The fuckers must have had someone up in the trees, monitoring their progress through the ruins. The Zetas were vicious, but smart. Vanderwalt crumbled to the ground.
“Oh no you don’t,” Brandt said, trying to tug the man to his feet. Yes, there were gunmen out there, but not that many of them. Properly timed, they could burst out of the tunnel and make it those few dozen yards to a new source of cover before they got shot.
“Sorry, mate,” Vanderwalt whispered. “I can’t go any farther.” He took a shuddering breath. “Leave me a gun. I’ll cover you.”
“Yeah, right,” Brandt countered. Leaving the Brit wasn’t an option. Leaving anyone wasn’t an option. “I’ve seen your aim.”
Vanderwalt managed that dopey grin of his. “Better than nothing, chap.”
Perhaps, but there had to be another way.
Then he heard the rev of an engine. The type of rev only Lopez could produce—it was more of a tortured automotive cry. Brandt peered between the leaves but couldn’t find the vehicle. It had to be close, though, as loud as the engine was. He risked popping his head out from the alcove. He got chased back by bullets, but confirmed that the Jeep was nowhere on the commons.
Where the hell could it be, then?
With one final screeching rev, the Jeep leapt over the top of the pyramid. The vehicle landed hard on the stone steps, then bounced its way down. The Zetas must have been as shocked as Brandt. Svengurd firing into their ranks seemed to startle them from their stupor, though. One ran across the doorway. Brandt took him down. Given the screams from outside the tunnel, the rest were injured or on the run.
Grabbing Vanderwalt by the collar, he jerked the Brit to his feet.
“Can you run that far?”
The Jeep rattled its way down the stony steps.
“Hell, yes,” Vanderwalt answered, surging forward.
That was what Brandt liked to hear.
* * *
Svengurd braced his legs on the dashboard and door, but even so he almost flew out of the Jeep as it hit one of the steps on the edge, nearly flipping them.
“Pyramid luging!” Lopez shouted. He truly did seem to be enjoying himself.
They had scattered the Zetas, but they would not stay down for long. These guards were no children. They had been battle hardened.
Finally, the Jeep was reaching the bottom. Lopez gunned it, sailing them off the platform and landing a good ten feet from the base. The grassy earth dulled the jarring, at least a little. Then they were across the commons. The corporal skidded them sideways into Brandt and Vanderwalt’s path.
“Keep going!” Brandt yelled as he pushed Vanderwalt forward.
The CIA operatives hauled the British agent into the back of the Jeep. Brandt ran alongside, then swung up, grabbing hold of the roll bars. With one last push, Brandt launched himself into the back seat. A heartbeat later, his gun was up, spraying bullets into the surrounding area. There were no Zetas to be seen, but clearly the sergeant planned to keep it that way.
Now, with the awkward rock steps out of his way, Lopez could really nurse some speed from the Jeep. The corporal angled them toward one of the breaks in the wall. They were nearly to the exit when another vehicle turned onto the dirt bridge, gunning right for them.
Lopez probably would have played chicken, but if they went much further, they would have nowhere to turn except into the flanking stone walls.
“Right, Lopez!” Brandt barked.
Even with certain death approaching and his sergeant’s orders, the corporal still seemed loath to give in to the Los Zetas’ challenge. At the last moment, Lopez braked, cranking the wheel to the right. Their tires spit up chunks of earth as dirt rained down upon them. The rear bumper barely made the turn before the Zetas’ SUV sped past them.
Svengurd joined Brandt in firing at the vehicle, which turned sharply to give chase.
The Jeep practically jumped out from under them as Lopez stepped on the accelerator. They streaked past the ancient ruins. The corporal swerved around burned out stumps and small stone structures. Svengurd couldn’t even identify what the markers were beyond grey blurs.
It took a few moments to realize that there were walls on each side of them. By then, the Zetas’ SUV was on their six, streaking along behind them. Then the walls opened up into a small area. An enclosed area. Not even Lopez could get the Jeep to jump the eight–foot–high stone walls that surrounded them.
Instead, Lopez yanked up the emergency brake, skidding them around 180 degrees—just in time for them to watch the Zetas hurl toward them.
* * *
“Bloody hell, mate,” Vanderwalt exhaled. “What do you Yanks say? Straight from the kettle and into the flames.”
“Yeah,” Brandt said, firing at the oncoming SUV. “Something like that.”
The enemy vehicle skidded to a stop, guns bristling out of every window. A hail of gunfire tore through the Jeep. Everyone ducked to avoid the bullets flying overhead. Getting brazen, the enemy exited the car, firing as they advanced on the Jeep.
The Los Zetas thought they had the upper hand. They thought they had them outnumbered. They thought they had them outgunned.
They were so sure of themselves that they didn’t even notice a man in the back of the group drop to the ground. Then another. Then a third. It took them losing four men before anyone noticed. Then the line broke and shouts rose in the evening air.
“Now!” Brandt yelled. Lopez and Svengurd joined him, firing at the now exposed enemy.
The Los Zetas scrambled, rushing back to their SUV. Only the windshield cracked, a bullet going straight through the driver’s chest. One of the guards shoved his deceased teammate out of the way and put the SUV in reverse, stepping on the gas.
The problem with that? Lopez had laid a tire spike string at the bottleneck. The SUV’s rear tires blew, then the front tires, grinding them to a stop. Another shot ripped into the radiator. Down to three men and a busted SUV, the Los Zetas weren’t going anywhere.
The survivors came out of the car, arms raised, tossing their guns to the side.
“Ha!” Lopez yelled, pointing at the disarmed men. He then turned to the two CI agents. “That’s how you do an ambush!”
Yes, that was exactly how you wanted to do an ambush, except for possibly the jaguar, hang glider, and Jeep down the pyramid diversions, but hey, it got the job done.
The after–action report would be a doozy to write up, though.
What had always been clear was that this mission was just one big trap. The fact that the CIA had known exactly where their captured asset had been held? Then, for them to know exactly where the captured CIA agents were? Come on. The Zetas should have just burned the letters A. M. B. U. S. H. into the forest.
Most of the time, the best way to handle a trap? Spring the sucker, with a plan. A good plan. Or, in their case, an adaptable plan.
And it all happened because they had one of the best perimeter specialists in the business. Brandt had to search the trees for several moments before he could make out his sniper, Davidson, and he knew where the kid was holed up.
A Midwestern smile glistened in the waning light. Brandt waved, indicating that the kid could come down out of his perch. Whip–thin, Davidson barely stirred the leaves as he climbed to the ground. As Svengurd zip–tied the Los Zetas men, Lopez rushed to Davidson.
“You and the rifle, man? You are one!” Lopez exclaimed as he brought the younger man into a bro–hug.
While Brandt agreed wholeheartedly, he wouldn’t go so far as to hug the kid.
Davidson shrugged his way out of the embrace. “It was just a point–and–shoot setup. No biggie.”
Compared to some of the other incredibly difficult shots Brandt had seen the sniper take, Davidson was right, but to take down that many men that quickly? That was still something. As the sniper passed, Brandt did indulge in clapping his back.
“Still. Decent job.”
There was that easy smile. If only Brandt had so few car
es in the world to be that relaxed. Maybe with a cold brew in one hand and a fishing pole in the other he could feel as carefree as Davidson.
The beat of rotors in the distance did cheer him up a bit. Their extraction helicopter was right on time. Their orders were to leave the Los Zetas secured for the Federales, then get the hell out of Campeche.
Which was perfectly fine by Brandt.
Within moments, the chopper dropped a back board for the teen and lines for the rest of them. In rapid order, they ascended up into the helicopter. The injured were taken to the back of the large transport helicopter, where a medic awaited them.
Brandt sat down hard on the metal jump seat. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand as the helicopter sped across the sky. They should be landing in Ticul and picking up a small plane to fly them to Cancun, then onward to Miami.
Lopez didn’t sit down, though. “Don’t worry, Sarge. I’ll get us home in a jiffy.”
“No,” Brandt said sharp enough it gave the corporal pause. He softened his tone. “Let’s let the pilot get us to Ticul. You can take over from there.”
“But—”
Brandt raised his hand. “No ‘buts.’ I do not want to referee a smackdown match between you and a Federales.”
“Okay, fine, but we’re flying in the wrong direction.”
“What?” Brandt said, rising from his seat. The sun was setting out the left window, rather than the right. Lopez was correct. They were going south. Exactly the opposite direction of Miami.
He made his way to the pilot, shouting over the rotors. “Your orders were to take us to Ticul.”
The man shook his head. “Did they not inform you?”
Brandt did not like the sound of that. “Inform us of what?”
“We are to drop the injured off in Ciudad de Carmen, where you will rendezvous with a jet to take you to Ecuador.”
“Ecuador?” Lopez said at his shoulder. “What happened to Key West?”
The co–pilot handed Brandt a thin folder. He didn’t like thin folders. It meant they were being shipped off with little or no information. Brandt opened it to find only one page. He skimmed it, which didn’t take a whole hell of a lot of time.
Slamming it shut, he headed back to his seat and strapped in.
“Well?” Lopez asked, sitting next to him.
Brandt pulled a lighter from his pocket and set the file on fire. “We’ve got to pull some researcher from the Amazon and get her to Paris.”
“Paris?” Davidson asked. “Why?”
“I don’t ask…”
“Because they won’t tell,” Lopez finished for him.
It was their life in black ops. Flicking the corner of the file to put the flames out, Brandt leaned back against the bulkhead.
“At least it sounds straight–forward,” Svengurd remarked.
“Easy peasy,” Lopez agreed.
After this extraction? Brandt could use a nice boring mission. And he wouldn’t turn down some R&R in Paris. However, instead of basking in the glow of the thought of some time off, a knot formed in his stomach.
His gut was worried about this next mission.
And damn it, if his gut wasn’t always right.
To purchase the entire Betrayed collection just click here…
* * *
HACKED – the prequel short story to Encrypted
CHAPTER 1
FBI Special Agent Zachary Hunt slammed his shoulder into the suspect, sending the guy reeling into the wreath hanging on the church’s door. Kind of served the suspect right after committing his crime right in front of the sanctuary and on Christmas Day no less.
“Don’t even try to get away,” Zach growled as he put his knee into the suspect’s back, patting him down.
Zach’s partner, Ellard Macconi, trotted up, none too quickly, the gray at his temples slick with sweat. “Congratulations, Special Agent, you’ve caught yourself a jaywalker.”
“It’s a crime on the books that we are sworn to enforce,” Zach replied, although not exactly wholeheartedly. In his defense, the guy had run. Who runs after an FBI officer yells for you to stop? “Have Warp run his name against outstanding arrest warrants.”
“Look,” Ellard said. “I get it. You’re a little frustrated that a three-day-long stakeout hasn’t panned out, but –”
“Are you going to take care of this?” Zach asked as he held out the suspect’s wallet. “Or should I?”
The older agent frowned, but accepted the wallet. “I doubt even Warp is in today.”
Zach cocked an eyebrow. Warp leaving his cyber den? Not very likely, even on Christmas Day. Ellard must have realized the same thing, as he got his phone out and called the field office.
“Come on, man,” the suspect whined. “It’s Christmas, dude. Lighten up.”
“Did you know that nearly three-fifths of all pedestrian deaths occur due to jaywalking?” Zach asked the guy. “Nearly five thousand deaths and one hundred thousand injuries annually. So, in essence, I just saved your life.”
“Yeah, right,” the guy snorted. “Do you know how pissed my wife is going to be if I’m late for dinner at her parents’ house?”
Zach ignored the question. He could only imagine the suspect’s wife would be as pissed as Zach’s fiancée must be right now, sitting, waiting for him at his mother’s apartment. So be it.
“Well, well,” Ellard said, walking back over to them. “Zachary Hunt, you were right again. This gentleman has an arrest warrant out, ironically, for failing to stop at a crosswalk...”
“I can explain that!” the suspect yelled. “You can’t lock me up. Not today of all days.”
“Watch me,” Zach said, guiding the suspect to the car.
“You realize we could let him off with a warning,” Ellard suggested.
“Yes, yes, a warning,” the suspect agreed.
Zach, again, ignored both of them. “And have him fail to appear, again? I don’t think so.”
“Jeez,” the suspect sighed. “Aren’t you supposed to be hunting down, like, super-criminals or something? Why are you picking on me?”
Ellard shrugged and patted the suspect on the back. “Sorry, kid, but you chose the absolutely wrong day to jaywalk in front of Agent Hunt.”
Protecting the suspect’s head, Zach helped the man into the car, then walked around to the driver’s side door. Ellard, though, lingered near the back of the car.
“What are you doing?” Zach asked. “We’ve got to drop him off, then get back out on the search.”
“The Robin Hood Hacker isn’t going to strike today,” Ellard said, bluntly. “Even world–class hackers take Christmas off.”
Jerking open the car door, Zach wasn’t so sure.
* * *
Ronnie, a.k.a. the Robin Hood Hacker, braced her feet against the metal wall and scooted another foot up the shaft. It was slow going, climbing up the building’s small crawl space meant mainly for pipes and electrical cabling. Not a thirty-something hacker who was a tad bit out of shape.
“The FBI just posted another warning,” Quirk’s voice sounded in her ear. “They’re still describing you as a late-twenties male who probably lives in your mother’s basement.”
They both chuckled at that. Typical profile. The FBI really went more on averages than actual insight. Because, twenties? She wished she’d had this skill level a decade ago. Male? Her detailed, intricate work should have given them a hint it wasn’t a guy. And living in her mother’s basement? Not even close.
If anything, she was saving up to buy her own country with the tiny percentage of money she took out of each job. She was all about wealth redistribution for the poor, but come on. A girl had to keep a little something for herself and Quirk. There was altruism, and then there was just plain stupid.
“And nothing about an accomplice,” her assistant said. “Do they really think any one person could do all of this by themselves?”
Ronnie didn’t bother to mention that she had been doing pretty darne
d well on her own for eight years, but Quirk was right. The young man had brought her game up to a new level. They’d quadrupled their take once he’d come on board. Unicef could thank Quirk later.
“Just make sure they don’t get wind of us,” Ronnie said as she grabbed hold of a pipe, repositioned her feet and moved up another foot. “I’ll be in the penthouse soon.”
Quirk snorted. Even though they only had audio communications via her ear bug and sub-vocal cord implants, Ronnie could swear she could see Quirk’s meticulously-shaped eyebrow arch up. “Darling, you still have four floors to go.”
Damn Quirk and his heat sensing capabilities.
“How many times have I told you?” he continued. “Three days of weights, three days of cardio and some light Pilates on your rest day.”
Yeah, Ronnie was lucky to swing up and out of bed every day. But Lord knew that she didn’t want to start the fitness argument again. “Yes, Mom.”
Unfortunately, Quirk took that as a compliment. “That’s better.”
Ronnie stopped, pressing her ear against the metal wall. Christmas music drifted from the elevator on the other side. “Jingle Bells,” she thought. Yes, it was going to be a very merry Christmas for several NGO relief organizations. Funded by the rather Scrooge-like oil company that was hiding nearly ten billion – yes, that was billion dollars in a slush fund. The money should have been earmarked for cleaning up spills, but no, the corporation used it for private jets and raucous parties.
Not anymore. Not if Ronnie had her way with their servers.
“Um, are you actually going to hack something, Ronnie?” Quirk asked in her ear. “Or are you practicing for an audition for Cirque du Soleil?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ronnie said hefting her way up another foot. She would have made it farther, but a rather large set of pipes loomed above her. “Quirk, I thought you said there weren’t any junctions in this access tunnel?”
“There aren’t.”
“Really, because some nice copper fittings here are saying otherwise.” She took a picture with her phone and sent it to Quirk. Between her and her assistant, they could pretty much hack their way around anything. Except a physical obstacle such as a pipe junction. Unfortunately, she needed to get past the pipes to get to the penthouse where the main servers were kept. Guess the oil company figured no one would be looking for them in the CEO’s office. They were wrong.
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