“Cannibal attacks?” Arkady said, reading the ticker tape on the screen.
“Is crazy, no? We need your unit now, Commander. General Medarov has sent a helicopter to your dacha.”
“This is madness,” Arkady said, watching the crowd violence on the screen. He swore if he looked hard enough, he could see people biting and trying to eat each other. Could his brother have been right?
“Sir?” the captain asked.
Arkady realized he was still holding the phone and watching the screen. “I’ll be ready,” he said, hanging up.
“Arkady?” his wife asked, obviously worried about what was unfolding in Moscow.
“It is fine, Elena. We can handle this little thing,” he said, trying to sound convincing. “I have a couple of minutes before I need to get ready.” He pushed her back on the bed. The last words his brother had said to him were still weighing heavily on his mind. “That is more than enough time.”
REMIRO’S BAD DAY
PASSADO, MEXICO
In the darkness of the wrecked Dodge Durango, Remiro awoke with a bloody nose and a throbbing bitch of a headache. The cartel smuggler leaned back in the well-worn seat and drowsily took stock of his current situation.
The outside of the SUV was wedged tightly into the remains of a long vacant store. The walls and sections of the ceiling had collapsed during the crash and now covered the front end of his Dodge.
Wiping his sweaty and bloody face on his soiled wife beater, Remiro anxiously glanced around the unlit interior of his vehicle. Even with the windows open, it was like an oven inside the automobile. The devil creatures that had caused him to wreck were nowhere in sight. Maybe, he thought to himself, they assumed I am dead or they just lost interest.
Whatever the reasons were that he wasn’t surrounded by the demons, Remiro said a prayer and made a quick sign of the cross. The gunrunner was just happy he was still alive.
As quietly as possible, he slowly reached for the radio that lay on the floor of the passenger's side of the car. His body aching from the crash, and he groaned lightly as he stretched for the walkie-talkie. Scooping it up in a sweaty hand, he leaned back in the front seat and let out a sigh of relief. Remiro again checked out his surroundings before he put the radio to his lips.
“This… is… Remiro…” he said in a whisper, his chest hurting from striking the steering wheel. It was no big surprise to Remiro that the airbag hadn't deployed; nothing in his aging Dodge worked. “Domingo… can you hear… me? This is Re… miro.” He breathed out slowly. The pain shooting through his chest felt like he had broken several ribs. “Hello…? Anyone…?”
There was no response. The walkie-talkie had either been broken in the crash or the battery was dead. With a disappointed groan, Remiro tossed the radio onto the ripped passenger's seat. He tried to move his legs and was met with horrible shooting pain in both of them. As he silently sobbed, he realized walking out of there would be out of the question and it probably wouldn’t be long before the demons would find him.
Remiro popped open the center console and, with a shaky hand, removed his old .357 Magnum out of it. He set the big handgun in his lap then fished around in the console for the two speed loaders that were buried in all the junk he had accumulated over the years. After a few frenzied minutes, he dug out the extra ammo and also dropped it in his lap. If worse came to worse, he could maybe shoot his way out.
Feeling pretty damn hopeless, Remiro glanced down at the steering column. He noticed the key was in the off position and that the engine hadn't simply died as he had hastily assumed. Apparently, he had been conscious enough after the crash to turn off the vehicle. Remiro smiled, quite pleased with himself. After swiftly praying again, he immediately attempted to crank the old V8 engine over. The Durango’s engine sputtering to life was the most beautiful noise Remiro had ever heard. Throwing the Dodge into reverse, he very slowly pulled the SUV out of its unexpected hiding place.
The wood and sheet metal pieces of the building crashed to the ground as the Dodge rolled free of the interior of the building. All the noise was drawing the attention of the hungry undead townspeople. Something that Remiro was trying not to do, but with all the commotion found it unavoidable.
“Dios mios!” Remiro backed the Dodge out into the street as crowds of the rabid zombies closed in on both sides of him. The smuggler shoved the vehicle into drive and tromped on the gas pedal. The Durango’s engine just revved loudly and only succeeded in luring more of the demons in his direction. Remiro again pressed on the gas with his injured leg and again the Dodge’s engine just revved loudly, refusing to move forward.
“You piece of shit!” Remiro slammed the steering wheel with an open palm. The transmission had obviously been damaged in the crash and now only the reverse worked.
“Figures,” Remiro grumbled as he yanked the shifter back into reverse and looked over his shoulder. He was never good at driving backwards; hell, he could never back into a parking space without hitting something. There was a wet thump as he hit one of the turned townspeople.
This is going to be one long ass drive to the compound, he thought to himself. The rear end of the SUV weaved back and forth as he tried to make his way out of the demon-filled street. With no headlights and very few streetlights, Remiro struck just about everything that was in his path. The V8 engine roared like it had plenty of power behind it but with the transmission damaged, Remiro could only push it to five miles an hour. If he got through this alive, he definitely would find himself another line of work.
GET OUT ON THE DANCE FLOOR
CAMACHO’S COMPOUND
“Nero!” Salazar saw the former Narco soldier standing at one of the three bars that were set up in the crowded courtyard. Another one of his men, Hector, stood next to Nero, smelling his own hand. The man made a sour face then poured some of his beer on the nasty appendage. Hector rubbed the beer all over the back and palm of it then smelled it again. This time Hector grinned and happily resumed his drinking. Salazar shook his head as he approached the bar; what kind of men did he have working for him? He really was going to have to be pickier on his hires. “Nero.”
“Señor Salazar.” Nero smiled and shook his hand. “What a fine party this is.”
“Yes, it came together well,” he said above the music and crowd noise.
“I would have dressed nicer but I was out on patrol.”
“Never mind.” Salazar took a swig from his beer bottle. “Find yourself a woman and get out on the dance floor.”
“Boss.” Hector had turned and noticed Salazar standing next to Nero. The low ranking cartel man held his beer-soaked hand out to the cartel commander.
“Hector.” Salazar avoided the nasty hand and just nodded to him. “Enjoying the party?”
“Si.” He scratched the outside of his crotch. “I think I’m going to find me some company.” He winked at Salazar and patted Nero on the shoulder with his smelly hand. “See you hombres later.”
“Later, Hector. Some señorita is going to get very lucky tonight,” Nero said to his partner as he walked over to a small group of women that were just standing around drinking.
“Hector is a good guy but very nasty.”
“If I may say so, Señor Salazar, there is no one nastier than Dirty Sanchez.”
“Si, I may need to put grooming standards in place,” Salazar said as he watched Dirty Sanchez dance with a trio of the hookers that Camacho had brought in from Mexico City. The tiger keeper had shed his dress shirt and was now down to his sweaty wife beater. Sanchez’s dance moves made him look like he was having some kind of stroke. “I may need to rethink my hiring process.”
“Well, this is one helluva party, Señor Sal-”
“It’s just Salazar,” he said, holding his bottle up in front of him. “How would you like a promotion?”
“I would like that very much.” Nero frowned. “But you just hired me.”
“I am a good judge of character.” He put an arm around Nero’s
shoulders. “From what I have observed, you know how to handle yourself. I need a lieutenant that knows his shit. You up to that?”
“What about Domingo?”
“Don’t worry about him.” Salazar gave him a squeeze and let him go. He took a swig from his now empty beer bottle and set it on the table. “Just think about it.”
“Sure. Definitely, Sen—Salazar.”
“Good. Now I need to dance. I will talk to you tomorrow about this. Go have fun before Domingo wants you back on perimeter with the crab man.”
“Si.” Nero smiled as he watched Salazar disappear into the shifting crowd. The ex-soldier watched the crowd for a few minutes then quickly grew bored of it. He grabbed up a cold beer out of an ice bucket full of Millers and headed toward the pool area.
Once he got to the Olympic sized pool he found it was empty of partygoers. Satisfied, he grabbed up a poolside chair and sat down. Nero reached into his shirt pocket and removed his old flip phone. Setting the bottle down on the ground next to him, he opened the phone and scrolled over to his oldest daughter's number. He pressed the button and the phone started ringing on the other end. After a few rings, it went directly to voicemail.
“‘Ola, this is Victoria, leave a message at the beep.”
Nero’s heart ached as he heard his daughter's voice. Of all the things he had screwed up in his life, his relationship with his daughters was what he regretted the most. Now they were being raised by a man that wasn’t him. His wife, Mia, was a good woman but she just couldn’t take all the crap that came along with his incarceration. It wasn’t her fault; it was him having to play the hero that destroyed his family.
“Victoria, this is Papa. I was just calling to see how you and Vanessa were doing. Well, please call me back. I love you both so much.” He sighed heavily then hung up, shoving the phone back into his pocket. The rousing dance music brought him back to the present. Nero had to cut and run. He couldn’t stay there and be part of this. Hell, they already wanted to promote him. A criminal he was not. He could never face his daughters if he stayed there.
As Nero swept up his beer bottle and took a big drink, he noticed something moving in the dark. He quietly set the bottle back down and cautiously drew his .40 Glock out of its holster. Nero could see two dark figures slinking by the outer buildings, obviously heading farther into the compound. He took the safety off the pistol and, as quietly as possible, chambered a round. Stealthily getting to his feet, he deftly followed the two shadows around the back of the building. As he moved closer to the figures, he could hear two female voices talking in low tones.
“You sure?” one asked.
“No,” the other one said. “But what do we have to lose.”
“Stop right there,” Nero said from behind them as he raised his pistol chest high. Both women stopped and slowly turned to face him. “You.” He lowered his gun. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
“Nero?” Tanya asked; her .38 still tucked in her waistband. She figured if she reached for it he’d have her dead to rights.
“Yes. What are you two doing out here?”
“We are trying to find our friend, Leeland,” Baylie told him.
“Look, you two, you need to go back to the party or the cottage. It is dangerous for you out here.”
“We know.” Tanya nodded. “We had a run in with Domingo.”
“Fucker tried to rape me,” Baylie said angrily.
“Figures.” Nero re-holstered his pistol. “I’ll talk to Salazar before this gets out of hand. I’m surprised Domingo’s not chasing after you.”
“Tanya kicked his ass,” Baylie said proudly.
“Well, you kicked the shit out of him.” Tanya smiled at the younger woman. “Look, Nero, can you help us find Leeland? We don’t want any trouble, we just want to find him and go.”
“Yeah.” Nero thought for a few seconds and quickly made up his mind. “Yeah, okay. He’s probably in the clinic. Follow me and I’ll take you there. And don’t worry; I won’t let anyone else hurt you. Not that you really need protection.” He again drew his pistol. “Stay close, you two.”
“No worries about that,” Tanya said. “We’re your new best friends.”
I LOVE CAKE
OUTSIDE CAMACHO’S COMPOUND
Bravo team found itself spread out in the thick brush and Pinon trees that covered the rolling foothills around the compound. Tall palm trees ringed the bright white adobe walls of Camacho’s home fortress, making it harder to see inside.
In the darkness, the ten Bravo team soldiers lay quietly watching the goings on of the cartel headquarters in their night vision gear. Morgan clicked on his combat smartphone and spoke quietly into it.
“This is Bravo One. We are at target.”
“Roger, Bravo One,” Kubicek said, mimicking Galvan’s voice. “We are still en route. Will contact when in position.”
“It appears there is a party down there, Alpha.”
“Repeat, One.”
“It appears to be a large party going on in the courtyard,” Morgan said as he glanced over at Hale who was scanning the compound with a pair of night vision binoculars. “We still a go?”
“Affirmative, Bravo. Same plan as before. Just check your targets. Alpha out.”
“Roger, Alpha.” Morgan tucked the phone back into his vest pocket and tapped the Air Force sergeant on the shoulder. “We are still a go.”
“So much for easy. This has goat fuck written all over it,” Hale whispered.
“In big fucking neon letters,” Morgan agreed as he clicked on his headset. “Listen up, Bravo team. We still have a green light on this. There are going to be a lot of civilians down there so be extra careful. Hopefully, they’ll be too drunk and distracted to even notice us snatching numbnuts.”
“Think the captain will mind if we grab a couple of cerveza?” Vanelli chuckled at his own joke.
“Only if you want to walk home, Vanelli.” Morgan shook his head. “Listen up. Just like we practiced. Cross, you post up here with Amatuzo and remove the guards on the wall. The rest of us will breach the rear gate with Redwood in the lead. As soon as we are inside, Cross, you and Amatuzo will follow us in. We will make our way to the main hacienda where we should meet Alpha, grab the target then sneak out the back. Got it?” The rest of the team replied in the affirmative. “When Alpha gets in position and gives us thumbs up, we go. We just lay chilly and observe until then.”
“Looks like a fun party.” Hale resumed watching what he could of the group in the courtyard through the binoculars. Two massive palm trees hindered a good part of his view, even though it was the best position he could find. “There is a huge cake over by some kind of chocolate fountain. What a waste.”
“Didn't think you ate sweets, Hale?” Morgan slid his NVGs up onto his forehead as the other sergeant handed him the night vision binoculars. “How you going to fit in your wife’s t-shirts?”
“I love cake,” Hale said simply as he checked his rifle. “Except carrot. I hate carrot.”
“Carrot cake sounds like it would be your favorite being a vegetable and all.” Morgan scanned the crowd of gyrating dancers but couldn't find Camacho among them.
“When I was a kid, I snuck a whole carrot cake and ate it. I ended up throwing up all over my aunt's bathroom. I was sicker than a dog.” He turned his black San Francisco Giants hat backwards. “To this day I can’t stand carrot cake.”
“White cake is my favorite.” Morgan shrugged. “Never had carrot.”
“That is about the gayest conversation I’ve heard from you two,” Cross said from behind the scope of her sniper rifle. “When this is over I’ll buy you two some mimosas and you can catch up on Cake Boss.”
“Everyone likes a good birthday cake, Cross,” Hale said in a low voice.
“Never had a birthday cake,” Cross said tersely and changed the subject. “I’ve had eyes on the target a few times but he keeps moving around in the crowd. Too bad this isn’t just a kill mission; I could
pick him off from here.”
“Agreed.” Morgan nodded. “This party is going to add some real excitement to our game.”
“Not that we needed more,” Cross added.
“This is why they pay us the big bucks, Cross.” Hale smiled, trying to hide the feeling that deep down in his gut that was telling him bad things were about to happen. The Air Force sergeant prayed that he would make it home to see his daughter being born.
“Big bucks,” Morgan repeated sarcastically.
LET’S GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!
CAMACHO’S COMPOUND
The urgent pounding on the clinic’s front door jarred Alexi from his alcohol induced slumber on the floor. Wiping slobber from his lips, he stumbled to his feet and leaned back against a table. His head throbbed like a son of a bitch. His eyes were puffy from crying and his thinning hair was plastered down the side of his face; he looked like a real mess.
Alexi rubbed his eyes as the pounding continued. At first he thought it was in his head but then he realized it was the front door. The Russian scientist had been crying heavily when he passed out on the floor. Alexi had blacked out before he could finish what he had started out to do that evening. He looked down at his watch and saw that it was late, but not too late to give Black what he deserved.
Again, the pounding at the door. Alexi cursed and fumbled his way over to the big metal door. He quickly unlocked it and pulled it open.
“What is all this?” Alexi angrily demanded.
“We are looking for the American they brought here,” Nero said, trying not to breath in the toxic alcohol fumes that were seeping from the Russian.
“American?” Alexi scratched his head as he eyeballed the two women standing next to the big Mexican. He hadn't seen them before and they looked quite interesting. “American? Yes. Yes. Big man, no?”
Operation Zulu: Dos Page 23