by Peter Nealen
He wasn’t sure what that meant.
They got past the park, catching a glimpse of some more Policia Militar trucks on the south side. Another couple of Mexican police officers were watching them as they went past, and he was sure he saw another radio raised to speak.
Then the Policia were receding in the rear-view mirror. Until the next pair of gun trucks surged out onto the highway in front of them, machineguns leveled.
Chapter 30
Fernandez stomped on the brake, bringing them to a screeching halt, and broke out in a stream of Spanish profanity that was fast enough—and creative enough—that Hank couldn’t really follow it. But he didn’t need to in order to kind of agree.
“Nobody move too quickly.” Hank didn’t need to look closely to assume that the Mexican cops had their fingers on their triggers. He’d seen too much of the slapdash way the Mexicans treated firearms, up to and including free-gunning a machinegun on the move during a high-speed chase.
For a long moment, the Mexican standoff stretched out. Then a voice called out over the loudspeaker from one of the trucks.
“Gringos! Come out of the vehicle with your hands on your heads! Do it now, or we will open fire!”
“Well, they know we’re not locals. Wonder which of Rangel’s buddies sold us out?” Fernandez muttered darkly as he kept his hands on the wheel.
“Might not have been one of them.” Hank had his radio keyed. He couldn’t send over it without the Policia noticing—and quite possibly opening fire. But the rest of both sections should be able to hear what was going on.
This was going to get ugly. There was no way around it. He didn’t want to kill cops, but they couldn’t be taken. The mission was too important. And his esteem for Mexican cops, after everything that had just happened right under their noses without any of them lifting a finger, wasn’t exactly high.
Just before he cracked the door, he heard Spencer’s voice over the radio. “Copy all. Six Four Two en route. Five mikes.”
That meant they had to stall for five minutes. And preferably not get shot in the process.
“Nice and easy. Let’s go.” He opened the door.
“Are you serious, boss? I ain’t going to Mexican jail. I know too much about that place, and I don’t have El Chapo’s connections.” Fernandez was clearly getting wound up to fight. He hadn’t had his earpiece in.
“Take a breath. Cole’s on his way. We’re not going to Mexican jail. But I’d rather not get ventilated by those 240s before he can get here.” Both mounted machineguns were still pointed at their windshield.
Fernandez grumbled, but pulled his door open, glancing down to make sure his rifle and gear were still mostly out of sight. Hank had already done the same, and he got out, his hands held out where the cops could see them. He still had his pistol under his shirt, but a handgun versus a belt-fed was not what he’d call a great matchup.
Four of the Mexican cops were getting out of the vehicles, hands on their weapons. They were geared up in blue and black fatigues, body armor, and helmets, and their faces were all covered. That was pretty standard in a situation like Mexico’s. Hank had seen it in Kosovo, too. Cops didn’t want to be identified when the insurgents—or the gangs—were targeting families.
The four cops had just started to spread out and advance toward their truck when everything went straight to hell.
Gunfire erupted somewhere off to the west. Then another long, savage burst sounded to the south. An explosion thudded off to the northwest. More explosions ripped through the Hotel Santa Fe ahead of them, belching orange fire and black smoke into the air.
Most of the Mexican cops flinched and started, looking around at the sudden outburst of violence. Hank couldn’t say he blamed them, even though he’d been expecting—no, hoping—for just this eventuality.
Unfortunately, only one of the machinegunners turned away. The other kept his muzzle pointed in their direction.
He probably should have been watching their six instead.
Hank saw the attack coming long before the Mexican cops did. But there wasn’t much he could do about it.
Four trucks came out from behind the walled, fenced-in compound immediately to the west, spreading out as they bounced off the street and onto the empty, open ground between the wall and the highway. All four were matte black, with tinted windows. And all four had shooters holding onto the roll bars in the beds, dressed in black and wearing stylized skull masks just like the one he’d gotten a glimpse of in Potrero de Llano.
The trucks didn’t open the ball, though. That came in the form of a flash of muzzle blast from atop the flat roof that just barely rose above the top of the outer compound wall. A moment later, the first machinegunner—the one who’d turned in surprise at the sudden outbreak of open fighting across the small city—was flung against the truck’s cab in a spatter of pulverized flesh, bone, and blood as the thunder of a .50 caliber rifle echoed across the open ground.
Several of the Mexican cops froze, staring in shock at the splashed remains of their buddy or at the oncoming trucks full of death’s head shooters, an eerie, bone-chilling scream blaring from loudspeakers mounted on top of one of the cabs.
A split second later, the second machinegunner lost his head as another .50 cal round split it open like a melon. Blood and brains flew as his corpse dropped to the bed of the truck.
Hank and Fernandez were already moving, ducking into the truck’s still-open doors as the oncoming shooters opened fire. The black trucks were still moving, bouncing over the uneven ground, so their rounds were going wild, but their sheer volume of fire could easily be deadly.
Hank snatched up his rifle, returning fire past the Mexican cops, even as two of them in front of him were chopped down by the black-clad shooters’ fire. Bullets snapped and cracked overhead, as more of them spat dirt and flecks of asphalt up from the roadway, sparked off vehicles, or sailed off toward the river.
He didn’t waste time with the masked killers in the beds, shooting over the cabs. Laying the rifle through the “V” of the door, he fired a pair at the windshield of the only vehicle he had a clear shot at, aiming for the driver.
The bullets starred the windshield, but didn’t appear to penetrate. These psychopaths had up-armored trucks.
“Get us the fuck out of here, Ferny!” He hammered three more shots at the oncoming trucks, aiming higher this time. One round sparked off the roof of the cab, a second missed completely, and the third got lucky and caught one of the masked murderers in the face. One moment, the freakish, vaguely canine skull was leering in his sights, the next, as he recovered from the recoil, it was gone and didn’t reappear.
Fernandez threw the vehicle into reverse, cranking the wheel over and almost spilling Hank out of the still-open door as he pulled a sharp J-turn. Hank grabbed hold of the dash, almost lost his grip on his rifle, and stamped a foot against the open door to brace himself. Shoving off his boot, he heaved himself back inside, getting his rifle inside the cab just in time to slam the door shut as Fernandez shifted gears and stomped on the accelerator, sending them surging across the median and onto the northbound lanes.
Traffic had stopped almost completely as soon as the shooting had started, so they didn’t get t-boned. But they were also out from behind the Mexican police vehicles, and exposed to the sniper with the .50 cal across the open.
The truck shook with a catastrophic bang as the first round punched through the body. Two more followed, as Fernandez swerved aside, racing toward the AutoZone on the corner, desperate to get some cover between them and that heavy rifle.
Unfortunately, just then the Mexican cops at the front of the industrial park opened fire.
Hank got as small as he could as bullets shattered glass and tore through metal and plastic. He heard Fernandez grunt, and then the truck was out of control, swerving off to the right again as Fernandez sagged toward the middle of the cab, dragging the steering wheel with him.
Hank had a second to brace himself be
fore they hit the side of the AutoZone.
The impact slammed him against the dash, and he grunted with pain. More bullets smacked into the truck, and more shattered bits of the windshield rained down on him. Miraculously, none of them hit him.
It quickly became apparent that Fernandez hadn’t been so lucky. He was slumped over to one side, blood dripping down onto the seat and the floor, as more bullets smacked into him through the perforated door. He wasn’t moving.
“Six Four Five, this is Actual. I’m pinned down at the AutoZone and have casualties. Keep to the northeast of the AutoZone; the bad guys have a .50 to the southwest.” He got smaller as more bullets tore through the cab, but then the masked narcos, or whoever they were, took the second group of Policia under fire, and he suddenly found that he’d been forgotten.
He reached over to check Fernandez, but he already knew before he felt for the nonexistent pulse. There was too much blood on the floor, and Fernandez’s eyes were open and fixed, staring unseeingly at the center console. The big man was gone.
Dragging his gear and weapon with him, he got the door open and rolled out of the bullet-riddled cab, keeping low as he shrugged into his chest rig, helmet, and go bag. A glance into the bed was all it took; Moffit was gone, too. He’d caught one of the .50 cal rounds that had torn through the back of the truck. It wasn’t pretty.
“Fuck!” He stayed where he was for a moment, fighting to get his breathing under control. He was all alone, and there were a lot of bad guys out there. This wasn’t the time to lose it over lost teammates.
There would be plenty of time for that later. If he survived the next few minutes.
A part of him didn’t want to. But it was drowned out by the snarling, bestial part that was going to tear the guts out of anything that got between it and survival.
He dropped prone, crawling behind the rear wheels, and shifted onto his side, exposing as little of his body as possible as he eased out to try to see more of the battlefield that Highway 45 had turned into.
The Mexican cops in front of the industrial park hadn’t screwed around once they realized what was going on. One of the black trucks was slewed halfway across the highway, smoke pouring out from under the hood, the windshield and windows shattered, the bright scars of bullet holes punched through the black paint all across the cab. The others had scattered, and the masked gunmen were trading fire with the Policia from behind both their own vehicles and the smashed, bullet-riddled Policia Militar vehicles that had cut Hank, Fernandez, and Moffit off.
Hank’s rage built as he looked at those police gun trucks. If they had done their jobs, instead of turning into glorified paid enforcers for the Chinese, then Fernandez and Moffit might still be alive.
He didn’t know that the Policia were working for the Chinese. But it was the only thing that made sense, especially to his rage- and grief-clouded mind.
Fortunately, he was still under enough control that he didn’t open fire. That would only have drawn attention back to his position, suppressor or no suppressor. They already knew the truck had crashed; what they didn’t know was whether anyone had survived.
“Actual, Five.” Spencer’s voice was slightly strained over the radio; he was breathing hard. “We’re behind the AutoZone. Where are you?”
“I’m out front next to what’s left of the truck. I can’t get around without exposing myself.” He took a deep breath. “And I don’t want to leave Fernandez and Moffit.”
“What’s their status?”
Hank grimaced. He’d been afraid of that question. “They’re dead.”
The silence over the radio was deafening. When Spencer finally broke it again, he sounded like a man walking through a graveyard.
“We’re going to have to move fast, whatever we do. We’ve got more movement off to the north. This area is going to be untenable in another few minutes. Torres has lost people, too, and these skull-faced freaks are coming out of the woodwork all over.”
It sounded like Camargo had turned into a deathtrap in a matter of less than an hour. What the hell just happened? It wasn’t as if Cuidad Camargo was a major linchpin in the narcotics trade.
“If you come up on the southeast side, you should have some cover. We can move from there.” He’d have to crawl across the pavement, or sprint like he’d never sprinted before, but he thought he could make it.
“Roger. Thirty seconds.”
Hank got his feet under him, his weapon up and ready. He looked toward the cab, gritting his teeth. Getting Fernandez and Moffit out was going to be a bear…
Then a truck was pulling up in the parking lot between the AutoZone and the warehouse next door, still partially sheltered from the firefight by both buildings, and tan clad Triarii, geared up and armed, were piling out and running to the corners.
Hank waved at Spencer and Lovell, on his side of the truck, to come help him get the bodies out. But then some of the black-clad, skull-masked shooters noticed their movement, and opened fire.
More glass shattered as bullets punched through what was left of the AutoZone’s front windows. Carrington and Brule returned fire from the warehouse as Hank dove for the wrecked truck’s dubious cover again.
Dropping down and shooting under the truck, he dumped one of the skull masks as the man exposed himself a little too much. Then he had to get flat as return fire rocked the truck, the impacts deafeningly loud as the bullets punched through the tailgate and the sides of the bed.
“Hank!” Spencer was down on a knee, yelling over his shoulder as he laid down covering fire. “We can’t stay here! Burn it and let’s go!”
Hank cursed. He’d hoped for something better than an impromptu funeral pyre for Fernandez and Moffit. But Spencer was right. Without a lot more fire support, they couldn’t get the bodies out.
The Triarii had started to get explosives and “destructive devices” more widely issued since the blackouts. A lot of their provenance was questionable, but the situation Stateside had eroded enough that nobody was asking too many questions where they were working. That was why they actually had an incendiary grenade in the truck.
Staying low, he got through the door, pulled the incendiary out of the glove box, and pulled the pin. He took one last look at Fernandez. “I’m sorry, Ferny.” He let go, the fuse igniting with a pop that he almost couldn’t hear over the noise of the firefight outside, and then he was out and running toward Spencer.
More gunfire erupted from the back of the warehouse. More of the skull masks had come in behind them, but the Rodriguez brothers were gunning them down as fast as they showed themselves.
“Get in, get in, get in!” Spencer roared, turning and dropping another skull mask. His pair hammered into the man’s upper chest and he sprawled on the concrete. The gunfire from the north died away to nothing.
Hank vaulted into the truck as Carrington slid behind the wheel and Brule piled into the back seat. Lovell followed, crushing Hank into the middle, as Spencer jumped in the passenger seat and slammed the door, Carrington already backing up to the Rodriguez brothers, who jumped on the tailgate before he pulled a sharp Y-turn and got out of the parking lot, running over one of the black-clad bodies and its skull mask on the way.
Behind them, the firefight between the newcomers and the Policia raged, as the truck that held Fernandez’s and Moffit’s bodies burned, black smoke rising into the morning sky.
Chapter 31
Camargo burned.
From the ridge to the east of town, the Triarii could clearly see the fires. The rattle of gunfire was starting to die down. From what he’d seen down there, Hank didn’t think that was a good sign.
He looked around, taking stock. He’d lost four; Coffee and Vega had been ambushed in their observation point. LaForce and Faris had found them dead in their vehicle, which looked like someone had simply pulled up alongside and mag-dumped through the windows. LaForce had assured Hank that he’d burned the vehicle.
Torres’s section had taken a beating. Six of their
thirty-four hadn’t made it out. They were still trying to figure out just what had happened.
“Who were those fucking psychos?” Spencer stepped up to Hank’s side, watching the fires inside the city. “And what were they doing here?”
“I don’t know. Though I can guess.” Hank spat. “My guess is that none of the narcos working for the Chinese could keep their mouths shut about how lucrative it was, and those bloodthirsty weirdos got wind of it. Then it was just a matter of bringing in enough of them to take over.” He took a deep breath. “And I think our little ‘civil war between the Soldados and the Vengadores’ plan might have helped them out.”
“You think they watched and waited until they were at each other’s throats, then made their move.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.” Hank grimaced, staring balefully at the burning town. “In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if they piggybacked on what we were doing, there toward the end. How much you want to bet that drive-by that got pre-empted was them?”
“No bet.” Spencer wasn’t a gambler anyway, but that one seemed a little too obvious. “I still want to know who they are.”
“There are enough splinter organizations that fit the bill. El Narco Diablo has been getting stronger and stronger over the last few years. Remember that shrine we found down south of Phoenix?”
Spencer shuddered. “Don’t remind me.” They’d actually gotten a bit used to the Santa Muerte shrines that had been popping up all over. This one had been worse, though. The idol had been weirder and more sinister than the cross between the Virgin Mary and the Grim Reaper that was Santa Muerte. And none of them had wanted to speculate on the provenance of the dried blood on the horned altar in front of it.
A lot of the narcos had turned to devil-worship of some form or another over the years. MS-13, who had apparently been a part of the Chinese op on the American side of the line, had started out as Satanists, and were known for sacrificing kidnap victims to “The Beast.”