by Weston Ochse
15
CABO SAN LUCAS. DUSK.
Walker crouched on the roof. He had his SR-25 close by, already mounted on a tripod and the scope calibrated, but he’d also stashed an HK416 at either end of the roof under ventilation hoods. He wanted to be able to move when needed, and when moving, he wanted access to a weapon. He’d also placed motion detectors synced to his MBITR on the rooftops, so that anyone attempting to climb in the dark would be detected by a blistering alarm sent through his earpiece. He was as ready as he ever would be. He just had to wonder if what they had planned below was about to get real loud.
Holmes and Laws had disassembled the wood from the cabana. They ran the center pole so it crossed above the pool and joined the roofs on either side of it. Hanging from the pole in three places were Jaime Gonzales, now out of his dress and in his underwear, Juan Carlos, in his underwear and seventeen shades of pissed off, and Mike Sanchez, member of the Knights Templar, former U.S. Army Special Forces turned banger for the mafia. The ropes were affixed to their ankles. Their hands were tied together behind them, then also tied to their ankles, making their backs arch painfully.
Jaime and Juan Carlos hung like dead fish, while Mike Sanchez was having a fit.
“—you fuckwads think you’re doing? I’m an American. You can’t treat me like this!” Sanchez had a tanned bald head with a tattoo of the U.S. Army Special Forces symbol on the top. He had tattoos all over his chest and arms, but his back was a clean canvas. He wore UFC board shorts and had silver nipple rings.
“Now, Mike,” Laws said, in a style Walker had come to recognize. As their intelligence specialist, Laws often took the lead on interrogations. Walker remembered how he’d interrogated the Chinese mafia member in San Francisco on Walker’s very first mission and how he’d gently coerced the guy into talking without ever making an overt threat. Laws was good at what he did. “How do we know you’re an American when you’re over here representing the concerns of a Mexican narcotrafficking mafia?”
“I am no Mexican narco mafia man.”
Laws walked over to a table where he had a bottle of tequila, a bowl of limes, and some ice. He combined these in a blender, pulsed it for a few moments, then poured the contents into two large margarita glasses. He handed one to Holmes, who was sitting in a chair watching the events, then sipped his own.
“Mmm. This is good,” Laws said, smacking his lips together. “Wish I had an umbrella, though.”
The Templar wormed furiously on the ropes. “Hey, I’m talking to you!”
Laws sipped again, turning to Holmes. “What do you think? More ice next time?”
Holmes sipped regally and nodded.
“I said hey!” As the Templar moved on the rope, the cinch around his ankles and hands became tighter. “Ow, fucking hurts.” His entire demeanor changed as he asked, “Can you loosen this?”
Laws looked happily at the other two.
Juan Carlos shook his head. “Fucking cabron motherfucker won’t shut up.”
Laws turned to Ramon. “Was he this difficult when you found him?”
“This kind was born difficult. But no, it was an easy thing to do.”
Laws shook his head. “So disappointing.”
“What?” Mike asked, afraid to move any more than he had to now that he’d discovered what the movement would do.
“Michael James Sanchez, formerly of Seventh Group. Last seen speeding down the All American Expressway out of Fort Bragg and suspected to be carrying five kilos of uncut Colombian. Graduate of the Q Course, 2005, combat diver, military free-fall parachutist course, blah, blah, blah. Graduated as an 18B, Weapons Specialist. Tours to Panama, Bolivia, and Colombia.” Laws turned to Holmes. “Now we know how he got the coke. When an Army CID investigation pinned you as the center of a new drug network in Fayetteville, you were gone.” Laws sipped at his drink. “And lookie, lookie, we got a cookie. Here you are.”
Sanchez’s face was beet red. “I don’t want to go back.”
“Really? Seriously?” Laws appeared confused.
“No. Not at all. Please, don’t make me go back.”
“Like I said—disappointing. Is this what they taught you at SERE school? To beg for your life?”
“Dude, seriously. Who are you guys?”
Now it was Holmes’s turn to answer. “Sorry, chum. Need to know.”
Sanchez glowered for a moment, then seemed to realize something. “It’s the shorts. I should have known. You’re fucking SEALs.”
Laws turned to Yank, who held his HK416 loose in his arms. “Did you know that you’re a fucking SEAL?”
“I’d know it if I was fucking, sir.”
“I thought so.” Back to Mike. “You I don’t like.” He snapped his fingers to J.J. “Lower him please.”
J.J. let the rope loose until Mike’s head was below the water, then pulled him back up so only his hair touched the surface. Sanchez shook his head and gasped.
“You other two. I know you speak English so let’s not play the game where I say something and you pretend you don’t understand. Here’s the deal. We have three people and only one free pass out of here. We need an answer. The first person to answer correctly gets the pass.”
“What happens to the others?” Juan Carlos asked, his eyes narrow.
Laws sighed. “It’s like when you go to buy a luxury car. If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it.”
“Then what do you want to know?” Juan Carlos asked.
Laws sat down in a chair beside Holmes and sipped his drink. No one said anything for a time. Finally, it was Mike who broke the silence.
“Dude, would you just fucking tell us what you want to know?”
Laws shook his head. “You have to tell me.”
Mike made an unintelligible sound. “How can we tell you what you don’t know?”
Laws shrugged. “It’s going to be pretty fucking sad if you don’t know. Here we thought you did. If you truly have no idea why people like us would be stringing up people like you, then I’m afraid you’re going to have to pay for our mistake.”
Mike bitched and moaned and tried to weasel for the next ten minutes. Jaime and Juan Carlos looked at each other but said nothing. Laws calmly made more virgin margaritas for him and Holmes. J.J., Yank, and Ramon sat back and watched the situation carefully.
16
HOTEL BOUTIQUE CASA POBLITO. LATER.
Walker was the only one doing something. He’d seen them earlier, but had written them off because they didn’t seem to be moving in his direction. But while he’d been paying attention to the show below, they’d managed to inch closer and closer until they were half a block away. There were five of them. Gangbangers. In their teens. Each had a piece tucked into their pants, revealed only when they turned, their shirts flaring to show the weapons nestled at their waistbands.
He moved low across the roof to the Stoner, got prone, and examined them through the scope. It was immediately obvious that they were trying not to look directly at the building. Using a series of sidelong glances, they kept their eye on it, though.
Walker decided that they needed to know a little about what they were about to do before they did it. He could just put a round through one or all of them, but would probably lose good guy status if he did. So instead, he sighted and slammed a round through the bottle the lead boy was carrying. The sound of the glass breaking in the street was louder than the sound of the suppressed round leaving through the silencer screwed into the end of the SR-25’s barrel.
The bangers scattered, three running full-speed back up the street. The other two, including the one who’d held the bottle, ducked into doorways.
Walker waited a second for one to poke his head out and look. When he did, his large brown eyes went wide as a round tore into the stucco mere inches from his head. He took off after his friends.
“Walker, report,” came Holmes’s voice.
“Five potentials. Four scattered. One left. They know something’s going on her
e.”
Walker listened as Yank was ordered to the roof, and then they were both commanded to secure the perimeter. When Yank arrived, he reported what he’d seen. They each took an end of the roof, switching to infrared when the sun had set, all the while listening to Laws take the mafia men to school.
17
CABO SAN LUCAS. SWIMMING POOL. LATER.
It was Juan Carlos who spoke next. “It’s about the girl, isn’t it?”
Laws smiled broadly as he sat in his chair, legs crossed, drink in his hand. “Isn’t it always about the girl, J.C.?”
The Gulf Cartel man didn’t smile, nor did he indicate that he thought the comment was even remotely funny. Instead he shook his head. “This is a mistake, you know.”
“A mistake to take the girl, or a mistake to know about it?” Laws leaned forward. “You see, I don’t think you took her. None of you. But what I do know is that you’re all wired so tight into the day-to-day activities of this town that nothing passes through Cabo without your knowledge.”
Juan Carlos’s eyes flicked to Ramon. “Did you ask this one?”
Laws glanced at Ramon, whose face remained placid in the creeping shadows of the night. “He’s the one who helped us find you.”
Juan Carlos sneered. “Of course he did. I wouldn’t expect the likes of him to do anything else.”
“But you know about the girl. You admitted it.” Laws uncrossed his legs and stood. He handed his glass to J.J., who took a sip and made a face, expecting to taste liquor.
“We all know about the girl,” Juan Carlos said.
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
Juan Carlos and Jaime closed their eyes.
Laws stepped closer. “Come on, Mike. Talk to me.”
“Dude, you know what El Diablo right here is going to do to us once we talk, right? That fucker is going to kill us as sure as I’m hanging here.”
“You mean, Ramon?” Holmes glanced at the man. “No, he won’t.”
“Yes, he will,” Jaime said with absolute conviction.
“No, he won’t, because he’s going to travel with us to wherever the girl is, which will give you time to pack up and get out.”
The others opened their eyes and seemed to exchange some unspoken agreement in their gazes. It was Juan Carlos who spoke for them. “Leprosos.”
“What?” Laws creased his brow. “You’ll have to excuse my Spanish. It’s a bit rusty. Did you say leprosos?”
Juan Carlos nodded.
Laws turned to Ramon. “Does he mean lepers?”
Ramon stared hard at Juan Carlos. “It’s what it means, but I don’t understand it.”
Laws made a face. “Lepers as in their skin rots and their fingers fall off? Lepers like in the Bible kind of lepers? Those kind of lepers?”
“Are there any other kind?” Holmes asked. “Find out where they took her.”
“Where’d they take her?” Laws asked, rounding on Juan Carlos.
“The mainland. They took her by boat.”
“Yeah, but where?”
It was Jaime’s turn to speak. “They came from Alamos. We tracked them as they left, but didn’t think nothing of them.”
“What do we know about Alamos?” Laws asked Ramon and J.J.
J.J. shrugged. “Old city. Colonial.”
Ramon nodded in agreement. “About six hundred klicks.”
“And the giant fucking fish?” J.J. asked. “Ask him about the giant fucking fish that doesn’t exist.”
Jaime tilted his head. “Lots of strange fish in the Sea of Cortez. Could be anything.”
They were interrupted by a strangled cry from the roof.
Holmes leaped up and ran to the front gate, where he immediately began to open fire with an HK.
J.J. tied off the hostages to keep them from drowning, then ran to help. Laws grabbed his rifle and checked the rooms to make sure no one was breaking in through the barred windows. Ramon stood staring at the three dangling cartel members.
18
CABO SAN LUCAS. ROOFTOP. NIGHT.
Walker saw Yank turn a man into a pretzel, then hurl him to the street below. But he didn’t have a moment to admire Yank’s graceful martial-arts skills. Instead, Walker ducked a knife to his own face, then brought his hand up and grabbed his attacker’s throat, simultaneously pulling and squeezing, until his opponent had no choice but to drop his weapon and try and free himself. Walker kicked out, sending him twisting to the street to join his cohort. He landed with a wet sound and didn’t move again.
Walker wasn’t sure how the attackers had made it to the roof. Although it was really too much area for two men to cover, they should have noticed. Probably the combination of the activity on the streets and listening to the interrogation near the pool had conspired to create the perfect window for the attackers to pass through. They’d survived this time, but the next time they might not be so lucky.
Walker heard the sound of gunshots from below, which meant they, whoever they were, were trying to breach the front gate. The shots weren’t suppressed and sounded like nines.
“Ghost proper, this is Ghost Four, we have beegees on all sides, closing in. Recommend regrouping at point Bravo.”
“All Ghost, this is Ghost proper, bug out. I repeat, bug out to point Bravo.”
It was now officially every man for himself. That said, Walker had the sniper rifle and a duty to make sure the other men made it. He scanned the streets, counting five, ten, fifteen bodies moving from the north. Another ten were moving from the south. They’d seriously underestimated the effects of capturing these Mexican mafia facilitators. Triple Six had unintentionally disturbed a narcotrafficking anthill.
Yank dispatched one more man; then he was over the side, carrying his own battle into the streets and alleys.
A burst of nonsuppressed automatic fire blasted through the night like a volcano eruption. Triple Six had arranged to pay the police to look the other way, but this was too much to pretend not to notice. The police would be coming most ricky tick now that the sounds of the battle were carrying toward the tourist areas.
Walker ran across the roof, aiming for the front of the building. He glanced into the courtyard and saw that the ropes had gone slack. All three men were floating in the pool, dead and drowned. Not supposed to have happened.
When he reached the front, he saw a group preparing to rush the doors. He shouldered the rifle and immediately opened fire, taking most of them down in controlled three-round bursts. Those who remained scattered, as the combined weapons of Holmes, Laws, and J.J. forced them back. Seconds later, the three ran out the door and into the street.
Walker lay prone and followed their transit, only once having to fire during their retreat to stop a pursuer.
The others had escaped. The only problem was that he was alone now. He collected the alarms and shoved them into a pack. He glanced again into the courtyard to see if he’d missed anything. He’d yet to see Ramon, but that guy had a way of moving faster than expected. Except for the three bodies, the courtyard was empty. Strange that they were dead. It wasn’t like anyone on the team to kill so indiscriminately. He found his way to the back side of the roof, and after checking, let himself down. He crept to the corner and looked out. A single man stood in the middle of the road preparing to fire at the backs of Holmes and the others. But as Walker watched, a blur ran into the man, slowed to momentarily reveal the figure of Ramon, then sped on. The man stood for a moment, then fell, a knife solidly in his back.
19
CABO SAN LUCAS. EARLY MORNING.
Triple Six met in a warehouse along with J.J. and Ramon. No one was badly wounded, although Laws and Yank had their share of bumps and bruises. They briefed each other on what they’d seen. That all three mafia members had been killed was an issue, but there was no one to firmly blame. Although J.J. was the last one left with the tied-off ropes, Ramon was the last one in the courtyard. It didn’t take a genius to speculate the rest. Looked like Mike Sanchez had got
ten it right after all.
How they’d been discovered was also of no interest to them. It’d been bound to happen. They could have papered the streets of Cabo with dollar bills and still had someone check them out. The money, combined with the sudden and very public abductions of several prominent cartel members, was enough to get every wannabe-lone-ranger-gunman running to their aid. After all, if they were rescued, how much would their rescuer be rewarded?
But they did have two problems. They’d been forced to leave most of their stuff behind and J.J. had found out that his boat had gone missing, which meant that they had no obvious way to cross the Sea of Cortez.
As far as resupply, they could have weapons, ammunition, and equipment delivered by an NSW support team within eight hours, but they didn’t want to stay in place to wait for it. Time was ticking and every hour, every minute, every second might make the difference between the girl’s life or death. As it was, they felt like they’d finally made a break and didn’t want to lose their lead.
Ramon came up with one possible solution. He knew several smugglers with ships. They could stow away beneath the waterline and make the mainland in twelve hours. Add an additional three-plus hours to travel by road to Alamos, and it was an almost fifteen-hour trip.
Too long.
Too much could happen in fifteen hours.
They had to figure out a way to shorten the distance. Twenty minutes and a few shouted negotiations later, Holmes had the solution. They made it to a quay beyond the resort area and rendezvoused with the Mexican navy. A CB 90 combat boat capable of forty knots waited for them. Once they boarded, it tore away from shore, heading roughly due east, at a steady thirty-seven knots.
The SEALs found spots both on and below deck to sleep. Ramon, on the other hand, found himself incapable and tossed around like a wet cat.
Two hours after the sun rose, the CB 90 slowed. An MH-53 Pave Low helicopter bearing Mexican military idents appeared, flying low over the water. It flared above the rocking vessel and ropes uncurled, with Palmer rigs at each end. Each SEAL slid into a rig, as did Ramon, and the helicopter took off, turning and heading into the sun, the men dangling like hooked fish above the choppy water.