Barracuda

by Richard Turner

  Close protection was not a task usually given to Mitchell and his people. With his extensive police connections, Luis Ortiz, the deputy director of Polaris—the company they all worked for—should have been running the assignment. However, his sudden and unexpected resignation from the organization to move back home to Miami to look after his ailing mother and father had necessitated a change. Mitchell and his team had stepped up to the plate and were assigned the job of protecting Mrs. Milos during her whirlwind visit to the States.

  Dressed in a comfortable-fitting gray suit that hid his shoulder holster, Mitchell waited patiently for the session to wrap up. He was a tall man, standing at just over two meters, with penetrating blue-gray eyes and a trim athletic build that he kept in shape through a regimen of running and many hours spent at the local gym. He had thick brown hair that he liked to keep cut short, a holdover from his former military days.

  A sudden voice came through Mitchell’s earpiece. It was his close friend and teammate, Nathaniel Jackson. “All quiet out here. The police escort just arrived, and Mrs. Milos’ bodyguard is bringing her ride around to the front door.”

  “Got it,” replied Mitchell into the mic hidden in his jacket cuff. “I expect that we’ll be on the move in the next ten minutes or so.”

  “Don’t take too long. Mrs. Milos’ bodyguard is a really nervous sort. He’s sweating bullets out here.”

  Mitchell’s mouth twitched into a brief grin at his friend’s words. Although Elena Milos preached non-violence, her words had incited some of the radicals on both the left and the right of the political spectrum to take exception. With dozens of death threats hanging over her head, Mitchell knew that being her protector was probably a well-paid, but nerve-wracking, job.

  Ryan trusted Nate to stay on top of things outside. Nathaniel Jackson, ten years senior to Mitchell, was tall, with a smooth-shaven head, large, broad shoulders, and powerful arms. He always seemed to have a few extra pounds around his waist that he swore were coming off—not that they ever did. His wife loved to cook and he loved to eat. And his usual second breakfast of jelly donuts with his morning coffee didn’t help, either. However, he could easily bench press his own weight or step into in a boxing ring with a man half his age and come out on top. He’d helped Ryan out of more scrapes through the years than he could count.

  With the grace of a jungle cat, Samantha Chen slid in beside Mitchell. Like him, Sam, as she preferred to be called, was wearing a light-gray suit that fit her lithe, petite form. Her short stature and delicate, feminine appearance, however, were deceiving. She was just as deadly with a rifle as any man on the team, and her medical skills were beyond compare.

  “Gordon is taking one last stroll around the grounds, and should be back in the next minute or two,” Sam said softly.

  Gordon Cardinal was the fourth permanent member of the team. A tall, slender man with a thick, black goatee, he was the team’s sniper and surveillance expert. Where Sam was excitable, Cardinal was always as cool as a mountain glacier.

  “Thanks,” Mitchell replied. He nodded to the entryway. “Take the post by the door, and be ready to move the minute she’s done.” With everything set, all they could do now was wait.

  On a slender game trail in the thick woods, not five hundred meters from the lodge, ten men dressed in camouflage uniforms silently climbed out of their rented trucks. They jammed home fully-loaded magazines into their automatic weapons, and readied their assault rifles. One by one, they pulled down camouflage masks, hiding their faces. Once they were ready, they quietly made their way up the side of the mountain, the men moving with military precision through the trees in the direction of the lodge. Less than one hundred meters from the building, on a silent signal, they split into three groups. Two teams armed with RPGs crept forward until they could see the row of cars parked in front of the building. The other six men stopped where they were, attached suppressors to their MP7 submachine guns, and waited for the order to strike.

  A broad-shouldered man in the middle of the attackers got down on one knee and signaled to his men to do the same. He checked his watch. From beginning to end, he expected the mission to take less than three minutes. The hit squad under his command was a mix of ex-military and police forces. All highly trained and brutally efficient assassins, these men killed without remorse.

  Enthusiastic applause filled the room as Mrs. Milos wrapped up her speech. She smiled at her colleagues. “Thank you for taking the time to listen to my presentation. Unfortunately, I cannot stay, as I am due in Washington later today.”

  That was the cue Mitchell had been waiting for. “Okay folks, game on,” said Mitchell into his mic. Quickly moving into the hallway on an intercept course, he waited for Mrs. Milos to finish speaking with Mrs. Fairway.

  Outside, a small procession of vehicles stood ready to take Elena Milos away. Police cruisers led the way in front and brought up the rear. In the middle sat two armored Hummers.

  “Remember, folks,” Mitchell said into his mic, “as per their plan, I’ll be in the first vehicle with the bodyguard, and the three of you will ride in the second Hummer.” Mrs. Milos was headed in his direction, so Mitchell added one more comment. “We’re on the move.”

  Sam and Cardinal held the doors open as Mitchell walked outside, closely followed by Mrs. Milos. Once he’d crossed the threshold, he stopped and quickly glanced around. Everything and everyone was where they should be. Jackson stood by his Hummer. Elena’s bodyguard held the rear driver’s-side door open for her, and the car’s driver, a retired local police officer, sat patiently behind the wheel.

  “Is there something wrong, Mister Mitchell?” asked Elena from behind him. Her mother tongue may have been Greek, but she spoke fluent English with a slight New York accent, from her time spent working at the UN.

  “No ma’am, just taking a quick look to make sure that everything is in order,” he replied.

  “And is it?”

  “Looks that way.” Mitchell walked straight towards the first Hummer.

  The attack was sudden and deadly. The two police cars, parked ten meters down the trail, were struck by rocket-propelled grenades and exploded instantly, killing the four officers trapped inside.

  The shock of the twin blasts momentarily stunned Mitchell, but a second later, his years of training and experience kicked in. He reached over, grabbed Mrs. Milos by the arm, spun about and ran back to the lodge’s open front door, shielding her the whole way with his body. Sam and Cardinal both instinctively dropped to one knee. They held the doors open for their friends with their backs. They had each drawn their concealed pistols and were surveying the hellish scene in front of them, seeking their unseen attackers. Jackson was right behind Mitchell, running hell bent for leather for the door. Unfortunately, Milos’s bodyguard was cut down in a hail of bullets, just as two more RPG rounds slammed home, this time taking the two Hummers with them. The driver of the lead vehicle, frightened and confused, had remained in his seat and died in the blast.

  The sound of the cars exploding reverberated down the side of the mountain.

  The instant he was safe, Mitchell drew his pistol and flipped off the safety switch with his thumb. He looked over at Sam and Cardinal, who had followed Jackson inside. “Take Mrs. Milos and find some cover. And find the other women. Get everyone somewhere safe.”

  “What the hell is going on?” asked Elena, her voice filled with fear.

  “Ma’am, please do as you’re told and go with Sam and Gordon,” replied Mitchell curtly.

  Opening her mouth to speak, she appeared to change her mind and, with a nod, she followed Sam and Cardinal down the long hallway to the back of the lodge.

  “Did you see who hit us?” asked Jackson, kicking the front door closed.

  “Nope, but they’re professionals,” answered Mitchell, taking a quick peek out of a nearby window. All he could see was thick, black smoke wafting up into the sky from the burning vehicles. It was only a matter of minutes, seconds perhaps, befor
e their attackers realized that they hadn’t killed Mrs. Milos in their initial attack and would come looking for her. Mitchell knew the foyer was too exposed a location in which to make a stand. He and Jackson ducked down and moved into a room halfway down the hallway.

  “How many women are still here?” Jackson asked.

  “I think twenty, give or take, spread throughout the building, unless Sam and Gordon have managed to gather them up.”

  “I doubt that we can protect them all.”

  “I know. We need to do something, and fast.”

  Their unobserved opponent wasn’t about to let them rest. With a loud blast, the front doors blew apart, struck by a rocket-propelled grenade, sending deadly shards of glass and wooden splinters flying down the long, red-carpeted hallway.

  Both men knew what was coming next. Mitchell dropped to one knee, while Jackson remained standing. With only their heads and their arms exposed in the doorway, Mitchell and Jackson brought up their pistols and waited for the coming attack.

  They didn’t have to wait long. Through the smoke, three men rushed inside with their silenced weapons tight against their shoulders, ready to engage any targets.

  Without hesitation, Mitchell and Jackson opened fire, killing the men before they could react.

  The acrid smell of burning wood and cordite hung heavy in the air.

  The sound of glass shattering in a room across the hallway made both men turn their heads and look. A second later, they heard the sound of something landing on the hardwood floor.

  “Grenade!” yelled Mitchell as he threw himself to the floor.

  Jackson dashed back inside the room and crouched down.

  With a thunderous boom that Mitchell felt in his chest, the grenade exploded, shattering what was left of the room’s windows, and turning a long, wooden table into kindling. Mitchell jumped back to his feet, and looked over at Jackson. “We won’t stop them here. Get back there and help Sam and Gordon find us a way out of here. I’ll try to delay them as long as I can.”

  Jackson was about to object when he saw Mitchell pivot and bring up his pistol up. He fired two shots into the smoke-filled room across the hallway, and Jackson watched as a man who had entered the house right after the grenade blast fell forward onto the glass-covered floor, dead.

  “Now, Nate!” ordered Mitchell as he moved back against the thick wooden wall, using it to shield his body.

  With a curse, Jackson turned and ran to the back of the house.

  Years of experience allowed Mitchell to imagine his foe’s next move. Having met resistance at the front of the lodge, they would begin to move around the building, probing for another way in. The longer Mitchell and the others stayed where they were, the worse their chances at survival became.

  If only, there was another way out.

  Mitchell fired off a couple of quick shots to keep their opponents’ heads down for a few more seconds, before sprinting down the long hallway.

  “Ryan, in here,” called Jackson.

  Mitchell came to a sliding halt, pivoted, and dashed into the kitchen. Inside, he found his team, along with Elena Milos and the rest of the women. Most of the women were huddled behind a long, steel island in the middle of the room, holding onto one another, scared for their lives.

  Mitchell opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by Sam. “Ryan, I think there’s a way out of this mess.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Mrs. Fairway said, “Mister Mitchell, this lodge was built next to a natural hot spring to take advantage of the heat in the winter. There are caves below the house that go for miles. To be honest, I’m not really sure where they all come out.”

  Mitchell nodded. “It’s the best we’ve got right now. Okay. Sam, you and Gordon take everyone with you, while Nate and I try to hold them off until the police arrive.”

  Mrs. Milos shook her head. “These people won’t stop until they’ve killed me. If I go into the caves, they’ll follow me. You’ve seen what they are capable of. These people are savages. They’ll kill you and all of these innocent women just to get to me.”

  “If we could draw them away from the lodge, that could buy us some time,” suggested Jackson.

  “You won’t be able to do that unless you take me with you, and you both know it,” said Elena.

  Mitchell swore. She had a point. He was supposed to protect her, but it was one life for twenty.

  Mrs. Fairway walked over to a wooden door at the far end of the kitchen and opened it. “Miss Chen, please lead my guests down into the cellar. I will join you shortly.”

  Mitchell had to give it to Mrs. Fairway; she was cool under fire. With a quick nod to Sam, Mitchell watched his teammates lead the women below.

  Mrs. Fairway dug into her pants pocket, pulled out a set of keys and handed them to Mitchell. “Take my Mercedes from the garage. It’s a classic, but it still handles well.”

  “Thanks,” said Jackson, grabbing the keys out of Mitchell’s hand.

  Mrs. Fairway turned to leave.

  “Ma’am, am I right in assuming that your kitchen runs on natural gas?” queried Mitchell.

  “Yes, you are correct, and no, there is nothing here as valuable as a single human life,” replied Mrs. Fairway as she left, closing and bolting the wooden door behind her. Mitchell got the message loud and clear—her home was expendable.

  “Mrs. Milos, go with Nate to the car,” said Mitchell firmly.

  As the others hurried to the garage, Mitchell walked over to the stainless-steel stove, bent down and reached behind the appliance. With a sharp tug, he tore out the gas lines from the back of the stove. Immediately, the noxious odor of gas rushed into the room. Standing, he opened the door on a large microwave oven above the stove. Next, Mitchell picked up a flashlight, unscrewed it and placed the batteries inside the microwave. He set the timer, turned, and ran, just as another explosion rocked the lodge.

  They were coming.

  The light bulb in the garage had burnt out. A sliver of sunlight shone through a gap between the garage doors. Doris Fairway’s car was a bright-red, 1961 Mercedes convertible with its top down. Jackson was already behind the wheel. Mrs. Milos had crouched down low in the backseat. Mitchell hurried over to the closed garage doors and peeked outside. He was relieved to see no movement outside. Carefully opening the wooden doors an inch, Mitchell dashed back and jumped into the car, landing in the passenger’s seat.

  “Okay, Nate, drive it like you stole it and don’t stop until we’re at the bottom of the hill,” said Mitchell to his friend.

  “I wasn’t planning on doing any sightseeing,” replied Jackson as he turned over the ignition.

  The hit-squad leader walked past the dead bodies of his men at the building’s front entrance. They had been far too eager to rush inside. They should have tossed in a couple more hand grenades first, thought the man to himself. The noise of broken glass crunching underfoot was the only sound he could hear as he warily advanced down the hallway, his submachine gun held tight in his hands.

  His gut told him to be careful. It was quiet…far too quiet for his liking. Where did everyone go?

  He stopped at the closed door to the kitchen and indicated with his left hand to the two men with him to move past him and enter the room. Both men crept to the door, ready to clear the room, when the batteries inside the microwave exploded, tearing the door off its hinges. The gas inside the kitchen instantly caught fire. With an ear-shattering boom, the kitchen exploded. In the blink of an eye, the heavy wooden door flew straight back into one of the thugs, killing him. The other man was just as unlucky, as a long butcher’s knife flew out of the kitchen and embedded itself in his chest.

  Lago, the mercenary team leader, struggled to remain on his feet. His head felt as if it had just been kicked by an angry mule. He staggered away from the conflagration consuming the kitchen. The only thought in his mind was that he had to have been set up. There was no way in hell a bunch of amateurs could have taken down so many of his
men.

  Jackson jammed his foot down on the gas pedal, sending the Mercedes bursting out of the garage. He turned the wheel hard over to the left, just as the kitchen tore itself apart. Jackson kept his foot pressed down on the accelerator as he wove around the burning cars. Quickly shifting between all four gears, he brought the car’s finely-tuned engine to life.

  Up ahead, two men stepped out of the woods and onto the road. Stunned to see a car charging straight for them, they hurried to reload their RPG launcher.

  Equally surprised at the sudden appearance of the two thugs, Mitchell nodded toward the men. “Nate—”

  “I see ’em.” Jackson headed straight for the pair.

  Mitchell brought up his pistol, leaned over so he could see past the windshield, and opened fire. He knew it would take a miracle for him to hit anyone while shooting from a moving vehicle.

  The car rapidly closed in on the RPG team. Jackson held the car’s steering wheel tight in his hands. He wasn’t stopping for anything.

  Just as the anti-tank launcher was loaded, Mitchell scored a lucky hit. The gunner, shot in the shoulder, grimaced in pain, let go of the weapon and reached up for his wound. The RPG loader struggled to pick up the dropped weapon, clumsily turning to take aim at the speeding Mercedes.

  He was a second too late.

  Struck at over fifty kilometers an hour, the man’s shattered body flew over the top of the car’s hood. The other wounded assassin saw what was coming and managed to roll out of the way at the last second.

  Mrs. Milos let out a frightened scream as the dead man’s body hit the trunk behind her, bounced off and fell onto the dirt road behind them.

  Jackson turned the Mercedes’ wheel abruptly as he took a sharp bend in the road. Behind the car, gravel flew up into the air as the car’s tires fought to keep the vehicle on the narrow mountain trail. The car fishtailed wildly around the bend, Jackson struggling to keep control. The Mercedes’ tires fought for traction and gripped the path just before its rear slid over the side of the road. Like a charging animal, the car sped down the road, away from the scene of devastation behind it.