by Mark Allen
The two gunners stationed at the liquor store caught on that the H2 barreling toward them wasn’t friendly. They raised their FX-05s and began firing salvos at the truck as it devoured the asphalt, coming right for them.
Foxx flinched as slugs caromed off the windshield, but Kane didn’t bat an eye. He knew the glass would give way once enough rounds had hammered it, but they weren’t there yet, and the cartel hitters were firing wildly. They missed as often as they connected. Through the bullet-spalled windshield, he saw a few rounds gouge into the hood and hoped like hell they didn’t screw up the engine. He would continue this war on foot if that’s what it came down to, but he’d rather not.
He wasn’t interested in offering the enemy a fair fight. He just wanted to turn them into maggot food.
The two cartel soldiers lacked trigger discipline and exhausted their mags rapidly. As they fumbled to reload, Kane punched the gas harder, making them believe he was going to race right on by and leave them choking on his exhaust fumes.
But it was a head-fake. At the last second, he whipped the wheel to the left and smashed the Hummer into the pair. One disappeared beneath the knobby tires with a short scream and a wet crunch. The other tried to jump to the side but got rammed by the brush guard. The blow shattered his pelvis and sent jagged bone shards razoring through his bowels. He spun through the air like a scarecrow in a windstorm and crashed through the front window of the liquor store.
Kane cranked the wheel again, slicing the Hummer’s back end around as he guided the truck through a hundred-and-eighty-degree tire-smoking turn to put it back on the street. He stomped the gas pedal to the floor, and the H2 surged forward like a war machine hungry for more blood.
The lake appeared on the left. Two gunmen crouched on a dock with a moored motorboat, rifles spitting fire as the Hummer tore down the road. Directly across from them, two more—the last two, if Kane’s intel was correct—cut loose from the alcove of an accountant’s office. Clearly, the two kill teams hoped to take them down with a crossfire play.
Foxx quickly slapped a new magazine into Kane’s MP-5 and handed it over. He had already refreshed his Uzi. “Let’s get some!” he yelled.
Despite the danger, Kane couldn’t help but grin. The old man was having the time of his life.
The gunners were getting their range. Bullets banged into the weakening windshield. Kane thrust the HK out the window and triggered a six-round burst. Despite still being eighty meters out, he got lucky, and one of the men flipped backward into the water as a round cored through his forehead.
Foxx cut loose with his Uzi, blistering through half the magazine, but the 9mm slugs sparked off the brick wall of the office. The two hitters ducked back into the cover of the doorway to avoid the short fusillade, then leaned back out and resumed firing.
The H2 had closed the gap. The three remaining targets poured autofire onto the windshield. Integrity compromised, the glass let a bullet punch through, and it drilled Foxx in his upper left arm. He lurched in his seat, crying out in pain.
Kane glanced over. The arm hung crooked, clearly broken. Looked like the slug had snapped the bone in two. No doubt it hurt like hell, but there was nothing they could do about it right then.
Kane put his eyes back on the road. “You gonna make it, Foxx?”
“It’s just an arm,” the old man said through pain-clenched teeth. “God saw fit to give me two, and the other one still works just fine.” As if to prove his point, he started firing the Uzi one-handed as they drew abreast of the accountant’s office.
One of the men died where he stood, his chest turned into a sieve. The other bolted from the doorway, making a break for better cover. Foxx shifted his aim and caught the runner in the left hip. The Uzi’s rising muzzle stitched bullets right up the man’s ribcage, and he face-planted on the sidewalk with his heart and lungs torn to shreds.
Nazareno’s squad of killers had been whittled down to one.
The sole survivor cooked off the rest of his FX-05’s magazine, punching a line of holes in the side of the Hummer as it sped past. The Kevlar door panels prevented the bullets from penetrating.
Kane tried to get lucky one more time, firing the MP-5 left-handed. But the cartel gunner dodged to the left and the slugs chewed into the dock, tearing up splinters from the pressure-treated wood.
As Kane stomped the brakes and whipped through another one-eighty, ready to make a second run-and-gun ride down the gauntlet, he saw the gunman jump into the motorboat, toss off the line, and shove the throttle forward. The boat, a Glaston GT160 with a 75HP engine, leaped forward, leaving a trail of churned foam in its wake as it raced for the far side of the lake.
Kane jumped out of the H2, opened the back door, grabbed the M-4 carbine with the grenade launcher attached, and fed a high-explosive shell into the breech, courtesy of Foxx’s armory. He snapped the weapon up to his shoulder, aimed, and fired.
The boat was only a hundred meters out, well within range for someone as experienced as Kane. He dropped the HE round right inside the vessel, and the explosion tore the boat apart, along with the cartel soldier. Sparking wires fused with shredded fuel lines and the wreckage burst into flames, a funeral pyre for the last of Nazareno’s native-country henchman.
Kane canted the carbine over his shoulder as his eyes drifted away from the burning boat to the sheriff’s station on the opposite side of the lake. As he watched, Dunkirk exited the front door and climbed into his Bronco. The sheriff raced out of the parking lot, clearly in a hurry. The sound of squealing rubber carried all the way across the water.
The son of a bitch was trying to get away.
“Oh, hell no,” Kane growled. He tossed the M-4 into the back seat and slid behind the wheel. “Put your seatbelt on, Ernie.” He snapped his own into place.
“What’s going on?” Foxx asked, dragging the safety belt across his chest with his right hand and clicking it home.
“Dunkirk’s making a run for it.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“Cut him off.”
The Hummer shot forward, eating up the pavement. Across the way, the Bronco turned the corner around the northwest end of the lake. A few seconds later, Kane skidded around the northeast corner, back end fishtailing for a moment before he brought it back under control.
The road along the back side of Vesper Lake consisted of a quarter-mile of two-lane dragstrip-straight stretch of asphalt. As the Hummer slid around the corner and blocked Dunkirk’s escape route, the Bronco slowly rolled to a halt. Kane pumped the brakes and the two trucks squared off, engines rumbling.
Kane knew the next few moments would be terminal. One of them was going to die. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, determined it would not be him. Determined to make Dunkirk pay for murdering Luna. Determined to have his revenge.
The Bronco shot forward, oversized tires digging into the road.
Kane responded by punching the pedal to the floor. The H2 rocketed down the middle of the road like a heavy metal beast.
“Yee-haw!” Foxx yelled. “Get some!”
Kane could barely see through the damaged windshield, but he didn’t care. He could see enough to aim the Hummer at the Bronco’s grill, and that was all that mattered. Wind howled into the cab and scoured his grim face.
He didn’t even think about hitting the brakes. He would bash head-on into the Bronco if that was what it took to destroy Dunkirk. He throttled the steering wheel like it was the sheriff’s throat, anger and adrenalin pulsing through his veins.
The Bronco raced toward him, two enemies playing a high-speed game of chicken.
Kane knew they had reached the end of the line. One way or the other, it all ended right here, right now. Dark emotions injected themselves into his bloodstream. He stomped even harder on the gas, trying to push the pedal through the floorboard. The two trucks hurtled toward each other on a collision course, closing the gap fast. The wind whipped Kane’s eyes as he steeled himself to die with his enemy i
n a twisted, fiery wreckage.
Dunkirk blinked.
At the last possible nanosecond, the sheriff jerked the wheel to the left. The Hummer flashed past, missing the Bronco by scant inches.
Kane’s pulse pounded as he slammed on the brakes. Turning to look over his shoulder, he saw the Bronco veer out of control, careening into the entrance of the Cammeaux Logging Company on two tires. The rear end slewed around and then the tires bit into the gravel, sending the truck into a roof-crushing roll. Metal crunched and glass shattered as the Bronco came to an abrupt bone-jarring halt against a pile of logs.
By the time Kane turned around and drove back to Cammeaux’s, the sheriff had managed to crawl out of the wrecked Bronco. His hat was missing, and blood streamed down his face from multiple lacerations. He looked like he had gone twelve rounds with a merciless heavyweight boxer.
He still managed to climb to his feet and start to run.
As Kane exited the Hummer, a roughneck crew of loggers who had been feeding limbs into a large wood chipper picked up heavy logging chains and headed toward him. They all dropped the chains and backed away when Foxx hopped out and aimed the Uzi at them.
“Back up, boys, and mind your own damn business,” the old man growled. His broken left arm dangled at his side, blood dripping from the bullet wound. “This ain’t your party.”
Kane had selected a Desert Eagle .44 for this dirty work. It was an older model, not the modern Mark XIX L6 edition he had brought with him from Texas, but it still bucked in his fist just fine when he leveled it at the fleeing Dunkirk and pulled the trigger. The Magnum thunder sounded like the roar of an angry god.
The bullet struck the sheriff in the back of his right thigh and powered through with enough force to shatter the femur. The leg buckled and Dunkirk pitched forward, his already-battered face scraping through the gravel.
Kane walked over and picked up one of the logging chains, eight feet of linked steel clenched in his fist like a metal whip. Behind him, the rumbling noise of the wood chipper made it hard to hear anything but the roar of his vengeance-fueled blood pounding in his veins.
The sheriff managed to climb to his feet, all his weight supported by his good leg. As he turned to face Kane, he clawed his Glock out of the holster and tried to bring it into play.
Kane lashed out with the chain. The steel links struck Dunkirk’s wrist and crushed the fragile bones like hammered ice. His fingers spasmed open in pain, dropping the gun to the ground.
Kane whipped the chain forward again with a sharp, snapping strike. The metal links coiled around the sheriff’s neck like a constricting snake. Dunkirk reached up and clawed at the steel noose with his good hand, hopping on one leg as Kane dragged him forward until they were standing just two feet apart.
Kane got right down to business. “Got anything to say, asshole?”
Dunkirk’s left eye had swollen shut from getting banged up in the crash, but his right eye glared raw hate at the man who had wrecked his world. “Yeah, I got something to say,” he said, blood oozing from the corners of his mouth to trickle down over the chain wrapped around his throat. “Fuck you, fuck this town, and most of all, fuck that bitch Luna.” A vile, mocking laugh escaped his battered lips. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. We did.”
Kane’s jaw clenched as he stared into the face of the monster who had raped and murdered an innocent woman. He had come to this town to figure out if he could still kill, if he should kill. Now he knew the answer.
He could and he should because as long as men like Dunkirk and Nazareno existed, somebody had to hunt down and exterminate the wicked. When the crimes and the sins demanded the dispensation of lethal justice, there had to be men willing to answer the call.
With a primal roar, Kane spun and jerked the chain with every bit of his considerable power, lifting Dunkirk clean off his feet. Dropping low, Kane leveraged his back muscles to send the sheriff flying over his shoulder.
Face-first into the wood chipper.
Dunkirk managed one short scream that was abruptly cut off by the grisly sound of powerful blades chopping into flesh and bone. The machine sucked him in and dissolved him into mincemeat. His legs thrashed frantically as a crimson slurry spewed from the chute.
Foxx let out a low, appreciative whistle, then broke out in a huge grin. “Rest in pieces, you son of a bitch.”
Kane turned and headed back to the truck.
Foxx called, “Hey, John?”
“Yeah?”
Foxx saluted him with the Uzi. “Thanks, my friend.”
Kane nodded. “You’ve got your town back. Time to rebuild and make it a home again.”
“How about you?” Foxx asked. “Time to go back home?”
“Not yet,” Kane said grimly. “One more thing I have to do.”
Chapter Nineteen
Black Bog Federal Prison
As Nazareno stepped onto the prison recreation yard, he slipped on his mirrored aviator shades to block out the bright sunlight reflecting off the sand and concrete. Two MS-13 enforcers walked beside him, while another pair brought up the rear.
The sunglasses served a second purpose: they prevented the minions from seeing the doubt and concern staining his eyes. Reaper had been on the run for over ten hours now, and all of Nazareno’s cronies had gone silent shortly after noon. Breezy and the SORT team had never returned. His kill squads had failed to report in. Sheriff Dunkirk was missing in action.
Was it possible? the drug lord wondered. Could a single man dismantle everything he had built here? Had one bastardo crippled his illicit kingdom? On the one hand, it seemed utterly impossible. On the other, it seemed like that was the stark reality he now faced.
Nazareno knew of two sicarios, twin brothers, based out of Tijuana who specialized in hunting down hard-to-find targets. They swore no fealty to a singular cartel, but operated as freelancers, shadowing their way through the narcotics underworld while working for whoever paid them their considerable fee. They did not come cheap, but they had never lost a target.
Nazareno nodded, happy to have reached a decision. He would call the twins and pay them handsomely to track down John “Reaper” Kane and kill him. Then he would have them kill every member of Kane’s family, starting with second cousins and carving their way up the family tree. Not quite as satisfying as cutting the bastardo’s balls off himself, charring them with a blowtorch, and making him choke on them like roasted chestnuts, but Nazareno could deny himself personal, hands-on gratification as long as Kane ended up in a coffin.
Yes, the drug lord thought. You can run, Reaper, but you can’t hide.
He reached up and wiped away the beads of sweat dappling his freshly-shaved scalp.
A moment later, his crown of thorns tattoo exploded as a .50 BMG bullet impacted his skull with over ten thousand foot-pounds of force and left nothing above his neck except a few fragments of his lower jaw. His enforcers all recoiled as they were sprayed with wet, sticky muck.
Just like that, the Nazarene Dragon was dead.
Twelve hundred meters away, concealed on a rock ledge on one of the mountains overlooking the prison, Kane lay prone behind the Barrett M95 sniper rifle and watched through the Vortex Viper PST scope as Nazareno’s headless body hit the ground. He smiled.
“Burn in hell, motherfucker.”
He climbed to his feet and started the long walk back down the mountain.
Now it was time to go home.
Epilogue
Team Reaper Headquarters
El Paso, Texas
Kane leaned back in the swivel chair and stared up at the large monitor as the President of the United States shook his gray-haired head and said, “Damn, Reaper, that is one hell of a story.”
President Jack Carter had been briefed by General Hank Jones and General Thurston twelve hours earlier, right after Kane got back to headquarters. Protocols had immediately been activated to deal with the situation, but the President had wanted to talk to Kane one on one and hear the tale in the
words of the man who had lived it.
“Sure is, sir. Emphasis on ‘hell.’”
“Turned out Nazareno’s corruption extended all the way up to the Director of the Federal Bureau of Prisons,” Carter said. “I believe he’s en route to the supermax as we speak. He’s going to go from running the system to being an involuntary guest of it.”
“What about Warden Ghastin?” Kane inquired. “She’s not an evil person. Everything she did was to save her family.”
On the monitor, President Carter frowned. “I hear you, Reaper. Really, I do. But she ordered people to be murdered.”
“Nazareno had men watching her husband and daughter. Did she have a choice?”
“There’s always a choice,” the President said, “and Warden Ghastin made some bad ones. She has to answer for what she did.”
“With all due respect, sir, that’s fucked up.”
“I don’t disagree with you,” Carter replied. “So, I’ll make sure she gets a lenient sentence and gets to serve her time at a camp instead of a penitentiary.” With honest regret in his voice, he added, “That’s the best I can do, Reaper.”
“Fair enough.” Kane leaned forward in his chair and folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Did you get a chance to think about my request?”
Carter nodded. “The Presidential Pardon paperwork is being drawn up. Your friend Pedro is a free man.”
Kane grinned. Best news he had heard in a long time.
“Also,” the President said, “we located his daughter. Pedro isn’t just getting out of prison, he’s getting a family reunion.”
Kane’s grin widened. That was even better news. “Thanks. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”