“When can you, Jackeline, and the kids be ready?”
Amaya’s eyes widened. Maybe he was okay after all. “A moment’s notice. We have vehicles and a plane.”
“Plan on using our transport for now,” Stone said. “Your stuff is probably compromised. Go back and tell her to be ready.” Stone reached into his pocket and slid a small cell phone across the table. Amaya took the phone. “I’ll be in touch,” he said. “And it’s going to be quick.”
Amaya nodded and left without saying good-bye.
Devlin Stone found the safehouse at Mercurio and Galaxia, where they had easy access to a freeway. They were in a quiet neighborhood, but that didn’t promise security. Stone knew all too well that the nosy neighbors would take interest in the gringos going in and out of the house.
What to do with the new information. As far as he was concerned, it was still an extraction. The fact that gunners would be breathing down their necks wasn’t a bad thing. His trigger finger needed a workout, and cartel thugs made good practice targets. But if Preston or the U.S. government knew about the Valdes takeover plan, they either didn’t think he required the information, or didn’t think it mattered. Maybe they were right, but it never failed to frustrate him not to have the whole picture.
The street was quiet except for some kids playing down the block. Normal homes lined the street. Stone thought he’d recommend to his colleagues that they relocate to a spot where civilians wouldn’t be caught in a crossfire if a fight took place.
Stone climbed out of the car. The front walkway led to a narrow outdoor hallway with the porch at the end. Stone tapped a Morse code on the door before using his key. As a home, the interior was a joke. The door opened on the living room, which was bare except for a modest couch and folding chairs spread around the carpet. The dining room contained a poker table; the kitchen was at least stocked, and that’s where Stone found two other men in the middle of a conversation. Stone reminded himself that the house was a place to hide and nobody who spent any time within its walls was meant to stay there for very long. He joined the other two men in the kitchen and said hello.
Tony Russell, American, blonde, tall with narrow shoulders, was a D.E.A. agent who had an office at the U.S. Embassy in Mexico City. He’d traveled to Nogales to be the government presence during the extraction.
Phillip Morales was the local cop assigned as Stone’s liaison with the Nogales authorities. He was shorter than both Russell and Stone, with his thinning hair clipped short, but he seemed like a bulldog who would crash through a wall to get the job done.
“How did the meeting go?” Russell said, cutting off Morales in mid-sentence of whatever conversation they were having.
Stone helped himself to a cup of black coffee and updated the two men.
“So a super cartel,” Russell said. “That’s a new one.”
Morales said, “In a way it’s a good idea. The rivalry stops, and the cartels combine to do more business since they aren’t fighting each other and the federales.”
“We need to burn them all down,” Stone said.
“What’s your suggestion?” Russell said.
“Multiple strikes. A night of raids on Guardado, Beltran-Leyva, and Plancarte cartel assets will give us the distraction we need to get Jackeline Guardado, her kids, and Amaya Olson out of here.”
“The deal,” Russell said, “was for Jackeline and her kids only.”
Stone sipped some coffee. “I just changed the deal.”
“Stone--”
“Shut up. Both you and the locals thought enough to have representation here, but why aren’t you doing the heavy lifting? Because you don’t want the blame if it goes bad, and you don’t want to explain why a bunch of Americans are coming home dead after an operation half the public won’t agree with. But you can hire me and my people to do the dying, right?
“That isn’t--”
“I’ve told you how it’s going to be,” Stone said. “If you’re not in the fight, you don’t have a say in it. You’ve paid your money.”
Tony Russell remained silent; Morales didn’t utter a reply, but he looked on Stone with some surprise. Stone figured the local cop wasn’t used to Americans talking the way he did.
And if he had to admit it, he didn’t like talking in such a way, either. It wasn’t that Tony Russell was a government stooge, although maybe that was part of the problem, but people like Tony Russell had no emotional connection to the fight. Mexico City was just another post for him; in a few years’ time, if not sooner, he’d take a post somewhere else. And it didn’t matter where.
What happened in Nogales mattered to Stone. He didn’t have to like the arrangement, but there was no doubt, after talking with Amaya Olson, that she and Jackeline Guardado were making a tremendous sacrifice and risking their lives.
It was all the proof he needed that they were on the level, and that he was doing the right thing by getting them out of Nogales and into the United States.
“Well, if that’s all,” Russell said, “I have to get back.” He set his coffee mug in the sink. Turning to Stone, he said, “You’re right, you’ve been paid, and it’s not my neck on the line, but I have to caution you. If something goes wrong--”
“We know the risks.”
“Are you sure?”
Stone scoffed.
“Excuse me,” Russell said, departing.
Stone glanced at Morales, but had nothing to say. Neither did the cop, apparently, because he shook Stone’s hand and made his own exit, leaving Stone alone in a quiet house with barely any furnishing that felt more like a campsite than anything resembling a home. He checked his watch. At least Mike Majors and some other Alliance colleagues were on the way for company.
The fight might have been just, but it did get lonely.
Stone went down the hall to his assigned bedroom which consisted of nothing more than a cot, pillow, and heavy blanket. The only thing the room was missing was bars instead of a door.
He opened a tote bag at the foot of the cot. It was his Tote Bag of Whoop Ass and contained his personal weapons and their assorted accessories, including his pistol, and a Colt M933 compact carbine based on the AR platform. It’s 12-inch barrel delivered .223 rounds at an impressive 950 rounds per minute. The 30-round banana clips for the carbine clanked against each other as he shifted the M933 out of the way. He extracted his shoulder harness containing the SIG-Sauer P-225A1 nine-millimeter pistol. Eight rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber, and a short barrel made the pistol a joy to carry. While others in the Eagle Alliance preferred high-capacity nine-millimeter guns or heavier calibers like the .45 ACP, the SIG P-225A1 suited Stone just fine for its simplicity and handiness.
He looped his arms through the harness and tied it to his belt, adding two spare magazines into the pouch under his left arm, and two more on a second pouch he secured to his left hip. He stood and practiced a few quick draws, aiming at the wall, and snapped a round into the chamber before striking the decock lever to lower the hammer.
He holstered the gun and left the room. If the cartel tried any funny business while he was there, they’d get nine-millimeters slugs in the face. He might not survive, but he’d take a few with him, and that almost made him hope for an attack.
Phillip Morales dialed on his cell as he crossed the street and shut the door of his unmarked car. He watched the kids playing down the street while waiting for the other end of the cell line to pick up.
When the other line answer, nobody said anything. Morales reiterated the kitchen conversation, and gave the location of the safe house. Then he terminated the connection, started the car, and drove away.
The big American had some grand ideas, but he was about to be cut off at the pass.
Chapter Seven
Dust stung his eyes despite the mirrored shades.
Manny Valdes would have preferred meeting somewhere indoors, but this impromptu chat wasn’t his idea.
He leaned against the fender of his car on th
e side of a road outside town limits, the vast expanse of desert all around him. The blue sky looked amazing, but the desolate landscape reminded him that the environment was quite hostile. It the predators didn’t have four legs, they had two.
Another vehicle approached from off to his left, the engine nearly silent until the vehicle was within a few yards. The black sedan with every piece of glass tinted stopped only a few feet from Valdes. The rear passenger window whispered down.
Fausto Sanchez of the Plancarte Cartel sat in the back seat, and looked at Valdes with a disapproving glare.
“You’re running out of time.”
“I’m taking matters into my own hands,” Valdes said. “The Olmos woman will be removed first, then we take care of Jackeline.”
“Two more days,” Sanchez said, before snapping an order at the driver. The driver spun the car in a U-turn and headed back for town.
Valdes stared off in the distance. Yeah, he had a plan for Amaya Olmos, all right. The thick little bitch wouldn’t escape him a second time.
Stone welcomed Eagle Alliance commander Mike Majors to the safehouse and handed him a beer. Majors was a little taller than Stone, with thicker blonde hair, and as a squad commander for the Alliance had seen action in multiple hot spots around the world.
Stone had only worked with Majors once, in Algeria, when they were hired to protect a diamond mine being looted by thugs. The assignment had started out routine, and became quite boring as they stood guard over a hole in the ground night after night, but when the looters picked up weapons to try and shoot the white Americans, the battle had been intense. Majors saved Stone’s life when Stone ran out of ammunition, and barely got his pistol out in time to avoid a machete attack.
They walked into the dining room where Stone had spread out a map on the poker table. Most of the map was draped over the edges of the too-small table. Several red markings dotted the map.
“What do we have here?” Majors said. “Targets?”
“Exactly.” Stone updated Majors on his conversations with Russell and Morales, and Majors agreed that coordinated strikes against multiple cartels would not only put a dent in the drug operations in the area, but provide enough cover to get the primary VIPs out of the region.
“Do you have the manpower?” Stone said.
Majors nodded. “Not to worry. I’m sure Preston will send us more if we need it. Have you told him the plan?”
“No.”
“Of course you haven’t. Better to ask forgiveness than permission?”
“I think it’s the same thing he’d do,” Stone said.
“You’re probably right.”
Majors studied the map.
“Tell me what we have here.”
Stone pointed as he talked, pulling the other sections onto the table when necessary. “Guardado base here. Mansion, barracks.”
“How many troops at the barracks?”
“Usually about 20. They rotate with the troops who guard the processing and growing fields. We have Beltrain-Leyva and Plancarte here and here. Similar layouts. Not sure on troop strength.”
“I’ll call HQ if you don’t want to deal with the locals.”
“Do that. I’d rather not. I’ve only told Russell and Morales, our police contact here.”
Stone’s ringing cell phone interrupted Majors’ reply.
“It’s Amaya Olmos,” Stone said. He answered. “What is it?”
“We don’t have a lot of time,” she said in a rush. “I need you to--” She let out a scream that was quickly muffled, and as the phone landed on the floor, Stone heard a crunch and the line went dead.
“What is it?” Majors said.
“I think Valdes is making his move.” Stone consulted his map and explained why Amaya Olmos needed to be out of the way before they killed Jackeline Guardado.
“Do we need to mobilize?” Majors said. “We probably shouldn’t wait.”
Stone thought a moment. “Yes, but hold back your strike,” he said. “Valdes thinks there’s a traitor in the group, but he may not suspect Guardado. He’ll keep her alive long enough to see if Amaya can provide a name or help Valdes narrow down the suspects. He can’t take over and have a spy in the ranks.”
“What are you going to do?”
Stone tapped a spot on the map. “I’m going to Valdes’s house. That’s where he’ll take Amaya. After I get her back here--”
The front door exploded.
Two gunmen in commando garb and submachine guns held tightly to their shoulders stormed through the smoke and debris from the blasted doorway. They started scanning for targets, but the masks over their faces limited their vision, and that’s all the time Stone needed to shoot first.
The SIG nine-millimeter in Stone’s fist cracked twice. One of the commandos dropped, almost colliding with his partner, who dodged, turning to fire as Majors bolted for the kitchen and Stone kicked over the poker table. The table would in no way stop a bullet, and the commando opened fire anyway, Stone rolling away as the bullets tore through the tabletop and shredded the map. Stone rolled onto his stomach, coming up with the SIG at eye-level. He fired twice again. The second commando jerked with the hits, but stayed on his feet, turning to run, diving for the couch. He leaped over the cushions, leaving a large red stain as he dropped over the side.
Stone had four rounds left in his pistol. Majors stayed on the kitchen floor, his hands empty. He hadn’t come armed. Stone kept the SIG aimed at the couch while he grabbed for the submachine gun pinned under the first commando’s body, but the weapon wouldn’t budge, the SMG strapped tightly to the commando’s body.
The second gunman lifted his submachine gun over the back of the couch. Stone winged a shot, and then another, dodging back toward the dining room only to trip on a chunk of the door that had landed on the carpet. He held onto the nine-millimeter as his rear end slammed onto the carpet, but the commando saw the fall as an opportunity and shifted his aim. Stone rolled. The SMG’s burst cut into the carpet where he’d been. Stone kept rolling, but slammed to a stop against the turned over poker-table. He raised his pistol and fired at the couch, the slide locking back. The commando ducked back behind the couch. Stone scrambled into the kitchen where Majors lay and slapped a fresh magazine into his gun.
“Where’s your weapon, Mike?”
“We were just having a chat!” Majors said.
Another blast shook the house.
“Back bedroom,” Stone said. “More coming down the hall.”
The commando in the living room started shouting in Spanish. Stone’s ears were ringing from the gunshots; he couldn’t quite hear the replies, but the voices indicated more armed gunmen were already inside and all he had was a pistol with a magazine capacity of eight rounds and no additional hardware for Majors.
The enemy had them trapped in a kill box from which there might be no escape.
Chapter Eight
It made sense, Stone thought. Valdes moves on Amaya Olmos, then takes care of him and, maybe, the rest of the Majors’ strike force. That would leave no resistance whatsoever to taking Jackeline Guardado and her kids out of the picture as a finale. Then his super cartel would be reality.
Stone gripped his gun tightly.
No way in hell was that going to happen.
More shouting in Spanish, the new voices louder, and Stone shoved his pistol around the corner of the kitchen. He had a clear view of the hallway and the three new commandos moving in a staggered formation in the narrow space.
As Stone squeezed the trigger, he wondered idly who ratted out him and Majors.
The SIG-Sauer P-225A1 cracked once, twice, the checkered wooden grips helping with Stone’s firm grip. The first 115-grain Winchester +P jacketed hollow point closed the distance between Stone and his targets at 1335 feet-per-second and shattered the knee of the lead commando of the hallway team, the kneecap splitting in half and spilling a spray of red on the floor and carpet. The man let out a yell as he toppled forward, the second bullet
striking him in the left shoulder as he landed. Stone fired a third time, the nine-millimeter stinger crashing through his ballistic helmet but containing the explosion of the man’s head within. The blood spatter traveled downward, covering most of his face, and more of the carpet.
Six rounds left.
Stone shifted his aim as the remaining pair of hallway commandos started to drop to one knee. As they raised their submachine guns, Stone let two more rounds go. They hit the second shooter high in the chest, knocking him off balance and backward. The commando fired a burst from his SMG into the ceiling and plaster rained down, distracting the last shooter long enough for Stone to put a single round through the man’s chin. The bullet punched a small hole in front, jerked his head back as it traveled the rest of the way through, and exploded out the back with a shower of flesh, skull pieces, and helmet parts.
Stone slapped another magazine into the SIG and stood up, slowly working his way around the corner to deal with the last gunman still hiding behind the couch. The man was shouting, his words weak, as the blood loss from his wound more than likely began taking its toll. If Stone had been a humanitarian, he’d have gone over to assist the man. But he wasn’t, so he crossed the carpet to the couch, stepped around, and settled the SIG’s night sights on the cartel killer.
The man lay flat on his back, blood seeping into the carpet. His held up one hand in a “stop” gesture, his mouth still moving with words coming out that Stone didn’t bother to try and understand.
Stone’s finger tightened on the trigger once again and he shot the commando through the head.
“You need a gun with more bullets,” Majors said.
Stone hurried to pick up his fallen magazines from the carpet. “I need a goddamn bazooka. You got a vehicle ready?”
Cartel Queen Page 6