his chin and struggled to turn on the light on his night stand. The woman lying next to him said something derogatory in Russian then pulled the covers over her head. The man raised a hand to hit her but only ended up smacking her on her curvaceous rump, causing her to jump a little in the covers.

  “This better be good.” He sat up and swung his bare legs over onto the thick carpeted floor.

  “Arkady… Arkady…,” A familiar voice slurred on the other end.

  “Alexi.” The man groaned, running a hand through his unruly mop of black hair. “Brother, what is it now?” He looked at the beat up dive watch he wore on his thick tattooed forearm. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “I am sorry about the time,” Alexi slurred.

  “Not sorry enough to call me at a decent hour.” He grabbed up the half empty bottle of vodka that sat on his nightstand and filled a dirty wine glass with it. “What is it, little brother?”

  “She’s dead…”

  The Russian Spetsnaz officer frowned as he waited for the once Nobel Prize winning scientist to elaborate. A full minute went by on the phone in silence. Arkady took a drink from the glass of vodka then wiped his lips.

  “Alexi, who is dead?” he asked impatiently. The woman slightly stirred next to him as he hungrily ran a hand across her curvy hip.

  “Esmeralda,” Alexi finally spat out.

  “Esmerelda?” The Russian poured himself another shot of vodka. He was now a little more intrigued with his brilliant but crazy brother's claims. “Who is this Esmerelda? You kill another hooker, Alexi? Why bother me with this? You know what to do with a dead hooker.”

  “I didn’t kill her. She was my wife, Arkady,” Alexi sobbed on the other end.

  “Wife?” Arkady leaned forward. “Really now? I suppose I should congratulate you but it sounds inappropriate now.” He took another drink. “What happened?”

  “Black, that bastard, he thought she was interfering with my work so he stabbed her.”

  “Stabbed?” Arkady winced. “I thought he was some kind of businessman. The only thing I imagine he could stab was a hundred dollar steak.”

  “It is too late, Arkady. Too late. We have created something bad, Arkady. Something real bad,” he said; his voice deep with sadness.

  “Well, don’t do anything rash, Alexi. You can always get a new wife,” he said, slapping the woman lightly on the ass.

  “Hit me harder, you bitch,” she told him as she threw off the covers and crawled over to the edge of the bed.

  “Come home, brother,” Arkady said, waving her off. “Whatever you have done, I’m sure we can fix it. Mexico is not the place for you anyway.”

  “It is too late,” Alexi said quietly.

  “Just come home.”

  “Sorry, Arkady. I really loved her and Black killed her… again,” Alexi mumbled.

  “What nonsense are you talking?” Arkady asked into the handset.

  “We were working on making a better strain of Krokodil.”

  “Krokodil? Alexi, that shit is causing big trouble here. Junkies. Fucking junkies everywhere now. What the fuck were you thinking?”

  “I know. I know. Jus’ lissen’ to me, Arkady,” the scientist pleaded.

  “Alexi, what have you done this time?”

  “The Krokodil… it brings the dead back to life.”

  “What?” Arkady sat his glass down on the nightstand. “What are you talking about, Alexi?”

  “Something I used in creating the Krokodil…” He belched. “It was some experimental crap the Nazi’s were working on. I used it to try and prolong the life of the Krokodil users. Instead, it killed the junkies then reanimated them as flesh eating zombies.”

  “Zombies?” The Spetsnaz commander shook his head as he retrieved his glass of vodka. “The hell you say. You are drunk, my brother. This is an old ghost tale. Call me back when you are sober.”

  “It is true, Arkady… all of it.” Alexi sounded clear headed now but Arkady knew that couldn't be so.

  “Come home,” Ar
kady said, tired of his nonsense. “You can stay in my dacha until you get your shit straight.”

  “It is too late, Arkady. Just shut up and listen!” Alexi shouted, causing Arkady to stop mid-drink. His brother had never ever yelled at him before. “Do not let them bite you! You must take their brains to stop them! I love you, Arkady. Remember, kill their brains…” Alexi said cryptically as the phone suddenly went dead.

  “Dammit!” Arkady slammed the telephone down on the nightstand. In all their years, Alexi had never even raised his voice to him and telling Arkady he loved him? …something bad was happening. His younger brother was always getting into trouble and the military commander was constantly bailing his drunken ass out it. This time there was nothing he could do to help.

  “Come back to bed, my stallion,” the woman said sitting up, her black hair spilling down the front of her bare shoulders. “Your brother will be okay.”

  “Maybe.” He drained the glass and poured himself another. He was deeply troubled by Alexi’s phone call. What if his wild claims were all true. Suddenly the phone rang and Arkady quickly answered it.

  “Alexi?” he said, hoping it was his brother calling to say it was all a drunken hoax.

  “Commander? This is Captain Siminoff.”

  “Oh, yes, Captain?”

  “Commander, please turn your TV on to channel seven.”

  “Captain?” Arkady set the glass down.

  “Please, turn on your TV,” the junior officer insisted.

  Arkady grabbed up the remote and turned on the big screen TV that sat ten feet away from the foot of his bed. He changed the channel to seven and was greeted by an on-scene news report of what appeared to be a riot near the Kremlin.

  “What is this?” Arkady said into the phone as he watched the ticker tape below the panicked news reporter.

  “A major crowd disturbance, Commander.”

  “It is more than that, Captain,” Arkady said, staring intently at the footage of troop carriers and armored vehicles rumbling through the city.