The Enemy Inside

by William Christie

Heavy engine up front. Center the center of gravity. Troy aimed for the back wheel of the Navigator—less weight there.

  It was like two tanks colliding. The Navigator spun around 180 degrees.

  Troy’s neck snapped back and the airbags deployed. Every time that happened he thought he’d gone blind.

  The Suburban was spun around too, and as soon as he figured that out Troy cut the wheel over. He’d kept his foot on the gas the whole time and they continued lurching forward with a metallic shrieking sound.

  When Troy got his eyeballs focused again he saw that the right front of the Suburban was all caved in. Probably a ton of metal pressing against the wheel. They weren’t going far, and he didn’t feel like bailing out in the middle of the open street. He had to find some cover.

  Unable to do a lot of steering, he took the path of least resistance. Right across the street. Even floored and with the engine screaming and smoking, they ground forward at about ten miles an hour.

  “You with me, Ed?” Troy yelled.

  Storey had managed to look up and see what was going to happen just before the impact. He didn’t manage to get a seat belt on, but the rear airbags kept him out of the front seat. He yelled back, “With you!” Though that was not entirely true. He knew they were still moving, slowly, but had no idea where. Until he got his head clear and saw they were about to ram into the front of a restaurant.

  “Get ready to bail out!” Troy shouted.

  They hit the restaurant, and at that speed if it hadn’t been glass and thin wood they wouldn’t have gone through. As it was, they only went in a few feet.

  Troy tried his door. No go. He rolled onto his back and kicked away the few jagged shards remaining from the sunroof. Then he went out that way, slithering down the windshield on his stomach and sliding over the hood because there were timbers hanging from the ceiling.

  He bounced up onto his feet, the Glock out in front. A few people were on the floor, a few were standing there looking at him in shock. Someone off to the side started screaming at him, and as he turned around to confront it, revealing the pistol, the sound shut off like pushing stop on a CD player. He checked everyone out—there’d be no trouble here.

  Storey emerged from the sunroof right behind him. “Lead us out!” he shouted.

  As Troy took off toward the back of the restaurant, Storey leaned around the side of the Suburban, trying to get a view of the street. Someone was staggering out of the Navigator, a pistol in his hand. Storey brought the AK up to his shoulder and squeezed off two rounds. He watched their impact—low and to the left. Where the sights were and where a rifle was shooting weren’t necessarily the same thing. Making an instant correction by aiming high and to the right, he fired another double tap and the Mexican with the pistol fell to the street.

  With ten more rounds Storey drove two more gunmen back around the corner. He shifted targets instantly, lining them up and squeezing off. Into the silver Navigator that was dropping off more gunmen into the cover of the parked cars across the street. Storey knew it was probably bulletproof, but it would keep their heads down. Someone was firing from the sunroof of the wrecked blue Navigator. Storey gave him the rest of the magazine until he disappeared from view.

  A piercing whistle from Troy.

  It had only taken a few seconds, and Storey knew they wouldn’t be so damn quick to come across the street now. He dropped the empty magazine, letting it fall to the floor, rocking in a new one. He only had three left—ninety rounds.

  Another urgent whistle from Troy.

  Storey followed him through the back of the restaurant.

  The other side had more men. But they had to get organized, get on the radio, figure out what they were doing, then get moving without shooting each other. Where two men could just move damn fast.

  They cracked the back door and made sure they weren’t going to be walking into another situation. All clear. For now.

  They both grabbed empty cardboard boxes from the jumble next to the door. Just as he’d done with his pistol Storey slid the AK inside his. With that prominent banana magazine, wrapping his jacket around it would only look like a Kalashnikov wrapped in a jacket.

  Troy ripped open the bottom of his box and flattened it out, throwing it over the coil of razor wire atop the chain-link fence on the other side of the alley.

  They climbed the fence, rolling over the cardboard to the other side. Troy yanked it off and threw it on the ground with the rest of the trash.

  This time he took point and Storey hung back a bit to cover him. They walked fast but didn’t run, knowing they had to gain some separation before the opposition realized they weren’t inside the restaurant and began sweeping the area.

  As they cut over onto the next street Troy turned and made a subtle steering motion with one hand. Storey nodded. They definitely needed a new car right away.

  Storey turned toward the nearest storefront as a Nuevo Laredo police car sped down the avenue, siren wailing. Damn, it popped a U-turn at the next intersection and was heading back.

  Storey had no idea how disheveled the two of them were, how spattered with blood from their time in the SUV with the men they’d killed.

  The police car was a real problem. With Mexicans gunning for them they’d last about five minutes in a Mexican jail. If they even made it that far. He stepped back into the storefront.

  Troy was playing it cool. The police car skidded to a stop in front of him, and two cops in blue uniforms jumped out, brandishing their pistols and shouting, “Hands up!”

  Troy put his hands up. Storey stuck his hand into the cardboard box until he felt the wooden pistol grip of the AK.

  The cops were waving their pistols around, not aiming them, like everyone they’d ever run into had just given up.

  Storey let the box drop to the ground and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Getting a firm grip on the grooves cut into the front handguard and pulling down to reduce the muzzle jump, giving a hard tug with his forefinger to make that long, creepy AK trigger break.

  The first burst caught the nearest cop and threw him back onto the road. Troy dropped to the sidewalk to get out of the line of fire. The second cop just stared in amazement as Storey’s muzzle swung over toward him. Another bap-bap-bap-bap and he was down behind the side of his car.

  Troy was back up on his feet and his pistol was out again. He ran round the car and made sure the second cop was dead. If you were going to shoot the public officials of an allegedly friendly country it was best not to leave them alive.

  Another shot from Storey as he did the same for the first cop. The sound of that AK was going to attract attention.

  Storey was already behind the wheel of the police car. Troy didn’t need an invitation. Storey changed magazines and passed the AK and last magazine over to him. Only sixty rounds left. The keys were still in the ignition, the engine on. Storey pulled out fast.

  Troy turned the radio volume up to see if they could figure out what was going on. About ten stations were yelling at the same time, drowning each other out. But he caught, “Los Zetas are moving to the Avenida Guerra.”

  “The Zetas?” said Troy. “What the fuck?”

  “You missed the mission prep when you were getting your knob polished and doing nude wall climbing,” said Storey. “They’re cartel enforcers, ex-Mexican special forces.”

  “Cartel? What are they mad at us for?”

  “Maybe they figured Lund and his boys were DEA. Maybe some Arabs hired them. Right now, who the fuck cares?”

  “Okay, okay, so it’s not a case of mistaken identity. Mexican special forces? That doesn’t shrivel my nuts. I put Mexican special forces up there with Iraqi special forces. By the way, the border is in the other direction.”

  “You take a hit to the head?” Storey demanded.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You think we’ll make it through any of the crossings? Let alone to the U.S. Consulate?”

  “I guess not,” said Troy, a li
ttle embarrassed. “If they got the cops, we won’t even make it on any of the roads out of town.”

  “Cops,” Storey muttered. “That’s a fucking mess right there.”

  “I know what you’d tell me,” said Troy.

  “What?”

  “That’s way down on our list of worries right now.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “Besides,” said Troy. “I hear there aren’t that many honest cops in Mexico. What’s the odds you shot both of them?”

  One of the hallmarks of both Delta Force and SEAL Team Six was to carefully select and just as carefully train men of extraordinary self-control to explode into ferocious violence and then just as quickly revert to a calm, outwardly relaxed state.

  They were far enough away from the scene now, and Storey turned off the flashing lights and siren that had helped them through the traffic. “We need to find a more inconspicuous car. You still got your tools?”

  “Always.” They both carried three simple tools, camouflaged as everyday objects, that could get them into and start any car in the world. That was also part of their training. Cars, locks, handcuffs. Originally Delta and Team Six had gone to prisons and consulted professional burglars and car thieves. Now the skills were passed along in-house.

  In south Nuevo Laredo they found a Toyota Camry with a nice tint job on the glass that fit their needs perfectly. Troy got inside, deactivated the alarm, and had it running in less than forty seconds.

  No one bothered them. Not with a police car there. Any bystander would have assumed that the police were either protecting the car thieves or stealing cars themselves. And not been surprised by either.

  Storey followed him for about a mile. They dumped the police car near a junkyard, hoping the scavengers would arrive and in a few hours not even the skeleton would be left.

  “I assume you’ve got some ideas?” said Troy.

  “Nope, I’m stumped, I’m dry. It’s all on you. What you got?”

  Troy knew he was being fucked with, but it was time to show that there was more than one planning mastermind in the family. “Okay, they’re going to be watching the border crossings. They’re going to be watching the roads out of town. And the airport and train station. You feel like a little hike in the desert, maybe a swim in the Rio Grande?”

  “You’ve got that SEAL ninja thing going again,” said Storey. “Sure, load up a backpack with water, slip through the brush, swim across the border. If everything works out all right. If you run into someone, you’re on foot in the desert with two pistols, one AK, and sixty rounds.”

  “Okay,” Troy replied. “You don’t like that. Even if they weren’t before, they’re probably all set up and in place by now. So I figure we should let them think they found us, draw them in, fuck them up a little, then slip out the back door in all the confusion.”

  “Now I like the way you’re thinking,” said Storey. “With one AK and sixty rounds, I assume you’re thinking about an MA?”

  “You got that right. And with those armored rides they’re rolling in, we’re going to need to make a few EFPs.”

  “I’m with you all the way,” said Storey.

  “The only thing that’s hanging me up is the location. I don’t want to fuck up any innocent bystanders or lay waste to any neighborhoods. I mean, I know we did that today, but it was them or us. I don’t want to do it by choice.”

  “We’re in total agreement,” said Storey. He reached in his jacket and took out a Nuevo Laredo street map and a few pieces of laminated plastic. The drivers’ licenses and ID cards of the Mexicans in the Chevy Suburban.

  “When did you find the time to frisk those motherfuckers?” Troy demanded.

  “I had a little time to kill while you were crashing into things,” said Storey. “Let’s see if one of these guys lived in a house we can use.”

  They cruised the streets, inconspicuous behind the tinted glass. Frequently passing heavy black SUVs, also with tinted windows. Also cruising slowly.

  One apartment. One house in a crowded neighborhood. Then one dusty, run-down rancho at the end of a dirt road on the southeastern outskirts of town. The nearest neighbor was 400 yards away.

  “We’re not going to get any better than this,” said Storey. “Let’s grab a Yellow Pages and go shopping.”

  “There better be some car racers in this town,” said Troy. “I don’t feel like mixing up a batch of The Mother of Satan today.”

  This was the name given by the Palestinians to triace-tone triperoxide, or TATP. Easily made from acetone, hydrogen peroxide, and other ingredients available at any hardware store or pharmacy, TATP was extremely powerful and easy to set off. But it was also extremely sensistive to impact, friction, and temperature change. Palestinian bomb makers regularly blew themselves up with their own chemistry sets.

  As it turned out, they did race cars in Nuevo Laredo. And nitromethane racing fuel was available.

  “We going to be grinding up fertilizer?” said Troy, hoping the answer was no.

  “Too much time,” said Storey. “Let’s use regular household ammonia as a sensitizer.”

  The local crime rate meant that home security stores were very well stocked with a comprehensive product range for all income levels. Electric wire, soldering guns, and batteries were easy. Plastic kitchen storage containers in all sizes. A couple of propane tanks for the old gas grill. A cookware shop had some beautiful handmade copper serving plates. And a plumbing supply was happy to cut and cap steel pipe to their specifications. A cordless drill and bits, some camping equipment, a few boxes of energy bars, a case of bottled water, and a case of nails rounded out the list.

  They also stole another car. A Jeep Cherokee.

  The rancho was still unoccupied when they returned. As soon as they let themselves in and saw the mess they knew there was no wife. Though it would also have suited them if there had been.

  It only took four hours of steady work to get everything ready. The inside stuff was easy. The outside would have to wait until dark. The fact that the manufacturers of home security equipment were making their stuff wireless these days saved them a load of time.

  “You want to make an anonymous call to the cops?” said Troy, after they finished cleaning up their materials and stashing them in the attic.

  They’d been listening to the TV and radio all afternoon, and there hadn’t been any mention of two wanted Yankees. “That might just get them suspicious,” said Storey.

  “How do we get the word out then?”

  “Kill two birds. Send a message to Washington. Tell them about Lund, tell them we’re holed up in a house and need them to get the Mexican authorities to get us out ASAP. Los Zetas will be here before dawn, thinking we’re ripe for the picking.”

  “Suppose someone at the Pentagon command center actually has some street smarts and sends another team or the CIA to get us out instead of calling the Mexicans?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” said Storey.

  “Okay, so I must have taken a hit to the head,” Troy replied. “But what if some real Mexican good guys turn up here looking for us?”

  “If that ever happens, which I doubt, it’ll be two days from now. Los Zetas will be here tonight.” Storey began composing the message on his PDA.

  “Lund was a good guy,” said Troy. “I hope they didn’t take them alive.”

  “You don’t get too many mistakes in the business,” Storey said while he was writing. “Sometimes you don’t get any at all.”

  They left the house after dark and set up their outside equipment. Their observation post had been chosen with great care. It couldn’t be near any trees or cover in the vicinity of the house, because the opposition might very well choose those as avenues of approach. It couldn’t be more than 100 feet away, the maximum range of most of their wireless gadgets. So they were in a shallow depression scraped from the sand, pretty much out in the open, in the middle of some tufts of wild desert grass. Covered with a big sheet of burlap.<
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  This was when Storey always loved watching the transformation in his partner. Troy only acted impatient because he wanted to get on to the next thing. But if the next thing was to hide in the middle of the desert, he’d lie out there for a week, pissing and shitting into plastic bags, moving nothing except his eyeballs and his beating heart.

  It wasn’t like the usual observation post because there was no night vision equipment. But that didn’t matter. Everything was set up for the enemy to hit the house. And they could do that at the time and method of their own choosing.

  Only a little while after they slid into the hide, just a few minutes after 9:00 P.M., Troy heard something padding around. He hoped it was a wild animal, because a wild animal would soon be moving on. It was a dog. Troy could hear the sniffing as it came over to investigate. The worst thing that could happen, because even if the dog didn’t hang around it would return. Attracting the attention of anyone who might be watching. Troy listened for an owner that might be walking it, that might come over to see what their dog was interested in. He couldn’t hear anything. The dog probably got let out to roam, if it wasn’t feral to begin with. Storey nudged him hard. Troy knew that if their hide was compromised they were dead. He lifted up the edge of the burlap. The dog gave a little growl, approaching cautiously.

  It was a mongrel, like a terrier. Troy shot it with the suppressed pistol, reached an arm out of the hide, and dragged the carcass into the hole with them. He felt terrible about it. Just terrible. The karma was so bad they were probably going to be in there with the dead dog for a couple of days. And it was going to get hot in the daytime.

  Storey felt bad about the dog, too. Even more so when his leg began to itch as the fleas began to migrate off the cooling corpse.

  At one in the morning Storey felt someone out there. He didn’t believe in a sixth sense. He believed that if you trained the other senses and actually paid attention to the input they were receiving, however subtle, your brain would process it correctly and give you the word. That was what five million years of being both predator and prey was all about. That was what getting a powerful feeling about something was all about.