by Frank Perry
you answer.”
“You cannot. Only I can get you in.” He moaned and began rolling around grasping his arm. Blood loss from cut vessels in his leg caused Padilla to hallucinate.
Peter grabbed his shirt collar, “What about your guards? Can they get in?”
Padilla was going into shock, saying weakly, “No, no. They cannot ... ”
“Which gate should I use? Which gate!”
Padilla was verging on blacking out, “No gates. Walls are meter thick ... ” He lost consciousness.
Peter left him bleeding in the dirt, and ran around back where Stokes was guarding the others. Stokes asked, “What happened? I heard a lot of gunfire, not all yours.”
“Just a little tussle with your Mexican friend, but he’s in hell now. What time is it?”
“It’s after nine.”
“We gotta go. Not much time.”
“What about these turds?”
Peter flipped back to full automatic, but Stokes yelled, “Peter! We can’t waste these guys! That’s murder.”
“Call it justice for all their victims.”
“We can’t ... ” The machine-gun burst cutting through the row of men was startling. All screamed.
“Peter!”
He responded, “Just some leg wounds. Come on. We gotta go!”
Stokes didn’t feel any sympathy for the wounded men, who had done much worse to their victims.
They jogged back into the brush for the rest of their gear, where Peter used the radio to call El Paso. “Raven, this is strike team, over.”
“Go ahead strike. Raven, over.”
“Raven. Need pickup at point bravo, over.”
“Up in one, Strike. Stand by for pickup in six, over.”
“Raven, get ops working on coordinates to an old Juarez federal prison, the ‘Central Federal Readjustment’ prison.”
“Roger that”
“Strike, out.”
They gathered everything and ran up the road to the turnout used by Guy during Peter’s prior visit to Padilla.
Prison
Vitale had never met Peter, but knew his background from press reports he found online. He was overtaken by fear now that Peter was in a rage and somehow knew his darkest secrets. He needed to do something, or his career would end and probably his life.
He dialed the last number called, and Cardenas answered immediately, “Ah, my friend Mr. Vitale. Do you have my money?”
“No. No I don’t, but you better give up now, and let Ms. Aston go!”
“What, and miss all the fun! I’m about to make a home movie for the world to enjoy. It’s called a snuff movie. I’m sure you will enjoy it.”
“Look, we know where you are and are coming to get you, so you better stop what you’re doing and give up.”
“That is not in my nature, Señor. But thanks for the tip. Adios.”
“But wait ... ”
Fifteen miles south of El Paso, the S-97 settled cautiously in the darkness. Unable to see through the dust swirling everywhere, Peter used his gun light as a beacon.
They could hardly breathe as the pilot turned on the interior lights. They were airborne in less than twenty seconds.
Peter asked the pilot over the intercom, “Got vector?”
“Good to go, Strike.”
“Great.”
At the prison, Cardenas moved quickly down the stairs, walking fast to the cell block. Twelve men stood from the floor when he approached. He ordered several to get to the prison entrance.
Rachael sat upright, startled by yelling and men running. Cardenas opened her cell door, and two men ran in, grabbing her and pulling her through the opening. Rachael screamed and kicked forcefully, but never got balanced before being thrown onto the floor. Cardenas was yelling at another man who manipulated camera and lighting equipment. She tried to crawl, but one of them grabbed her feet and then ripped her blouse open. Cardenas clubbed him, yelling Spanish obscenities. The man backed away as the cameraman continued to test lighting.
In the air, Peter and Stokes were rechecking their gear and looking out the side Plexiglas door onto a moonlit landscape. They’d been in the air only three minutes when the S-97 pilot reported, “The prison is in sight, Strike, dead ahead.”
Peter commanded, “Chief, do a fly-around.”
There were no lights in the huge rectangular building, which was surrounded by weed fields, empty gun towers and rusted barbed fencing.
“Okay, John, here’s what I see. Our best chance is to get on the roof. You take position on the end by all the cars. I’m going inside.”
Stokes replied, “Roger that. I’ve got seven full mags.”
“Here, take these.” Peter handed him three more. “If I need more, I’ll need you inside anyway, but you’ll probably have a lot of squirrels leaving the nest, once I’m in.”
As the plane settled quietly in the center of the roof, Stokes said, “Sounds cool. Let’s rock this house!”
“Yeah! How often do we get to break into prison!”
Both jumped clear before the plane disappeared straight up into the blackness.
Inside, Rachael sat curled on the floor, not able to look at the lights, as Cardenas began giving directions.
Peter ran across the roof looking for an entrance, but all roof doors were padlocked. Moving to the edge of the building, he took a rope from his pack, along with all remaining ammunition, and rappelled down the side of the four-story building. At ground level, he could see interior lights in one section. Moving along the wall, below window height, the first door ahead was standing open.
Deep inside, Cardenas stood over Rachael, “Now, my beauty, the fun will begin. I hope you entertain us.” He moved back to a computer that had video feeding from the camera.
She looked at him defiantly, but said nothing as he walked backward, barking instructions to the three men with him. They attacked together, ripping at her clothing and pressing her to the floor. One man struggled in the excitement to lower his pants. She thrashed, but the man on top was too heavy and smelled like unwashed feet. He was fat, unshaven with bad teeth and greasy hair, and hadn’t bathed in days.
Peter moved cautiously in the dark until he heard her scream.
He ran toward the sound, as she cried out, repeatedly. His adrenalin was raging as he ran down a dark hall, toward the light. She screamed again!
He turned the corner about fifty feet behind the mob scene. His footsteps had been masked by Rachael’s pleading and the men yelling, Cardenas yelling the loudest. She was pinned to the floor by two men, with another on top. She fought as men jeered and hooted. Cardenas was looking through the camera display, and no one saw Peter take careful aim at the man on top, firing one shot into his head. The body jerked violently then collapsed on top of Rachael. At first, the other men cheered thinking the attacker had climaxed prematurely, but then they saw his shattered skull. They released her, as she screamed and pushed at the limp corpse. One man tried to rise as Peter fired a burst at him, hitting him at least once.
The second man tried to roll away, but collided with the opposite cell bars. Peter fired a burst at his back without aiming.
Cardenas threw the camera and tripod at Peter then ran toward the far end of the corridor. Peter ignored him, running to Rachael. One of her attackers was crawling away as Peter pulled the dead one off of her. As the Mexican tried to stand, Peter raised his M4 with his free hand and fired a burst, again without aiming, downing him for a second time.
Rachael clung to his left leg as he turned toward the other wounded man trying to pull upward on the bars only five feet away. He was shot, but still moving. Peter fired several times into his back and head. Hot brass shell casings pinged off the floor around her as she gripped tightly, burying her face in his pant leg.
Men ran toward them from the direction Cardenas had taken. He lifted her and felt another surge of rage looking at her tattered underwear and bloodied body, “
Rachael, sweetheart, we gotta move — fast!”
She showed renewed strength, as she pushed up to her feet, while Peter took aim down the hall. “Run that way!” He pointed to the darkened hall from where he had entered. She was hurt, but she ran in bare feet for the darkness, stumbling on hot shell casings, while Peter knelt, waiting.
Stokes couldn’t hear the gunfire inside, crouching in the dark behind the roof façade, when suddenly the massive ground-level door burst open below and several men ran to the cars. He didn’t see a woman and held fire. Instead of fleeing, the men were grabbing weapons from cars and several began running back toward the prison. He switched to automatic and aimed down into the moving horde, firing a full thirty-round magazine fanning left and right. It was impossible to aim as he ducked, reloaded and reengaged over the wall. This time, several men, behind the cars, fired back, and he dropped below cover again. He moved left about twenty feet and visualized where the muzzle blasts had been. Switching to semi-automatic, he rose quickly and fired where the flashes came from, exposing very little of himself. He counted three men firing from the parking lot below. There were also some casualties lying on the dirt by the door, but others had made it back inside.
When Rachael rounded the corner away from Peter, he stood and started to run in the same direction. Hearing the security door behind them creak open further, he turned and fell prone, strafing the end of the corridor. He then flipped to semi-auto and took aim at a muzzle flash in the smoky haze, as bullets ricocheted off the floor and walls near him. He squeezed off four shots until the shooting stopped. He remained