Moyer squeezed the trigger twice and saw the escaping gas from Rich’s weapon. The three men crumpled to the floor.
Jose brushed past Moyer and stepped to the door that stood between the storage area of the warehouse and the office. Three whispered shots told Moyer that Pete had found more men. He turned and followed his medic into the room. The sound of footfalls behind him told him the rest of the team had arrived. A movement to the left snagged Moyer’s attention. He spun, weapon at the ready. He saw a man raising some kind of automatic pistol. Moyer was faster. The man’s head snapped back, but not before he unleashed a stream of bullets, rounds fired without benefit of a noise suppressor. The sound of it stabbed Moyers ears, but worse, he was sure the sound traveled outside. The flash-bang grenade had been a concession Moyer had to make, but the closed environment most likely muffled the sound. Now he hoped the warehouse would contain the sound of weapons fire.
Most of the space was filled with large bundles of plant material wrapped in plastic. Boxes of smaller bags filled with white powder were stacked in the corner. Moyer didn’t waste time focusing on such things.
He had to make sure the area was secure.
J. J. REMAINED UNMOVING on the shed roof, his sniper rifle at the ready. His breathing was regular, his limbs steady, his heart calm. His brain, however, raced like an Indy car out of control. “Come on, Boss. Come on. Talk to me.”
He knew better than to tie up the radio. His unit mates might need to contact him. The noise of the flash-bang he expected. But the unsuppressed gunfire—exactly the sound he’d prayed he wouldn’t hear. “Someone talk to me.”
He was just about to key the radio when two things caught his attention. First, just moments after the team made entrance, a dirty, ancient-looking SUV pulled onto the street and started north. It didn’t slow. J. J. couldn’t make out the driver, but he appeared to be lost. When the sound of gunfire pierced the air, the car slowed, then sped off.
The second thing J. J. noticed made his heart tumble. Lights in some of the buildings came on. Seconds later several men emerged from the cantina. “Not good,” he said to himself. “So . . . not . . . good.”
THE SUSPENSION SYSTEM OF the ten-year-old Toyota Land Cruiser squeaked with every pothole and bump. That didn’t surprise the driver. The odometer read 212,512 miles. It was a wonder the beast continued to roll. It was the worst rental car the man had seen, let alone driven. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t here as a tourist. He had business to conduct, and if it took a few hours in a creaky auto, then so be it.
A few moments before the driver had turned the vehicle from a horrible dirt road onto an almost passable one. Frontera was everything he expected it to be: small, dirty, poor, and asleep. It should have been asleep. Just as he turned on the main road, he heard gunfire and ducked, lowering himself to the seat. When no bullets struck his car, he pressed the accelerator and pulled away. He had not been alone in noticing the noise. Five or six men poured from what looked like a bar.
The driver didn’t wait to see what happened.
He just didn’t care.
“WE’VE BEEN COMPROMISED.”
J. J.’s voice poured into Moyer’s ear. “Understood. Time?”
“Two minutes tops, Boss. Make that ninety seconds.”
“Number?”
“I count five men. All are armed with handguns.”
“Roger that, Colt. Hold your position. Sounds like we’re going to need you again.” Moyer looked at the others. They’d heard the broadcast. “Doc, Junior, take positions at the window and door. You too, Data.” The three men sprinted to the office area.
“I don’t get it, Boss. We were sure the hostages were here.”
Moyer stepped to the only empty corner in the area. Dark stains covered the floor and the lower portion of the wall. He turned and saw a small video camera standing in the corner. “This is the place.”
“You think they killed them.”
“I think we were hunkered down behind their graves a short time ago—”
One of the guards groaned. Moyer stepped to a dark-skinned man with a beard. He looked to be fifty. Blood oozed from his chest. The man looked like a fish stranded on the dock, moving his mouth to suck in air. Pneumothorax. The bullet had punctured the lung and the pleura. He couldn’t inflate his lungs.
Moyer squatted by him. “Do you speak English?”
The man’s eyes went wide, and he nodded.
Moyer watched the rise and fall of the man’s chest, then at the right moment, he placed a gloved hand over the wound closing off the hole. The man took several good breaths. Moyer saw the fear of death in his eyes. “Listen, amigo, you are going to die, and I can’t do anything about it. I’m going to give you a chance to do one good thing with your miserable life; something you can take with you when you go. I don’t know if it will help or not. It’s just a chance you’re going to have to take. Do you understand?”
The man nodded.
“I only have time to ask this once. Are any of the hostages still alive?”
He nodded. “Two.”
“Where are they?”
He hesitated, but when it looked as if Moyer were going to remove his hand, he said, “The church.”
Moyer nodded. “Give me your left hand.” The man did. Moyer pressed the man’s hand over the sucking chest wound. “Keep the hole closed.” He stood.
“Doc teach you that?” Rich asked.
“I saw something similar during my first tour in Iraq.”
“We have company, Boss,” Pete said, his voice rock solid. “They’ve drawn their weapons.”
“Doc, tell them to ditch the hardware. This will be their only warning.” Moyer started for the office. He heard Jose give the order in Spanish.
“Nuthin’ doing, Boss,” Jose said.
“Listen up,” Moyer said into the radio. “Colt, take your shot. The rest of you open up when the first man drops. Conserve your ammo. We have another stop to make.”
J. J. SET THE crosshairs on the last man. He heard Jose shout something, but it had no effect on the approaching men. He put pressure on the trigger. The recoil surprised him—just as it should.
Before J. J. could bring his weapon to bear on another target, the remaining men staggered and collapsed.
“Colt?”
“Clear at the moment, Boss, but some lights have gone on in the apartment building. If we’re going to bug out, now might be a good time.”
“Bug out!” Moyer commanded. “Colt, we’ll meet you in the alley at your location.”
“Roger that, Boss.”
J. J. snapped the bipod back to the barrel and slid down the roof, lowered himself to the inverted trash can and stepped into the alley just as the rest of the team arrived.
“What now, Boss?”
“We go to church, Colt.”
“Really? It’s about time.”
“On the double.” As Moyer started forward, the back door of a small home opened. A young woman looked out.
“Volver en la casa!”
At Doc’s shout, the woman slipped back inside without question.
Rich grinned. “Doc, you have a way with women.”
“Well, Spanish is a romantic language.”
“Let’s move.” Moyer set off in a jog, his men lined up behind him. His mind raced faster than his feet.
J. J.’S STOMACH TURNED. He would never hesitate to do his job just as he had done it, but he never wanted to become so calloused as to not care that he had just killed several men. He had no doubt they would have killed him or any one of this team. Still, dead men littered the streets. Before the night ended, there could be more. He prayed none of those bodies would be his friends.
CHAPTER 37
PADRE GRADOS NOVENOS STOOD in the dark basement, lit only by a forty-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling. Anytime one of the men above walked across the floor, the bulb would sway, sending shadows dancing like demons around an open fire. Those demons did not frighten him; the ones ab
ove with guns did.
His eyes traced the forms on the old cots. Both slept fitfully, the man more from illness; the woman more from emotional exhaustion. Thinking about what Lobito’s men might have done to these two made him ill, an illness made worse by his knowledge of what was to become of them. He knew what had happened to the other captives. There was no way he couldn’t know. In a village this small, Padre Grados knew everything. Still he stayed. By choice.
He moved to the woman’s side, removed a simple white rag from a bucket of water, wrung it out, and dabbed it on the woman’s forehead. She was feverish, the result of infection that had set in around the raw and broken skin beneath the shackle around her wrists. At his touch, she awoke.
“Thank you, Father.” She offered the smallest of smiles.
“Shush, child, you must rest.”
“I was dreaming of my daughter.” She closed her eyes, and a tear raced to the dirty, feather pillow. “She was happy and safe.”
“The dream is a gift from God. To help you sleep. Perhaps you will have more good dreams.”
“Are you praying for her, Father? You said you would pray for Delaram.”
“Yes, child, I have been praying for her and for you and your husband. All night I have been praying.”
She raised a manacled hand and touched his wrist. “Why are you here, Father? Of all places in the world, why here?”
He had asked himself the same question. Many times. “I have to be somewhere. I serve the Light and light shines best in darkness. This place needs light.” He didn’t tell her Frontera was his home. He had been born here sixty-two years before and had been baptized in this very church. Frontera was his home. It had always been a poor town, but often people do not know they are poor if they don’t know what others have. That was how it had been for him. Poverty was just a word. His home had no indoor plumbing, but he still had a home.
As a boy he served the priest, helping with daily chores and as an altar boy. When he felt the call of God on his life, the village saved funds to send him to a catholic seminary. He had promised to return—a promise he happily kept.
That was before Lobito came. Lobito. The name made him laugh. Hernando Soto had been a troublesome child who grew into a troublesome adult. For decades Frontera had been as peaceful as it had been poor. Most families lived on sustenance farming, but they still knew how to laugh. Padre Grados couldn’t remember the last time he heard genuine laughter.
Hernando Soto and his brother Michael had changed things. The people only grew drug crops now, with just enough land dedicated to feed their families. Soto stocked the store and paid the workers more than they could get anywhere else. He brought technology to the village, but he took its heart in exchange.
The people had modern medicine, entertainment, and more, but they no longer had their freedom, or happiness. Frontera had become a village of zombies, people who did their work because they had no other choice.
A tiny bit of music worked its way down the basement stairs, the sound of a cell phone ringing in the predawn hours. One of the men answered.
Padre Grados heard the sound of running feet.
“HERNANDO. HERNANDO, GET UP.”
Hernando felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see his brother standing over him. “What is it, Michael?” He sat up.
“Trouble in the village. Armed men. Maybe military.”
“Our guards?”
“I’ve just received a report that seven or eight are dead, maybe more. No one wants to go into the warehouse to count.”
“The warehouse?” Hernando swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“You were right to move the man and woman, brother. If you hadn’t, they might be gone now.”
“What is our status here?” He stood up and reached for a red silk robe.
“There has been no trouble here.”
Hernando thought for a moment. “Send our men down there to help. We’ll be safe here. You stay with me.”
Michael sprinted from the room.
WITH THE LAND CRUISER hidden twenty yards off the long driveway that snaked up a low grade, the driver worked his way through knee-high grass. He avoided the road, staying behind low-lying bushes. Every step brought him closer to his destination. He could see lights glowing on the second floor and from several rooms on the lower floor. He still had a problem. An eight-foot-high chain-link fence ran around the property. To his knowledge, only one gate allowed entry, and it was certain to be guarded. Still he hiked up the grade.
He neared the fence and raised a pair of light-amplifying binoculars to his eyes. First he searched for security cameras and saw several. Next he searched the area near the mansion. Movement caught his eye—rapid movement. A pair of vans were pulling away and driving toward the front gate. He had a decision to make. If he approached the gate, the security cameras would detect him; but if the vans were leaving the premises, then the gates would be open.
Tossing the binoculars to the side, the driver ran toward the gate. As he closed the distance, he pulled a gun from the holster behind his back. He no longer cared if he were seen.
ZINSSER WAS THE CABOOSE in the line, Rich just a few steps before him. Six men moving through hostile territory after a firefight, their only means of transportation was their own boot-laden feet. Their survival depended on the ready status and alertness of each man. Six pairs of eyes could scan a lot of space, peer into a lot of dark corners. Six pairs of ears could hear better than one. Zinsser wasn’t listening, wasn’t watching—but he was seeing and hearing.
The sound of a gun battle fought on a different continent rolled in his brain; ghostly images of wounded soldiers and angry Somalis flooded his eyes. His heart began to pound beyond his present exertion.
Zinsser fought the images, focusing on Rich’s back. He couldn’t fall behind, couldn’t give in to the demons. He began to count his steps. He took notice of his breathing, taking slightly deeper breaths and longer exhalations. His boots pounded the hard dirt.
For the moment he could tell the difference between the gunfire in his head and reality. For the moment. He heard distant, tardy helicopters. He heard Brian Taylor calling his name.
Zinsser smashed into Rich’s back, the abrupt stop jerking him back to reality.
Rich turned. “Ease up, pal.”
“Sorry, big guy. Didn’t see your brake lights.” The words were barely audible.
“You still with us, Data?”
“All the way, Shaq.”
Rich eyed him as if sucking the truth from his mind.
“Data, I’m down.”
Zinsser ignored it. He leaned to the side to see Moyer circle his hand, signaling the men to rally. Zinsser stepped to Moyer’s position.
“We have to assume we’ve been compromised and that more men are on their way to make our lives miserable. We have two hostages in the church and unknown opposition. We need to do this fast and surgical.”
Moyer’s voice filled Zinsser’s head, pushing out every other image and voice. Zinsser was grateful. “All we have is the exterior layout. No idea what’s on the inside?”
Jose leaned in to keep his voice low. “I’ve toured many missions. My wife loves them. Lots of them have basements.”
“Makes sense,” Moyer said. “Okay, we assume that to be true in this case. Here’s what we do: two teams. I’ll lead Alpha team; Shaq you’ll lead Bravo. Colt, Data, you’re with me. Doc, Junior, you’re with Shaq.” Moyer laid out the next steps. The meeting lasted less than ninety seconds.
CHAPTER 38
PADRE GRADOS HAD BEEN ordered to stay in the basement. He hated giving the men upstairs free rein of the church. Who knew what manner of defilement they had brought within the mission walls. If the condition of the man and woman were any indication, then Grados could only fear the worst.
The stomping above had ceased, and for a few moments Grados hoped something had forced them to flee. He didn’t know what could force heartless, callous, armed
men to flee, but he’d welcome it.
Hearing nothing for several minutes, the priest walked up the wooden stairs slowly, pausing when he could see the upper floor. The stairs led to a narrow hall that prevented him from seeing very far. He strained his ears to hear the sound of the men and heard nothing. He took a few more steps and paused again. Fear made him sick to his stomach, but he continued up the risers, moving as quietly as possible. “In God have I put my trust: I will not be afraid of what man can do to me.” He quoted the psalm over and over, his voice so low only he could hear it.
The floorboards beneath his feet creaked, and he stopped, as if the sound had turned him to stone. He took another step. The hall ended in the church kitchen. The room was old and the painted plaster chipped, but the appliances were new—gifts from a man who thought he could buy acceptance and forgiveness. Grados wanted to reject the stainless steel, commercial grade refrigerator and freezer, the matching stove and double oven, but Hernando Soto was not a man one said no to.
In slow steps he crossed the large kitchen and entered the fellowship hall, a wide space filled with folding tables and folding chairs. The light in the kitchen had been on, meaning the men had been helping themselves to the food. He wondered when the couple on the cots in the basement had last eaten.
The fellowship hall was dark. As Padre Grados stood in the doorway, light from the kitchen cast his shadow into the room, filling the rectangle of illuminated floor. His heart pounded so hard, he was surprised the windows didn’t reverberate in rhythm with it.
A wide opening in the wall opposite him led to the narthex and the nave. He moved to the door that opened to the large space where the congregants sat each Sunday. The space was much larger than needed. A century ago the church believed the small villages it served would grow and so they built for future crowds, that never arrived. Prayer candles were the only light in the room, but it was enough for Grados to see two men with automatic rifles peering through the shutters that sealed the opening facing the courtyard. The only glass in the sanctuary was century-old stained glass. All other openings in the walls—where glass windows might be in a contemporary church—bore hinged shutters that could be opened and closed from the inside.
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