by Frank Perry
dark, but someone lit a cigarette showing two men sitting on the porch. He then moved into position to view the front and identified two more men.
His earpiece sounded, “Stokes, come in.”
“Stokes here.”
“I ident four sitting, two front, two back. Confirm.”
Stokes replied, “Roger. Confirm also two by two.”
Peter came back, “Let’s get them sitting. You take front, I’ll take back -- on my mark.”
“Roger that.”
Simultaneously, both Rangers moved slowly to the sides of the house. Peter went toward the rear corner and Stokes to the front. Timing was important. The wind noise helped them move undetected.
Stokes whispered, “In position.”
Peter replied, “Prepare to engage.” This signaled Stokes to cock his weapon.
The distance both needed to cover from their respective corners to the sitting guards was about thirty feet, a little over one second away. “Ready. Mark!”
Peter stepped from the corner walking fast directly at the two men. He switched on his gun light, which was fastened to the barrel with Velcro straps. Both men were startled, and one fell backward in his chair, while the other reached for his automatic rifle. He yelled, “DON’T MOVE!” He didn’t care if they understood the language, they understood the instruction. The fat man who fell tried to roll and grab his gun, while the standing man glared, frozen in place.
Peter momentarily focused the light beam directly in the face of the down man, “I said, don’t move!”
The standing man then made a move for his weapon, and Peter fired twice into his upper body, and then aimed back at the down man who covered his head with his arms. The man who was shot stood motionless for half a second before falling to his knees, trying to grasp something unseen to break his fall. He slumped face down on the patio deck. Peter couldn’t be sure how badly hurt the man really was, he hadn’t been able to aim.
Peter signaled the fallen fat man who was now whimpering something in Spanish, to get up. Peter assumed the down man was dead, but shot him again in the back of the head, not wanting any surprises. He called Stokes. “Are you clear?”
“Clear.”
“Good. Bring them to the rear.”
“Roger.”
About a minute later, Stokes rounded the corner following two Mexicans, with their hands behind their heads. “Good work, Striker Two.”
“Looks like you had a little more trouble than me.”
“Yeah, that one wanted to be a hero.”
Peter ordered two men face down on the ground and put one in a chair, while Stokes guarded the others. The man sitting was the fat one that had fallen over. He was still whimpering as Peter forced him to sit next to the bloody corpse. He stood in front of him with his M4 aimed at the man’s face asking, “Where is Padilla?”
The man was shaking uncontrollably, “No sabe, Señor, no sabe!”
Peter rocked forward within a foot of his face, “Padilla! Tell me, or join your friend in hell!”
One of the men on the ground spoke, “He does not know, Señor. El Commandante, he does not tell us this.”
“Well, then. You are all worthless, so I will kill you now.”
“WAIT! Wait! Please, Señor. We can tell you.”
Stokes was looking at Peter in disbelief. He had never seen him ready to kill in cold blood.
Peter responded with his gun aimed at the talker on the ground, “Tell me what? Speak now, or you will never talk again.”
“Please, Señor. Jefe Padilla is coming home.”
Putting his foot on the man’s back and resting his gun muzzle by his ear. “When?”
“We do not know. He was to be home soon after his work.”
“Where is his work?”
The man on the ground next to the talker gave a warning in Spanish, and Peter stomped his combat boot hard into the back of his neck, temporarily paralyzing the man. “I said, where is his work?”
“Please, Señor, we do not know certainly, but he had Miguel, Que descanse en paz (rest in peace), take him to the old part of federale prison, 'Centro Federal de Readaptación. It is located in Almoloya de Juárez.”
Peter told the man to stand, while Stokes pushed the fat man from the chair back to the ground. “Tell me about this prison.”
“It is very old, from the time of Francisco Villa.”
“When is he coming here?”
“I do not know. I swear! He said after some work at the prison.”
Peter could guess at the work. He ordered the man back down and Stokes to guard them. He prayed that his cellphone would connect through one of the towers in El Paso. He stepped out of earshot from the guards and dialed the number. This time, Vitale answered on the first ring.
Peter demanded, “Tell me what happened?”
Vitale spoke nervously, “Look, Major. I tried. I really tried.”
“Calm down. Tell me what happened.”
“Well, he won’t stop the execution and the other things.”
“What other things?”
Vitale couldn’t speak for several seconds, “He’s having his killers do things to her, before ... ”
“You worthless shit, didn’t you get anything!”
“Major, he agreed to hold off till ten o’clock. That’s all.”
“Why ten?”
“Because. Because he thinks I might get him a billion dollars.”
“What! He’s ransoming her?”
“Well, no. He’s playing a sick game.”
“What game?”
“He knows I won’t get the money.”
“Did you try?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no one in Government that would approve that!”
“Look you spineless wimp, you try. AND, YOU GET ME MORE TIME! I know where she’s at.”
“Oh good. We can call the police.”
“The police have her, you moron. Now get me more time!”
“What if I can’t?”
“Then say your prayers, because I’m coming back to Washington!”
Peter ended the call, hoping fear would work in his favor. It was only a couple hours before Rachael would be dead -- or worse.
Returning to Stokes, he started to say something when they heard a car driving down the dirt road toward Padilla’s ranch. “John, keep these guys quiet, I’m going out front.”
“I’ve got ‘em. But be careful, Peter.”
Peter was gone.
As he neared the front corner of the house, the car slid in loose gravel, stopping with a dust cloud encasing it and swirling in the headlight beams. The driver exited in the fog and walked toward the house yelling, “Renato, Angel, dónde estás?” He was another fat man in a poorly pressed suit coat, “Dónde estás?” With no reply, he pulled a pistol from his shoulder holster and crouched painfully, trying to look through the front windows to the back. He moved in Peter’s direction. Midway to the corner, Peter stepped from the darkness, “Drop it!”
The man started to raise his weapon, and Peter shot a short automatic burst, hitting him in the stomach and throat. The man dropped his gun and fell to his knees holding his neck before rolling over. Peter took careful aim and shot him again in the chest, and then walked toward the car. Inside, Padilla strained over the front seat, trying to put the car in reverse. Peter shot both front tires then moved beside the car.
Several bullets were fired from inside the car, shattering windows, but all missed, as Peter returned fire with an automatic burst through the front driver’s window. This scared Padilla, who threw out his gun. Peter yelled, “Get out of the car! Get out now!”
The rear door flew open on the opposite side, and Peter moved around, aiming at Padilla. A quick check of the car showed no more occupants.
“Up against the car! Hands on the roof! Spread your feet!” Peter kicked Padilla’s feet farther apart as he patted him down, careful to check for an ankle
gun, popular with police.
He spun him around, pressing his rifle below his chin, “Major Padilla, how good of you to drop in again. Remember me?”
Padilla was petrified, and Peter smelled urine. He roughly pulled Padilla in front of the car, into the lights, throwing him in the dirt. Padilla tried to regain some balance on all fours, but Peter kicked him onto his side. Padilla put his hands in front of his face in a reflex action.
Peter yelled, “Look at me! Look good! I’m the last face you’re going to see on this earth.”
Stokes was still in back, unable to see anything in front except rippling shadows in the headlights shining through the darkened house. Padilla defiantly tried again to roll onto his side when the gun blast ripped through his right elbow. He fell screaming onto his back cradling his severed arm when Peter fired another burst, exploding the right knee.
“Stop crying, or you lose the other leg and arm! You apparently didn’t take me seriously last time.”
Padilla cried, “PLEASE! Please, Señor! No more! Why are you doing this? Why? I have done nothing to you!” Padilla was bawling hysterically.
“That’s not important. It’s important what you will do.”
“Anything! Anything! Just let me live!”
“Remember our little game? Now think about your left knee. I have several magazines of ball shot ammunition that I’m going to use, first cutting off your remaining leg.”
“No! No! Don’t do that! I will do anything — please don’t shoot me again. Please!”
“Where’s Rachael Aston?”
“I don’t – wait! I will tell you!”
“Talk fast.” He was standing over Padilla, aiming at his remaining leg.
“She is with Cardenas at 'Centro Federal de Readaptación.”
“Good. How do we get in there? Be careful how