“Are we sure it is them?” Alejandro asked. Anticipating confusion, he had ordered his driver to take him to a spot on the side of the highway near Ciudad del Carmen, about equidistant between Sabancuy and Isla Aguada. “I don’t want to hear some ugly news story about a bunch of innocent, dead schoolchildren.”
Orlando looked concerned. “But, cousin, there are schoolchildren on this bus, too.”
“If they are with the terrorists, they are not innocent. How can he be sure that these are the terrorists?”
Orlando relayed the question, then said, “They made evasive maneuvers. They know they are being followed.”
“And where are they specifically?”
Another relay. “Currently about five kilometers north of the intersection with the Escárcega-Sabancuy Viaduct.”
“Carlos!” Alejandro yelled to their driver. “I know you’re listening. How far are we from that location?”
“Ten, maybe twelve kilometers.”
“Head north,” Alejandro ordered. “And quickly. Orlando, tell our teams from the north to head south, and for everyone to be prepared for a confrontation along Route one-eight-zero.”
Alejandro allowed himself a smile. He had them trapped. They had nowhere to go. “Orlando,” he said.
His cousin covered the phone and waited.
“They are mine,” he said. “Unless it’s absolutely unavoidable, no one is to be hurt until I get there.”
CHAPTER 35
This was one damn fast boat. Jesse had joined Davey in the shelter of the cockpit to avoid the wind and water spray. Even in the darkness, he was fascinated by the enormous wake the SeaVee created, both at the bow and at the stern, where the powerful motors churned the water into white foam, which glistened in the starlight.
“How fast are we going?” Jesse asked. He had to shout to be heard.
Davey glanced at a gauge on the console. “Call it fifty knots,” he shouted back.
“What is that in miles per hour?”
“I can’t do the math in my head. Somewhere between fifty-five and sixty.”
“Isn’t that fast for a boat?”
Davey laughed. “It’s stupid fast for a boat. And we’re only at about sixty percent power.”
“Holy shit.” It was exhilarating, but it was also exhausting. The seas didn’t look rough, but at this speed, every ripple of water they hit felt like they’d driven over a big rock. “How far do we have to go?”
“You’re the one with the GPS and the coordinates,” Davey said with a laugh. “I’m just running balls out toward a compass point. You tell me how far we have to go.”
Jesse pulled out the electronic GPS device that had been included in their spy care package and looked at it. He didn’t think it could be right. “Is it possible we’re still fifty-five miles out?”
“If that’s what the GPS says, then yes, it’s possible.”
“So, we’re still an hour away?”
“Give or take.”
“That’s too long,” Jesse said. “Mother Hen called and said that they need to be extracted as soon as possible.”
“We’re gonna get there,” Davey said.
“But we need to be there before daylight. We need to be there now.”
“Then they should have told us earlier.”
Jesse didn’t get the passive-aggressive tone. This was not the typical Davey Montgomery approach to life. “But you said we’re only at sixty percent power.”
“I also said that we’ve got to pull six hundred miles out of five hundred fifty miles of range,” Davey countered. That angry expression had returned. “Power means gas. And we don’t have the gas.”
“Bullshit,” Jesse said. “We’ll worry about the shortfall later. We’ll make it up on the back end somehow. But we’ve got to get our people off the beach. That’s our job.”
“No,” Davey said. “Our job is to get them back alive. Dying in a dead boat in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico is not the mission.”
“Neither is getting us back with a bunch of dead commandos!” Jesse shouted. “If I screw this up, I go back to prison!”
“You can also end up dead!” Davey shouted back. “I vote living over dead.”
“I don’t care!” Jesse yelled. His father recoiled from the words, triggering an odd sense of pride. “This is the only big job I’ve had in my life. The only job that had lives in the balance. And I am not coming to the end of it as a failure. Increase the speed and get us to the exit point.”
“It’s an exfiltration point,” Davey said with a mocking smirk. “And suppose I say no?”
The question took Jesse off guard. It wasn’t one he was prepared to answer. He’d just watched his father cut a man to death. He knew Davey was a thousand times tougher than he would ever be. There were no threats he could offer that would change the man’s mind.
So he took a different approach. “You won’t say no,” he said.
Davey laughed. It didn’t look natural, and Jesse worked hard not to be offended by it. “Well, son, I happen to disagree with you.”
“I order you,” Jesse said.
Davey’s smile grew, and then it faded. “Excuse me?”
“This is my job,” Jesse explained. “You’re getting more of my money that I am, but it is still my mission. You, Davey, are the hired hand. You’ve been a professional soldier your whole life. I don’t see you changing your stripes now.”
Davey took his time eyeballing his son. Something changed in his expression, and Jesse wasn’t sure how to interpret it. “Sailor,” Davey said.
“What?”
“I’ve been a professional sailor my whole life. Not a soldier. Soldiers are Army. And I wasn’t even real Navy.” As he spoke, Davey eased the throttles forward. The engine noise increased, as did the water spray.
Jesse cocked his head. He wasn’t entirely sure what had just transpired.
“Don’t look at me that way, you little shit,” Davey yelled over the roar. “You won, okay?”
Jesse felt a smile blooming, but he didn’t know if he should allow it.
“We’re gonna burn three-point-five metric shitloads of gas,” Davey said, “but we’ll get to your mystery men in forty, forty-five minutes.”
Jesse was looking for the verbal trap, the trick, but he couldn’t see it. “Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t do that yet,” Davey said. “For all I know, we’re gonna get blown out of the water. Maybe we just get shot to shit. One thing I know for sure is that we are, by God, going to run out of gas before we get to Texas.”
Jesse mulled that. Was that the right decision? Mother Hen had told him that the people they were supposed to collect were going to be woefully outnumbered. If they conserved gasoline, and the people died, what was the point?
“Hey, kid!” Davey yelled.
Jesse turned. He was pissed that he felt tears in his eyes.
“Forget it. You made your decision, and it’s what we’re doing. I’m proud of you. Welcome to the world of leadership.”
I’m proud of you? Is that really what David Jefferson Montgomery had just said to his only child? He was proud of him? Holy shit. It pissed Jesse off that that meant so much to him.
“We’ll make it work,” Jesse said. He thought he had to say something.
“I hope so,” Davey said. His eyes flashed. “Or we’ll all be dining on sun-dried Jesse jerky.”
* * *
The two pickups stayed close as Boxers sped the school bus down the highway, but they hadn’t yet made any aggressive moves.
“What do you think they’re doing?” Boxers asked. “We’re on a wide-open, empty road that’s likely to get full once dawn comes. Why are they not engaging?”
Jonathan had been wondering the same thing. The smart play for trained operatives would be to run the bus off the road somehow, create a wreck, and then clean up with guns. God knew any vehicle on the planet—with the exception maybe of a few bicycles—had more power and speed than this shit-pot b
us. It really would not have been difficult.
“I figure they’re scared of us,” Jonathan said. “They’re amassing reinforcements.”
“Then I guess we should feel complimented,” Boxers said. “How far out are we from your dream home?”
Jonathan consulted his GPS. “Two-point-three miles.”
“This would be a stunning time to share any plan you might have.”
“What I’ve got isn’t much,” Jonathan said. “The house is going to be on the left side of the road. According to the satellite pics, it’s surrounded by a security wall. It’s hard to tell from the street-view picture, but I’m guessing it’s about six feet tall. When we get there, I want you to pull a U-turn and bring the side of this beast as close to the wall as possible.”
“That’s gonna block the exit,” Boxers said, pointing to the folding panels of the vehicle’s main door.
“Exactly. We can exit the bus via the windows and drop over the wall. It’ll be faster, and we don’t have to breach a gate that we’ll need to keep bad guys out of the living room.”
“That’s pretty good thinking at this late hour,” Boxers said. Big Guy was the only warrior Jonathan had ever known whose attitude and demeanor actually calmed as a fight grew near. Maybe that’s what made him so damned good at what he did.
“More headlights behind us!” one of the kids yelled.
Jonathan yelled, “Dawkins, check it out.”
While Dawkins moved down the aisle to the rear windows, Jonathan faced the kids. “Everyone, listen, because I won’t have time to repeat it. There’s going to be some tough driving here in about thirty seconds. When we come to a stop, and I tell you to move, we’re going to be going out through the window. I’ll tell you which one. Tomás, you will go first. There will be a wall. Go out the window, over the wall, and drop to the ground. Stay there and do not use your weapons. No shooting unless and until I tell you. Stay at the base of the wall until Big Guy and I join you. Dawkins, you stay with us.”
“Two more trucks,” Dawkins said. “I think one of them is a technical.”
Jonathan’s gut seized. A staple of tin-pot armies everywhere, a technical was a lethal bit of business that consisted of a pickup truck onto which someone had mounted a machine gun, usually either an M60 or an M2 .50 caliber. They could not allow that gun to get a first shot.
“Are you sure it’s a technical?”
“Sure looks like one to me,” Dawkins said.
“I think we’re home, Boss,” Boxers shouted.
Ahead and to the left, a white stucco house with a red-tile roof rose out of the sand. It concerned Jonathan that he could actually make out the color of the roof in lightening darkness. The place was huge by local standards, and the design reminded Jonathan more of a country church than a hacienda. It was built in five cubical sections, each two stories tall, and the sections alternated roof styles between flat and slightly peaked. The far section sported what looked like it might be a bell tower. He couldn’t imagine what it was in reality. No lights shone in any of the windows. Jonathan hoped that meant no one was home, but who knew?
“Here we go!” Boxers yelled. “Everybody, sit down and hang on.”
Jonathan barely got his butt in a seat before Big Guy pulled the steering wheel to the left while barely slowing. Kids and gear slid in unison out of seats and across the floor as the bus heeled over to its right side. Jonathan thought for sure they were going to flip, but again Boxers proved his skill. Over the startled cries of the kids, the noise profile changed as the tires left the pavement and found the sand. Looking through the front windshield, Jonathan could now see the headlights of the vehicles that had only seconds before been in front of them.
The bus lurched, and the shriek of steel against concrete filled the air as Big Guy dragged the starboard side of the school bus along the hacienda’s protective wall, shearing off the mirror on that side and shattering most of the windows. When they came to a stop, not only was the bus flat against the wall, but it was also blocking all access to the gate.
“Booya,” Boxers said, perhaps to himself. “Perfect landing. Everybody okay?” As a last gesture before he rose from the driver’s seat, he flicked on his high beams.
“Is that to see them better or to blind them?” Dawkins asked.
Big Guy said, “Yes.” He pulled his HK417 from the spot where he’d secured it behind his seat, and slung it over his neck and right arm. Then he took a knee, brought the weapon to his shoulder, and pointed it out the windshield. Ahead, the vehicles separated to form a kind of line, and one of them exposed itself to be the truck they’d been dreading. “Yep, it’s a technical,” Boxers said.
“Take it out,” Jonathan commanded.
Big Guy’s shoulder cannon ripped out a five-round burst that spiderwebbed the windshield, and then another five-round burst that cleared away enough of the glass to leave a hole he could see through. His bullets stitched holes through the windshield of the technical, and he saw a flash of blood against its glass. “Got it. But the gun is still functional.”
“How are we doing out back, Dawkins?” Jonathan yelled.
“I got headlights approaching in the distance. Can’t say how far.”
Jonathan turned to the burgeoning panic in the back of the bus. “Okay, okay, okay. This is where it gets serious. Is anyone too hurt to move?” Even as he asked the question, he dreaded the answer. There was no other plan at this point. No one said yes, and he didn’t press the point. With all the headlights more or less focused on a single spot, he didn’t need NVGs to survey their options. The folding door to the bus was more or less in front of the spike-topped iron security gate, so the front of the bus was out.
There was an all too familiar sound—tonk, tonk—followed by sharp rifle reports, as the Jungle Tigers returned fire. In return, Boxers punished them with a sustained burst.
Then there was darkness as he took out the headlights.
“We’ve got more coming from the front, too, Boss,” Boxers said. “We need to get out of here.”
Jonathan lowered his NVGs but stayed focused on the kids. He pointed to a window about three-quarters of the way down the length of the starboard side. The glass was mostly gone. “Right there,” he said. “That window right there. Tomás, you first, and help the others. We don’t have any time. Gather up everything you see and either carry it or toss it to the other side of the wall.”
Tomás stood expectantly. His chest rig looked like it fit him better now. And he looked comfortable with his rifle slung in front.
“Remember, son, don’t let them shoot at the dark,” Jonathan said. “And, for God’s sake, don’t let them shoot at me or at each other.”
Tomás smiled.
Boxers ripped out another five-round burst. Jonathan watched as Big Guy’s hands moved without hesitation to execute a tactical mag change in less than three seconds.
“Go!” Jonathan said.
Tomás jumped as if zapped with electricity. “Out of my way,” he said, and he squeezed through the others to get to the window. He paused. “Angela, you come out in the middle of the group. Santiago, you be the last of the students, okay?”
Santiago and Angela both nodded.
“Boss!” Boxers said. “We’ve got more arrivals.”
Jonathan saw Dawkins pivot away from his window. “Three more vehicles. Call it half a mile, and they’re coming in hot.”
Jonathan crouched low and put a hand on Boxers’ stout, rock-hard shoulder. “I’ll take over for you here. I want you to set up a couple of GPCs to turn this chariot into a bomb in case we need a little extra firepower.”
Boxers looked up and did an air kiss. “You had me at hello. You don’t need to sweet-talk me, big boy.” He pointed through the mass of broken glass that used to be the windshield. “I think everybody in the technical and the truck on the left is dead. I know they’re hit bad. The one on the right, two tangos dove onto the ground. I stitched the ground around them, but I’m not sure I h
it anything.” Then he rose to a crouch. That he was able to rise so effortlessly despite his size—and despite the fact that one of his femurs was more titanium than bone—had always been a source of fascination to Jonathan.
GPCs were general purpose charges, pre-fused blocks of C4 explosives with a tail of detonating cord, which itself was essentially a plastic tube stuffed with PETN. Used primarily for gaining quick entry into places that wanted to keep you out, it made a hell of a big bang anywhere you wanted to make a hole in the world.
Digger knelt at the spot Boxers had just vacated and assumed a similar yet different posture. Too many years of hard landings and parachute jumps had left his back a work in progress, so while kneeling, he sat back on his right heel while supporting his left elbow and the M27’s forestock on his raised left knee.
“Trucks in the back are here!” Dawkins yelled in a voice that broke a little.
Jonathan cast a glance backward to see the kids’ progress. Only two remained, a little one and the older kid named Santiago. Boxers, meanwhile, was working as if by muscle memory to assemble and place his bombs.
“Put a remote trigger on those,” Jonathan said. “No auto-detonation. If we blow them, I want it to be a choice.”
“You worry about your job,” Boxers said. “I got this.”
Jonathan returned his gaze to the front window. He watched as a skinny guy dressed all in denim slithered out from under the truck on the right and started to crawl away. He still clutched what looked to be an AK-47. If he’d left his rifle behind and was just trying to crawl to safety, Jonathan might have let him go. But with the gun still in his hand, Digger had to assume he was going for position. He thumbed the selector on his M27 from safe to single fire and settled his IR laser on the spot where the guy’s jaw joined his neck. He squeezed the trigger, and the bad guy’s head exploded in a burst of brain matter.
“They’re getting out of their vehicles in the rear,” Dawkins said. “Looks like six of them.”
“Do they have guns?”
Dawkins answered the question with a sustained burst of what must have been ten, fifteen rounds out the back window.
Final Target Page 36