by Trevor Scott
More coughs came from a silenced gun, followed by Sirena blasting three more rounds.
Grabbing the handle, Jake reefed on the door and it gave way to his strength.
“Let’s go,” Jake yelled. Then to his partners in the parking lot Jake added, “Coming out through another office, Tuck.”
There were more shots now, and Jake guessed Tucker had come up behind the shooters and had them pinned inside the hangar.
Rushing through this other company office, Jake came to the outer door and turned the deadbolt. When he opened the door a loud alarm pierced the air.
With the Spaniard in tow, Jake ran toward the Mercedes SUV, Sirena backing up to cover their retreat.
Once they got to the SUV, Jake shoved the Spaniard into the back seat. Sirena piled in behind the man and immediately lowered her window. Jake jumped into the front passenger seat and lower his window as well, pointing his gun out toward the helicopter company.
By now Tucker was running toward them.
Jean Paul, behind the wheel, squealed the tires to cut off the distance and then skidded to a halt long enough for Tucker to round the back of the vehicle and jump into the left rear seat.
The Mercedes powered forward just as two men exited from the helicopter company office door.
Jake and Sirena immediately shot a number of rounds, forcing the men back inside.
Jean Paul hit the gas, sending them back in their seats as he headed down a frontage road toward the expressway.
Turning to see if they were being followed, Jake saw a black BMW sedan round the corner behind them in hot pursuit.
“Our friends are still coming,” Jake said. He turned to the Spaniard in the middle seat behind him. “You better tell the pretty lady next to you everything you know.”
“They will kill me,” the man said.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Jake said. “They think you told us already. They have to believe that.”
The man said something in Spanish and Jake picked up a few swear words he recognized. Luckily, he knew that Sirena would understand everything. Jake nodded his head to Sirena. She lifted her chin.
Jean Paul slowed for a light and then ran through the red, turning left. Almost immediately, he cranked the wheel to the right and entered an onramp. Then he hit the gas again and burst onto the expressway. Luckily, at this hour there was little traffic.
Jake looked back and saw that the BMW was gaining on them. “They’ve got a faster vehicle,” he said. Then he buckled himself. At the rate they were traveling, they’d be in Santa Cruz in fifteen minutes. Being on an island, it wasn’t like they could lose them for long.
“Other than the two shooters,” Jake said, “how many more in the car?”
“Just the driver,” Tucker said. “He dropped off the two men and drove off. He must have kept it running and just powered in behind us, picking up his two men seconds after we left.”
Craning his head back again, Jake saw the BMW coming up on their left. “Tuck, you’ll have the shot. Here they come.”
Before Tucker could shoot, though, bullets started to strike the back of the SUV, shattering holes into the rear window. Everyone but the driver ducked. Jean Paul hit the gas, pulling away from the Beemer.
Tucker powered down his window and said, “Bloody hell.” He twisted around, aimed his gun out the window, and shot three times just as the BMW started to close on them in the left lane. That forced the other car to brake. Tucker laughed. “Take that you frickin’ terrorist bastards.”
Jake noticed that Sirena had her mouth almost in the Spaniard’s ear, saying something to the man. Both of them were crouched down to keep their heads below the back seat.
Sirena looked up at Jake and smiled. Good, she was getting something from the man.
Just then Jake’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw that he had a call from Kurt Jenkins.
“Yeah,” Jake said into the phone.
“What’s that noise, Jake?” Jenkins asked.
“Nothing. Must be a bad connection. What’s up?”
Jean Paul cut the wheel to the left to try to cut off the BMW, rocking Jake toward the console. Jake holstered his gun and grasped the ‘Oh shit’ handle above his window.
“Are you sure everything is all right?” Jenkins asked Jake.
“Yes. What do you have for me.”
Before Jenkins could answer, the BMW moved back up close behind them and the shooter sprayed their car again, popping holes in the back window and through the lift back. Tucker again pointed out his window and shot three times, following that with a scream of delight.
“Was that gunfire?” Jenkins asked.
“Yeah. I think we’re making progress.”
“Progress for you always comes with gun play, Jake. What the hell’s going on?”
Jake quickly explained what had happened that evening, from the church to the hangar, and then the current shoot out and chase.
“And you’ve got the helo pilot with you?”
“Yes, sir,” Jake said.
“Well, keep him alive.”
Jake, sensing his former boss might hang up, said, “Hang on, Kurt. What did you want?”
“Oh, right. The contact you met in Tangier might have been helpful. We were able to decode his message. As you guessed, it was GPS coordinates. Our satellite surveillance has confirmed a camp in the Atlas Mountains.”
They had guessed that much, Jake thought. But was the intel good? “How certain are you that this is good intel?”
Jenkins hesitated. “It’s about fifty-fifty right now. We need actual eyes on the prize.”
Human intel had been Jake’s specialty in both Air Force intelligence and with the CIA clandestine service. He had been called in many times in his past to confirm what they thought they knew. Sometimes it panned out. Sometimes it was a wild goose chase.
“You want me to go check it out,” Jake stated.
“Like I said. We need someone on the ground to be sure. As you know, there are a lot of roaming tribes in the Atlas range. For all we know, the camp is a bunch of goat herders.”
Doubtful, Jake thought. He looked back at Sirena, who was still working with the scared Spaniard. With the wind whistling through the windows and the sporadic gunfire, it was hard to hear much inside the Mercedes.
He turned back and saw the city of Santa Cruz coming up quickly ahead.
“Head down toward the marina,” Jake said to Jean Paul.
“Sure thing, Jake,” the driver confirmed.
Into the phone, Jake said, “All right, Kurt. We’ll get to the camp and see what we find. Anything else?”
Jenkins let out a deep breath of air. “Afraid so. The kidnappers have posted a video online with an outrageous demand for ransom.”
Jake didn’t even need to ask the amount. He knew that it was all bullshit now. The Islamic terrorists had built a pattern. First they posted a demand video to get as many hits as possible online, and then a week later they posted a snuff film with a decapitation for the world to reel in horror.
“Which hostage?” Jake asked.
“The British doctor.”
Looking back at his own British friend, the former MI-6 officer, Jake thought it best to hold back on that information.
“Thanks, buddy,” Jake said. “I’ve gotta get off now. We’re heading into the city and this is about to get a little intense.”
“All right, Jake. Take care and keep me informed.”
Jake clicked off and replaced his phone with his gun again. Then he looked back to Sirena. “How we doing?”
She smiled and said, “Good to go. Let’s lose these assholes.”
Turning to the driver, Jean Paul, Jake said, “You heard the lady.”
“Oui Monsieur.” Jean Paul grasped the wheel firmly and weaved through some slower traffic.
They zipped along the waterfront, slowing only slightly for red lights. Occasionally, those in the BMW would send pot-shots their way. But with the roc
king back and forth through traffic and the possibility of collateral damage, Jake and friends refrained from shooting.
“Turn left on that one-way up ahead,” Jake demanded. He remembered the map he had studied after arriving.
Jean Paul sped up suddenly and just before his turn he hit the brakes, pulled up on the parking brake and cranked the wheel hard to the left. Then he switched from brakes to the gas pedal and shot forward up a one-way, climbing the hill.
Looking behind them, Jake saw that the BMW had not been able to make the same move. It had skidded through the intersection and had to cut over the top of the boulevard curb before taking up the chase. They were now five blocks up the mountain.
“Turn left on that street ahead,” Jake said. If they kept going on that road they would cross over in front of the villa where they were staying.
Jean Paul made the turn. They were now on a two way street with a park on the right and row-houses on the left.
Tucker said, “Isn’t this. . .”
“Yes,” Jake said, turning to Tucker. “Get ready to pull a Vienna gauntlet.”
“Roger that,” Tucker said. He dropped his magazine and put in a full one.
Jake looked back and saw the BMW make the turn to follow them. But they were a good four blocks back.
“Turn left there and stop,” Jake yelled. “Then lose the car and meet us back at the villa.”
Jean Paul nodded as he cranked the wheel to the left, cutting down a narrow street that was no more than an alley. Then as he got out of view, he hit the brakes.
Jake and Tucker jumped out and took up positions on each side of the narrow lane. Then as quickly as the Mercedes had stopped, it pulled away, heading back down the hillside.
Tucker found a spot at the edge of a building and Jake crouched against a tall hedge row.
Seconds later and the BMW screeched to make the turn, a block away from them. As the car sped up to catch the Mercedes SUV, Jake and Tucker started to empty their guns, striking the windshield and the hood of the speeding car.
As the BMW rushed by them, Jake and Tucker swiveled around and peppered the car with lead until both of their guns ran out of bullets, their slides stuck back. Instinctively, they both reloaded.
The two men came together.
“I must have hit the driver,” Tucker said.
“I think I got the front passenger,” Jake said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Sirens were echoing across the city, seemingly from every direction. Jake guessed the police had been getting reports and were trying to pinpoint the location.
The two of them holstered their guns and walked casually toward the main street that would bring them to the villa. A couple blocks later and Jake got a text from Sirena saying they had lost the BMW. They were heading home. He showed the text to Tucker, who smiled and nodded.
They walked through the darkness, the sound of sirens eventually subsiding in the distance.
Jake wondered if he would ever get used to this feeling of exhilaration. More than that, though, he thought about the possibility of a simple life on the Calabrian coast of Italy. Could he step back and leave this life for good? He would have to sometime, he knew, but that time was not now.
20
Carlos Gomez sat outside on the rear veranda deck of his yacht as it cruised slowly through the Mediterranean toward the Straits of Gibraltar. The air temperature was still a little cool, but he was warmed by his second Scotch neat and the wool sweater he had purchased in Andorra a few months back. He considered all the time he spent in his various villas and houses around Europe. Most were in tax shelter countries like Monaco, Switzerland, Luxembourg, and Lichtenstein. His purchase of a mountain chalet in Andorra was a recent acquisition. The view was spectacular. He thought about cruising across the Atlantic and buying a beach house on one of the islands in Belize, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to make that crossing. He could make an exception and fly to Belize. Then his yacht crew could catch up to him eventually. Maybe he would even bring that pretty stewardess with him. He had seen her in a bikini in France off the coast of St. Tropez, and that image was burned into his brain. Of course he had seen her naked many times since then, but for him the image of a woman in a skimpy bikini was even more sexy than without anything.
His SAT phone rang and he looked at the number to see if he should answer, thinking it might be Jake Adams. Nope. This person was more ecumenical.
“Father Murici,” Gomez said. “How are things in Santa Cruz de Tenerife?”
“They seem to be going as planned,” the priest said.
“How is Adams doing?”
“He is. . .very intense, Carlos.”
“I’ve heard that. Are they with you now?”
“Not all of them. The meeting at the church turned into a shoot out. Adams was forced to kill a man, but we also lost the contact. However, he gave us a lead before his death.”
“Good. So, they’re following up on that lead?”
“They were. A helicopter charter company at the south airport.”
“All of those companies were cleared by the Spanish government,” Gomez said.
“I understand,” the priest said, his voice soft spoken. “But our people just went to talk with the owner and they got into another shoot out and a car chase through the city.”
“Could you put Adams on? I’d like to talk with the man.”
“He’s not here. I believe he’s out in the garage with Sirena and the owner of the helicopter.”
“So, you found the Mercedes.”
“About that.” The priest hesitated.
“Did they crash it? Don’t worry. It’s insured.”
“No, it wasn’t crashed. But I understand it has a number of bullet holes.”
“The cost of doing business,” Gomez said. “I’ll have my people take care of it. Anything else?”
“I’ve heard that Adams got confirmation of a camp in the Atlas Mountains from his friends at the CIA.”
“That’s wonderful. Do you need to arrange transport?”
“I think Jake Adams is taking care of that right now.”
“Outstanding. Keep me informed. We’re cruising to the Moroccan coast right now.”
They both clicked off and Gomez set his SAT phone on the table next to his glass of Scotch. He picked up the glass and took a long sip, the warmth of the liquid seeping down his throat.
He thought now about his meeting with General Graves in Palma. Things were moving forward quickly thanks to the general’s contacts. If everything went as planned, their first strike would be to liberate the medical workers before those savages started taking heads. But they needed to keep their actions under the radar. It was much better to work in the shadows than to seek the headlines. That should be the motto of every special operations.
Gomez ran his network through his mind. He was used to multi-tasking, but that was with his business interests. Yet, he had to keep telling himself that all of these new efforts were also about business. His group could not allow the radical elements in this world to have a negative impact on their commerce. That’s not how the real world worked. Not now. That was Thirteenth Century thinking. No, the only way forward was through progress and business. Communism was a failed concept. Radical Islam was backward thinking. They allowed for Socialist democracies only to keep out Fascists and Nationalists. They were Consumerists and Capitalists. Nothing else mattered. Well, God mattered. He could not forget how Jesus died for the sins of the world.
•
Jake glanced around the garage, first at the black Mercedes with holes peppered across the left side, the back end, and the back window. A few bullets had even made their way to the front windshield. It was a miracle nobody had been hit by a stray bullet.
At the front of the Mercedes was an old work bench with nearly any hand tool needed for anything from mechanical work to wood work. Someone had a few hobbies, Jake thought.
Sitting in a chair was the owner of the helicopte
r tour company. Sirena had bound the man’s hands to the metal chair arms with duct tape, and his feet were equally taped to the legs. She leaned against the wall now, her eyes on Jake for guidance.
During the chase with bullets flying toward them, the Spaniard had given Sirena an indication that he could help them. The man knew where the medical workers had been taken, because he had flown them there. Jake guessed the man had kept an insurance policy. Perhaps that was the only reason he was still alive.
Jake walked to the work bench and started playing with various tools, as if looking for the perfect torture implement. He played with pliers and a saw and a soldering iron.
“That is not necessary,” the Spaniard said. “I told the woman I would help you.”
Jake picked up a hammer and slammed the claw end into the wooden bench, making the man nearly jump out of the chair.
“I don’t know,” Jake said. “Let’s say you tell us a location and we go there and find only a couple of goat herders. That wouldn’t be right.”
“I would not do that,” the man said.
Glancing for a second at Sirena, Jake turned back to the Spaniard. “But how could we believe you?” Jake knew deep down that if he tortured this man he would get something out of him. But the intel might have a low probability of truth. The tortured would often say anything to make the pain stop. Yet, if there wasn’t at least the fear of pain, the intel might even be more useless.
“I said I would tell you everything I know.”
“Why would you do that?” Jake asked.
The Spaniard squinted to get the sweat from dripping into his eyes. He looked at Sirena and said, “She told me the men were coming to kill me. And I believe her.”
“And?”
“And she said she would personally cut off my balls and feed them to me. Then she would sever my cock and shove it up my ass.”
Jake turned to Sirena and shook his head. Then, turning back to his target, he said, “She only does that to people who have really pissed her off. What did you do? I mean besides objectify her nice butt when we were in the hangar?”