by Don Shift
Sibley watched the chain-smoking sentry from the end of the alley for a few minutes. As the sentry leaned against the fence, Sibley slowly crept down towards him, pausing behind a trash can or overgrown clump of vines. It was doubtful that the sentry had a night vision device, but he wouldn’t take any chances. One-hundred feet away, he waited with his weapon held at the ready for the sentry to stand up and step out again. Finally, the sentry began to pace.
Timing his steps to land with the steps of the sentry, Sibley crept down the alley. The scent of marijuana was in the air. Rather than shoot the man, he ran the last few yards and swung a lead blackjack against the man’s head. The leather made contact laterally right behind the ear. The bone there was thick enough for the skull to absorb the blow without causing internal damage but disrupting vision and movement as the occipital lobe and cerebellum were stunned.
The man grunted and fell to the ground unconscious. He would have a major headache when he regained consciousness. Sibley tied zip cuffs around the man’s hands and put a strip of duct tape across his mouth. Taking down the prisoner made more noise than he would have liked, so he stood still to listen.
The second sentry wasn’t on the street. Was he patrolling the street? Did he have a bead on his hunter? Finally, Sibley spotted him. The front door sentry was smarter and more alert. He was sitting in a chair in a shadowed—or even darker—area against the house. Sibley sent the second signal code.
Sibley put the dot of the scope on the man’s head. He fired and the subsonic .22 round penetrated the sentry’s eye. The clatter of the dead man’s rifle hitting the ground made more noise than the suppressed rifle did. After moving the body to recover the rifle, it appeared as if the sentry had sat down and fallen asleep.
After two minutes, it was clear that if anyone heard, they were not interested in responding, so he clicked his mic once long and twice short. In a few minutes, the teams had stacked up in front of and behind the house. Dogs in a backyard began to bark. Not all of the men were as quiet or took the obsessive precautions to de-scent themselves before leaving.
Sam took the lead from the back of the house and crossed the yard right up to the backdoor. He turned the doorknob, and lo and behold, the door was unlocked. It was better to be stealthy and take the enemy by surprise rather than blow the door open and charge noisily into the room. The success records from the desert wars spoke volumes about this shift in tactics from the showy, SWAT-team style flashbangs galore assault.
By the time the third man got into the kitchen, a dog inside started to growl. Three sets of heavy footsteps were not the sound of the sneaker-wearing sentry looking for a snack. The dog, a young pit bull, came around the corner and barked. Sam saw it and put a suppressed 5.56mm round into the dog. It did not die quietly. A male cursed somewhere, hearing the shot. The rifle shot, even through a suppressor, was very loud indoors. A door opened and footsteps approached the kitchen.
By now, Sam had a chance to appreciate how small the hallways were and wished his rifle were a carbine to gain a few extra inches of clearance. He wheeled around the corner, rifle up and looking over the sights, fired two shots into the chest of a man in a white tank top. Sam instantly moved forward and shot the man in the head again, just to be safe. In the bedroom, the man’s wife or girlfriend was awake now too, wearing only a t-shirt.
“Let me see your hands,” he ordered. “Muéstrame tus manos.” Instead she rummaged in the nightstand for what he assumed was a pistol. Sam shot her in the back of her head, the bullet passing through and sending parts of a long-fried clock radio around the room. Behind him, he heard a commotion and a door start to open. He wasn’t sure if it was Tyler or Stackhouse who fired, but someone put several rounds through the door into the man behind it. The shots made a distinctive thud as they went through the door and a wetter, softer noise as they hit their target.
A woman in the bedroom screamed and a fraction of a second later, the smoke alarm in the hallway went off from all the hot gasses leaving the suppressors. Sam went back out to see Stackhouse topple backwards with the woman on top of him. She held a knife and was stabbing at his vest. Harmless until she went below the waist, for the neck, or found the arm pits. Tyler was yelling at her to stop. Sam muscled Tyler out of the way, dropped to one knee, and shot her three times in the chest just as she was prepared to lunge again.
“That’s how you do it,” he yelled at his friend over the smoke alarm. Sam shot that too.
Out front, Mr. Sibley’s team perked up at the scream and the smoke alarm. Next door, lights came on as someone lit a lantern or something. The first person out of the door was cut down.
“Sean and David, cover the street. Price, with me.” Over the radio, he said “Sam, get your backdoor guy to cover the north house’s back yard.”
Since all surprise was gone, Mr. Sibley tossed a flashbang in the front door of the house. He and Price went in fast and shot a second man. A shotgun blast came from a hallway but missed both of them. Both opened up with full auto bursts and saturated the area in question through the wall.
A man yelled back. “You killed my wife, putas!” Children were now crying too.
“You shouldn’t have got her involved in this. Come out, we won’t hurt you.”
“Screw you.”
“Have it your way.” A second flashbang was thrown, the pie was sliced, and shots were fired. The man died cradling his dead wife. Price saw the narcos tattoos on her arms and decided that she wasn’t entirely an innocent casualty just trying to survive. An older woman came out screaming in Spanish, cursing the men for what they did. Price put his fist hard into the side of her face and ended that nonsense right then and there.
Next door, Sam gave the order to search the house for intel. Thankfully for the demise of our technological society, all of it would have to be kept on paper. There was a small office that was filled with notepads, notebooks, and maps. All of it got dumped into the backpacks. From the backyard, Marco radioed “We got a car coming up the alley.”
“Take care of it.”
The car stopped behind the rear gate. Marco hid behind an inflatable pool that was filled with stinking water. Two voices chattered in excited Spanish, having found the dead sentry. One of them gingerly opened the back gate, the muzzle of his submachine gun leading the way. Seeing someone inside the house, the man fired a long burst towards the open kitchen door but missed hitting anyone. Marco popped up and shot the man. His partner fired wildly at Marco, except he shot low into the pool where the water quickly stopped the bullets. Now water was pouring out of the half-dozen holes in the plastic. Stackhouse shot from the kitchen, which made the man turn around and run. Marco could hear his feet pounding pavement in the alley. Both men followed and shot the man in the back.
Out front, there were more lights in houses. Armed men started to emerge. David and Sean shot anyone armed that they saw. “¡Váyanse! Get outta here!”
“Dude, we woke up the whole freaking neighborhood.”
Mr. Sibley got on the radio and called the Bearcat in. “We need a hot-pick up. We’re being engaged by the neighbors, over.”
“So much for stealth,” was the reply. “Less than five out.”
Mr. Sibley and Price went back out front to help hold down the street. Resistance was lighter than they expected. It was mostly just potshots taken without aiming. The thought that the baddest of the bad guys weren’t here seemed a little discomfiting. “Sam, you guys about done in there?”
“Just about.”
“Any sign of the woman?” Price asked Sean.
“No Rosie. Notice the fifth wheel is gone too.”
“No good.”
Sam ordered the bodies to be drug out on to the back lawn. He sent Marco and Tyler to do the same thing next door. They had no trouble with whoever’s mother or grandmother mouthing off to them. Stackhouse watched Sam as he searched the bodies having exchanged his fighting gloves for black nitrile ones. A pat-down didn’t make sense because neither of the
men were wearing more than their underwear. Then Sam pulled out his combat knife, a genuine USMC Ka-Bar that his grandfather carried in WWII and went to Iraq when Sam deployed.
“What the heck Church? Are you insane? You’re a psychopath.” Stackhouse asked, his voice rising in pitch.
Sam tossed a wet, fleshy mess off to the side on the grass and stepped over to the next body. “Sending a message.” The man was still alive, groaning as Sam manipulated him. He screamed bloody murder as the knife found its mark and began to cut, quickly falling unconscious from the pain.
The captured sentry was bound to a chair in the empty explosives magazine. He had regained groggy consciousness in the Bearcat as it sped back to the ranch. Other than the bruise to the right side of his head and a pounding headache, the man was outwardly fine. His shirt was stained with vomit. He had pissed himself as well.
Sam handed him a cup of water and two pills. “Take these.”
“What’s in it?”
“Extra strength Tylenol for your headache.” Sam needed the man to be fairly responsive.
“What’s your name?”
“Gabriel.”
“Alright Gabriel, we need your help. I’m going to ask you some questions and I’d like you to answer.” Gabriel answered defiantly. “Come on man, we need your help. All you gotta do is answer some questions and you’ll be on your way.”
In response, the prisoner laughed painfully. “No you won’t. You’ll just kill me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Go to hell. Que te den mentiroso,” Gabriel gasped.
“Watch your mouth. Help me out, and I’ll give you something stronger for the pain.”
“Shove your questions up your ass. You killed my friends. I ain’t gonna talk to you. I got rights, or did you forget about that, dep? That’s right, I saw. You’re sheriffs. You can’t be doing this. It ain’t legal.”
“Gabriel, it doesn’t matter anymore. If you want that pain to go away, you need to talk to me.”
“No! Let me go! I ain’t saying anything, bitch. Put a bullet in my head, I ain’t no snitch.”
Sam looked at Sibley who stood shadowed in the dark, who merely nodded. “Okay then Gabriel.” He pocketed the pills and poured the water on the floor before going outside.
“I don’t think he’s going to talk to us Sam,” Sibley said. “We don’t have time to wear this guy down.”
“I agree.”
Most injured and physically disoriented prisoners are vulnerable to interrogation and willing to cooperate for physical comforts, like pain medication. However, this held true for prisoners of war who were not particularly interested in protecting their honor. Gabriel, as a gang member, defined himself by loyalty to his group. Ordinarily, that loyalty is weak enough to be overcome by self-preservation. That’s why many criminals eventually break down, confess or plea bargain to avoid punishment.
Here was a special case. Smart enough to realize the rules had changed, Gabriel wasn’t going to talk freely if he was going to die regardless. There would be no quid pro quo. Keeping mum would be his final act of retribution. As strong as he might think his resolve was, by nature he was a criminal who looked for the easy way out. Sam just had to provide the easy way.
It was like flipping a switch. One moment, the world was normal, the lights were on, and Sam would never think like this. Now there was no law to stop him and no alternative to getting the information they needed. This wasn’t something honorable men did. Except that honor was just a concept, an expectation that if you behaved a certain, predictable way, your opposite would do the same. It might not be fair, but it made the civilized world work. That old understanding was gone. The difference now is that Sam and his friends neither enjoyed this kind of thing nor wanted to live in a world with it.
“You suppose roughing him up will work?” Sibley asked.
“Absolutely. This guy doesn’t have the balls that he thinks he has.”
“Suspects lie to cops all the time.”
Normally, any information gained under duress is suspect. A torturer can always get someone to talk; the trouble is whether or not they’re saying what they think the interrogator wants to hear. It helps to know enough to know when the guy is lying and telling the truth; he’s just filling in the blanks and giving specifics.
“We know jack. A half-truth is better than nothing.”
Sibley sighed. “Do you know what you’re doing, and can you handle it?”
“In Iraq I interpreted during some intense interrogations. We’re talking Zero Dark Thirty shit. A couple of Agency guys wanted to talk to an insurgent the SEALs grabbed.”
Both men re-entered the magazine.
“Back to beg me again, cabron?” Gabriel asked.
“So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?” Sibley said. He unbound Gabriel and knocked him to the floor. He began to kick the prone man in his genitals and stomach, giving him a boot to the face. The beating didn’t last long before he was secured to the chair once more.
“That all you got?” Gabriel said weakly.
Sibley jammed the probes of a Taser in drive-stun mode into Gabriel’s arm. He struggled against the straps to try and get his arm out of the way.
“Where’s the girl?” Sam asked.
“What girl?”
“You killed a man and kidnapped his wife from Somis two weeks ago. Where is she?”
“I didn’t do nothing man.” Sibley shocked him again. After the sentry stopped screaming, he said “I don’t know about no wife, man. I just watch the street.”
“Then tell me rumors.”
“I tell you; I don’t know nothing. Who the hell are you?”
“A day ago a red truck pulled up towing a trailer. Where did the truck and trailer go?”
“What?”
“Hit him again,” Sam ordered. Sibley applied the Taser. Sam asked the question again.
“I’m not telling you nada. I ain’t no snitch.”
“Now’s not the time for loyalty, you honor-less prick,” Sibley said. He jammed the Taser probes in again. It didn’t fire. “Huh.” He slapped it to no avail. “Battery’s dead.”
Gabriel laughed at him.
“Not so fast douchebag.” Sam pushed the chair backwards, causing Gabriel to hit his head on the floor. The gang member let out a groan from beneath gritted teeth as he saw stars swirling in the darkness of his closed eyes.
Part of Sam was delighted that his prisoner was being uncooperative. Everyone has a desire for revenge. Sam folded over a bath towel and dipped it in a bucket of water, so it was sopping wet before laying it on Gabriel’s face. Sibley looked at his watch and counted thirty seconds. At his signal, Sam pulled away the towel.
The prisoner gulped air like a fish. Sam leaned back over with the towel. “No!” The tight seal of the heavy towel made it impossible to breathe. Trying to suck air through the wet terrycloth only filled Gabriel’s mouth and nose with water.
Thirty more seconds passed before Sam removed the towel. “Where did the truck and trailer go?”
Gabriel choked and spit water out. “¡Me cago en la madre que te parió!”
The towel went back on. Sam poured water from a bucket over the towel, slowly emptying it as Sibley kept count. Water seeped into Gabriel’s nose, filling his sinuses. He yanked at his restraints and jerked his body in the chair. He was drowning. At twenty-five seconds, Sam stopped pouring and put down the bucket. At thirty seconds, the towel was off, and Sibley turned the chair on its side. Gabriel coughed, choked, and gasped for air.
When he recovered enough, Sam repeated his question.
“Place off of Rice. You’ll see them out there.”
That was easy. “How many?”
“I don’t know, a lot. You can’t miss them.”
“What are they for?” Gabriel shook his head. The men flipped him on his back. Sam poured water on to Gabriel’s face. “What are the trailers for?”
Gabriel was trying to keep his nose out of the w
ater but failing. He turned his head to answer. “Women. The girls they grab.” Sam reached for the towel again. “No! Please!”
This time, Sam only poured water for ten seconds before taking off the towel.
“How many?”
“I don’t know, I mean I really don’t know. They wouldn’t let me go over there.”
“Who is ‘they?’”
“The cartel.”
“The cartel?”
“Yeah, you deaf?”
“Towel.”
“No! It’s cartel guys, some of them from Mexico. Sicarios.”
“All of them?”
“No, just some of them. Local guys, mostly.”
“What are the ones from Mexico doing up here?”
“Stealing stuff to sell in South America, India; you know.”
“What are they stealing?”
“Everything. Dead people’s jewelry, art, cars.”
“That’s it?”
“No, just some of it. Look, Mexicans gotta band together. The guys with guns, they can provide food and security from the other gangs.”
“How many other gangs are there?”
“Not like regular gangs, just people getting together to rob from other people. Neighbors, old clicks. The cartel guys, they took over the area and got the others to leave us alone. It’s like protection. Like old knights protecting the peasants.”
“And these knights, they get to sleep with the women in the trailers, right?”
“Man, I don’t know.” Sam poured a cupful of water on Gabriel’s face. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“But you didn’t get none of that? Too bad man.”
“I gotta wife man. I don’t want none of that. It’s not right.”
“Getting moral on me? You’re an accomplice.” Sam put the towel back on. “I need details.”
Gabriel had never been waterboarded before. He had heard the term on the news but didn't know what it meant. The torture was entirely novel to him. Someone more knowledgeable would know that they wouldn't die, but there was no way for Gabriel to know that. Even if he did, it was impossible to tell the body that the symptoms of suffocation and drowning it was feeling would abate momentarily. Seconds stretched into hours. Gabriel felt like he was dying.