by Don Mann
The three remaining members of Black Cell waited behind the fence with their weapons at ready. As soon as the shotgun blast went off, the three heavily armed Mexican guards came running toward them, just as they had anticipated. One was shouting into a radio; another held the two pit bulls on a chain.
When the Mexicans approached within twenty yards of the fence, the SEALs opened fire with MP7s and cut them down in a mangle of screams, blood, falling limbs, and smoke. Akil was on his belly halfway through the fence when he saw that one of the pit bulls had pulled free and was charging at him full speed. He reached for his weapon but couldn’t maneuver it through the fence because the right shoulder strap of his LBT low-profile vest had gotten stuck on the end of one of the aluminum threads. “I need help here!” he exclaimed, grabbing the handle of his SOG knife with his left.
Neither of the other two SEALs was in a position to assist him—Mancini was in the process of crawling under the fence on the other side of a rosemary bush and therefore had no clear line of fire. Still, he squeezed off a couple of rounds that skittered along the ground and missed the charging dog. Suárez was already in the yard and out of sight, as he had entered at the same spot as Crocker.
So all Akil could do was focus intently on the massive mouth of the dog, which charged within six feet of him and lunged, eyes fierce and full of fury, sharp incisors bared.
At the last second Akil pulled his head back through the hole in the fence, so that the dog slammed into it with a horrific growl. Akil felt teeth graze the flesh near his shoulder. The beast was trying to bite through the aluminum and get at his neck.
Akil pushed his left hand through the opening and sank the blade of the SOG knife into the dog’s neck. Hot blood spilled over his hand and down his arm as the dog’s eyes shifted from surprise, to anger, to recognition that he was dying in a matter of seconds.
“Sorry, mutt,” Akil moaned.
The dog exhaled its last breath, trembled, and went still.
Counting the seconds until the deadline in his head, Crocker hurried toward the stairway, weapons at ready. He glimpsed an olive-green pickup and armed men through the tall windows and white smoke, pulled the pins on two of the CS gas grenades, threw them toward the front door, then started to climb. Boom…boom! The house shook.
Ninety seconds.
He took the wooden steps two at a time, his heart thumping like a piston, the odorless smoke already finding its way into his eyes. Someone was moving above, and he heard shooting outside along the side of the house where the SEALs had entered.
Sixty.
All his senses on high alert and both the shotgun and MP7 off-safety, straight finger, he reached the landing and was confronted with a choice. A horseshoe balcony ran along the stairway opening on the second deck with two doors on either side and three more doors behind him, facing the front of the house.
Hearing something in the room to his left, he crossed and kicked the door open. Someone was leaning out the window. In a split second he ID’d that person as a male and released a salvo from the MP7 that ripped a T in him—eyes, to nose, to sternum. The man crumpled and turned, trying to hold in the white-and-purple putrid-smelling organs that were spilling out of his stomach. The room contained a desk covered with medical equipment (stethoscope, sutures, syringes, scissors, glass vials), a scale, an unmade bed, and a can of Coke.
No hostages!
Crocker took a deep breath and backed out, crossed to the other back bedroom, and stopped. The door was locked. Ten seconds! exclaimed a voice in his head. From the front of the house, he heard men shouting in Spanish, a vehicle starting, and weapons discharging.
Crocker reared his right foot to kick the door open, but something told him not to. So he loaded another M1030 cartridge into the 870 and fired at the lock. A second after the door sprang, the entire wall in front of him exploded, lifting him off his feet and throwing him against the wooden rail. He held on to keep from falling over. Shards of wood and metal embedded themselves in his face, neck, arms, and chest. His head wobbling, he struggled not to lose consciousness.
Zero, the voice announced as he breathed deeply to clear his head. All that accomplished was to fill his lungs with smoke.
Tears muddled his vision. Through the dust, smoke, and flames, he heard a door creaking open behind him and footsteps running along the second-deck landing. The MP7 lay out of reach, so he grabbed the M870 that lay alongside him. Feeling along the pouch near his waist, he inserted another cartridge. Turning from a seated position, he spotted the blurry form of a man emerging from the bedroom to his left, holding an M4.
Crocker fired first. The M1030 breaching round hit the man smack in the middle of the chest and exploded. Crocker pulled himself up, ran, and stepped over the man as smoke rose from the ghastly hole in his chest. The man’s hair stood straight up.
Suárez and Mancini crouched behind an avocado tree along the front side of the house as white smoke spilled out of the barrels of their MP7s. The bodies of two Mexicans they had just taken down lay bleeding out on the concrete driveway next to a military-green Toyota pickup. Beyond the pickup rose a big black metal gate and a fence covered in red bougainvillea.
Mancini raised two fingers and pointed to the front of the house to indicate that two other Mexican guards had retreated through the front door.
Suárez nodded.
Using hand signals, Mancini instructed Suárez to enter through the side door, which was to their right and about ten yards behind them, while he circled around and bum-rushed the front.
The idea was to trap the two retreating Mexicans in a crossfire before they reached the stairs.
Mancini tapped the top of his head and nodded. Suárez tore across the lawn to the shattered side door. He entered and was immediately hit by a wave of heat and smoke. A fire had broken out on the other side of the front hall and was spreading quickly through the wooden structure.
Through the smoke, Suárez spotted two men kneeling along a wall near the stairway, and he circled to his right through a breakfast room, kitchen, back porch, and media room, to try to surprise them from the other side. The dark-wood-paneled media room was filled with white smoke. Still, he made out boxes of Cuban cigars and glass cases filled with DVDs.
Using his left foot, he slowly pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway. The combination of tear gas, smoke, and heat blinded him for a second and squeezed his throat. Still, he kept his head enough to see something move to his left along the floor.
As he turned, shots rang out. One of them slammed into the door near his chin. Another cut through the web of skin between his right thumb and forefinger and clattered along the stock of his weapon, causing him to let it go.
The MP7 hit the floor. So Suárez reached for his handgun, and in that second he knew he was fucked. He heard a weapon discharge and clenched the muscles in his chest and stomach to try to repel the bullets. But mysteriously, they didn’t come. Instead, they tore into the men along the wall, who screamed and grunted.
Looking up, he saw Mancini step through the white mist, gray smoke still wafting out of the end of his weapon.
“You okay?” Mancini whispered.
“Flesh wound,” Suárez whispered back, pointing to his hand, then bending to recover his weapon from the floor. His arms shook. What he really wanted to say was: Thank you for saving my life.
Choking on cordite, smoke, and tear gas rising from the second deck, his eyes raw and teary, Crocker entered the front bedroom, his mind operating at warp speed, picking up impressions—two windows in front of him, a white wrought iron king-sized bed in the middle, and stretched over the bed, a blue plastic sheet, which had ballooned a foot and a half on the top and sides. A clear plastic tube traveled from the bed to a tank of gas near the wall to his right.
Otherwise, the room was empty. A terrific firing erupted outside, shattering glass and ripping through the clapboard walls.
He knelt, dropped the M870 on the floor, located the SOG knife i
n his vest, and slit the plastic open in one long, careful motion. A pungent gas leaked out.
A chlorine compound, Crocker said to himself, reaching into his admin pouch, feeling for a blue bandana, and tying it over his nose and mouth. Spinning to his right, he rose and kicked out the window, then tightened the knob on the tank, which had an elaborate timer attached.
Under the sheet, he spotted one woman, not two. It looked like Mrs. Clark, and she appeared unconscious. Six leather straps bound her tightly to the bed. Kneeling on its edge, he sawed through the restraints, carefully lifted her into his arms, carried her like a baby to the bathroom, and shut the door. Patches of livid red covered the skin on her face and neck, and her lips had turned purple. He set her down on the green tile floor, pulled open the bathroom window, then felt for a pulse along her neck.
It was weak, but she was still breathing, so he held her airway open.
Akil’s voice filled his ears. “Boss, boss…”
Crocker thought he was hearing him through the headset, but when he looked up through tear-filled eyes, he saw Akil standing in the other doorway—the one that opened to the landing. The left side of his head and his left arm were covered with blood.
“Boss.”
“You intact?”
“Hell, yeah. You locate the other one?”
Crocker shook his head vigorously and pointed to the other front bedroom. His throat, ears, and eyes burned, and he was sweating excessively because of exposure to the chlorine gas.
“The downstairs is on fire,” Akil announced.
“Then go, quick! Find her.”
Akil nodded, turned, and ran, and Crocker heard Mrs. Clark moan. He watched her gasp for breath and cough and a second later throw up greenish-yellow bile all over his arms.
He was pleased to see it, and the surprised look on her face, as he held her mouth open with his left hand and cleared her throat with his right.
“You’re okay,” he whispered. “Bear with me. Try not to make a sound.”
He walked to the stall shower, turned on the water, then picked up Lisa and carried her inside. Feeling the cool water on her skin, she tried to pull away.
“No. Don’t!”
“Quiet,” whispered Crocker, holding her firmly. “You’ve been exposed to chlorine gas, so I have to wash it off your skin and out of your hair and eyes immediately.”
“Take me home, please,” she groaned.
“I will.”
“Don’t hurt me.”
“I won’t.”
He propped her against the wall of the shower and pulled off her skirt and blouse. She stared at him in shock as he peeled off her underwear to the pale skin underneath, covered with patches of red. She shivered against him.
He let go of her and whispered, “Wash your whole body. Nose, ears, throat, eyes, everything. I’ll be right back.”
She nodded, covered herself with her arms, and sank to her knees.
On the landing, he ran into Akil emerging from the other front bedroom. Smoke and flames rose from the ground floor.
“Where’s the girl?” he asked urgently.
Akil shook his head.
“You check all the rooms up here?”
“Affirmative.”
Crocker pointed downstairs. “Find her.”
He entered the bedroom Akil had just exited, pulled a white cotton coverlet from the bed, and returned to the bathroom. There he helped Mrs. Clark out of the shower, and seeing that the patches of red were less livid, draped the coverlet around her.
“Wait here, but don’t rub your skin.”
Then he removed his vest and T-shirt and stood under the water himself. After quickly cleaning his hair, face, and chest, he stepped out of the shower and picked her up in his arms.
“Try to hold on to me,” he said.
“Who are you?” she asked, looking up at his face, which was dripping with water, grime, and blood from the dozen or so wood and metal shards embedded in it.
“An American soldier.”
“Where are we?”
“Cover your mouth and nose with the sheet and close your eyes. This might get hot.”
Chapter Fifteen
Never trouble another with what you can do yourself.
—Thomas Jefferson
Suárez was standing in the front hallway, getting ready to exit out the side door, when he saw a dark head descending through the smoke.
“Akil?” he whispered.
“No. It’s me, Crocker.”
Suárez hurried toward him, thinking he looked like a character in a slasher movie—soaking wet, blood dripping down his face and neck, holding a shroud-covered body in his arms.
“Dead?” Suárez whispered.
Crocker shook his head.
A grin spread across Suárez’s face. “What do we do now?” he asked.
The front door was covered with flames. Crocker nodded to the side one.
Suárez ran ahead and helped Crocker clear the woman’s pale legs through the doorway.
Outside, in the night air, he thought that he admired these guys more than he ever could have imagined. Not only were they the baddest of badasses, but they did their extraordinary work like it was no big deal. Another day at the office raiding a drug cartel leader’s house without planning or backup. No sweat walking through fire to rescue someone from a burning house.
Suárez helped Crocker set the shrouded body on the bed of the olive-colored pickup. The person underneath it stirred, and a woman’s blue eyes peered out.
Suárez patted Crocker on the shoulder and pointed.
Crocker nodded as the woman whispered weakly, “Am I okay?”
“Fine, Mrs. Clark,” Crocker answered. “Lie here quietly. Breathe the fresh air. We’ll get you out of here in a minute.”
As he spoke, angry flames reflected in her curious eyes. Ten yards behind him, the entire left front of the house was engulfed in smoke and fire.
Remembering something, Crocker grabbed Suárez and asked, “Where’s Gomez?”
“He’s waiting near the gate.”
“Good. Stay here.”
“And do what?”
“Talk to her. Tell her a story. I’ll be back.”
Suárez couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Crocker was actually heading to the same side door they had just exited and was about to reenter the house. “Sir?” he called softly.
Crocker paused on the lawn and spoke past his shoulder. “Don’t call me sir. Call me chief, or boss if you want. Call me dickwad or motherfucker, but don’t call me sir. I work for a living.”
“Okay, boss.”
Crocker spun on his toes and entered the house.
He found Akil in a room off the kitchen, kicking in a closet door that was covered with hand-painted vines and flowers.
“Find any sign of the other female?” Crocker asked to Akil’s back.
“Only flour, maize, beans, tortillas.”
“You recheck upstairs?”
“Yeah. Negative. I grabbed some medical papers, which I stuck in my vest.”
“No sign of the other hostage?”
“Your ears messed up? No.”
“Where’s Manny?” Crocker asked.
“Out by the pool, checking the cabanas.”
He’d forgotten about the grounds.
“Anything else I need to know?” asked Crocker.
“Yeah. In about five minutes the Federales are gonna be swarming all over this place,” Akil growled.
“Right.”
“And this guy’s got an amazing porn collection and a Pirates of the Caribbean poster signed by Johnny Depp.”
“What we need is a helo.”
They checked the rooms at the rear of the house, looking for hidden chambers or a basement of some kind, before the smoke started to overwhelm them. Then they escaped out the back, where darker smoke obscured the sky. When Crocker tried to use his headset, he discovered it wasn’t working, because part of it had melted from the flames an
d heat.
Turning to Akil and pointing to his, he asked, “Yours working?”
“My gear always works.”
“Tell Manny we’re on our way, and tell Suárez we’ll be at the front gate in five mikes,” he said to Akil, who did and reported back.
“Gomez and Suárez are both freaking out.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
Crocker pointed toward the pool, which was lit from inside and looked like a cool, inviting dream. They sprinted across the lawn and past it to the cabanas, where they found striped towels, mattress pads, inflatable pool toys, and a stack of magazines.
Crocker slapped Akil on the shoulder and led the way to the stables, where they caught up with Mancini.
“Find anything?” Crocker asked.
“Horseshit and bridles,” Mancini replied, kicking some of the former from the bottom of his boot.
“I was thinking in terms of a second hostage.”
“I found a pink bikini in one of the cabanas and a woman’s headband,” Mancini replied, pulling them out of his back pocket.
“Which means a woman was there. Any woman. Anything else of significance?”
“Like a fresh grave? No.”
Crocker tossed the bikini and headband to the ground as flames from the burning house licked the sky. There was still a lot of ground to cover, so he decided to bridle one of the stallions.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Crocker said, thinking out loud. “Manny, you’re gonna inspect the barn and sheds along the front fence while I check out the landing strip and hangar.”
“What about me?” Akil asked.
“You still have your camera?”
“Yeah.”
“Run back to the gate. Have Gomez and Suárez move the vehicles away from the house. Then reenter the front gate and photograph the faces of any of the dead Mexicans you can find.”