by David Spell
A muscular black man, Shamar, had told his floor-mates when the attack started that they all needed to leave. Shamar had enlisted in the army right out of high school. He had only lasted a year before being arrested, serving two years in a military prison and then given a dishonorable discharge for setting up a drug distribution network on his base. His limited time in the military, however, let him know that the Tijuana Cartel and the Black Mafia Family members did not have a chance against the forces that were attacking them.
The BMF gangster pulled a rope ladder out from under his bed, and rushed out onto his balcony. It was on the side of the building, blocked from view by the smaller apartment building next to the high-rise. In moments, Shamar was climbing down the ladder, his M-16 strapped across his back.
The rest of the group quickly descended as gunfire echoed all around them. The sound of several helicopters circling above let the gang members know that their chances of escape were minimal. When everyone was on the ground, Shamar led the way behind the neighboring apartments, heading towards the lot where the cartel’s vehicles were stored. If they could get there undetected, and if they could grab a few vehicles they had a chance.
The American criminal considered trying to escape on foot. He felt confident that they could get by their attackers and slip away into the night. The problem was that Shamar and his companions would be vulnerable without a vehicle since there were still plenty of zombies in Atlanta. No, better to try and get some transportation.
“Air One to November Golf One,” drone pilot First Lieutenant Tim Cox called Colonel Clark, “hostiles heading your way on foot. I’m counting sixteen bad guys. Right now they’re behind that shopping center to the right of the high-rise.”
“November Golf One is clear. Keep me updated.”
Five minutes later, the drone pilot spoke again. “Air One to November Golf One, looks like they’re getting ready to charge out from behind the shopping center.”
Corporal Whitmer stood in the turret of the big .50 caliber machine gun, scanning the area in front of him through his night vision goggles. Driver Joe Thompson stood next to his door, rifle up and ready. Colonel Clark adopted the same posture behind the passenger door.
“Wait until I shoot,” Clark ordered quietly.
Suddenly, the three soldiers saw the group through their NVGs, crouching and running towards their position. The colonel waited until they were out in the open, their closest cover now fifty yards away, before he pulled the trigger. Shamar was leading the way, sprinting hard towards the parking lot.
The crack of Clark’s rifle loosed the fire of his two companions. The first two shots from Kevin’s rifle caught Shamar in the chest. The thug stumbled, but ran another fifteen feet before collapsing to the pavement. Thompson quickly dropped two more of the gangsters.
Whitmer’s machine gun ripped through the ranks of the gang members blowing their bodies apart, a single bullet punching through one man to kill the man behind him. The three soldiers fired for another ten seconds before realizing they had no more targets. They were all down, blood pouring out of the criminals’ shattered bodies.
Buckhead, Atlanta, Wednesday, 0415 hours
Janelle Washington awoke to the crackling of gunfire. The Mexicans were fond of shooting into the air at all hours of the night, especially after they had been drinking, but this sounded different. Within seconds, there was a steady barrage of automatic weapons firing in the street below, along with the thumping of helicopter rotors circling overhead. Her bedroom was on the backside of the building and she would have to go into the living room to peer out the windows to see what was happening.
The young woman reached under her pillow, withdrawing the letter opener and slipping it into the left sleeve of her sweatshirt. She quietly eased the bedroom door open and saw Snake standing by the large window, clutching his shotgun, peering around the curtains and down onto the street, forty-nine floors below. A single candle provided minimal light for the large room. Hearing the door, the guard turned towards the captive, fear evident on his face, even in the barely-lit room. The unmistakable smell of marijuana smoke filled the living room letting the young woman know how Pedro had been entertaining himself.
“You stay there!” he ordered, pointing back at the bedroom.
“I need to check on Jorge and make sure he’s OK.”
“No!” Snake ordered. “Go back to room.”
Janelle shrugged and pointed at the cartel lieutenant’s door. “Okay, but if Jorge has a panic attack because of all the shooting, I’ll have to tell el Jefe that you wouldn’t let me help his friend. Jorge has a neurological injury and I need to make sure he stays calm.”
Pedro didn’t understand most of what the African-American woman said, but even stoned and with his limited English he understood enough to know that she was threatening to tell Tony the Tiger that he wouldn’t let her do her job as Quintero’s nurse. He wasn’t sure what he should do. He could see the fighting raging below, but believed that the machismo of the cartel fighters would thwart any attack by the weak Americans.
Before the guard could answer, Washington took a couple of steps forward and lowered her voice. She grabbed the bottom of her sweatshirt, pulling it up a few inches, exposing her stomach.
“Let me check on Jorge and then you could come tuck me into bed? It’s lonely in there by myself. What do you think?” She eased closer to one of the men who had hurt her and so many other women.
Snake’s eyes got large and he unconsciously licked his lips. He closed the gap and stood in front of the black woman.
“Okay! You check Jorge and then…” he said, grabbing his crotch, and grinning broadly.
“Oh, yeah, Pedro. You and me.”
Janelle reached out, touching Snake’s face seductively with her left hand. Her right hand suddenly shot forward with the letter opener, stabbing him just below the solar plexus, shoving the blade in as deep as she could, thrusting upward. Warm blood spurted out over her hand as the guard tried to grab her arm, gasping loudly. He sunk to his knees, his heart punctured, the shotgun slipping from his grasp to the carpet with a thump.
The dying man’s eyes bulged with surprise as Janelle said, in perfect Spanish, “Enjoy Hell, you piece of…”
“Pedro!” A loud shout came from Quintero’s bedroom, startling the woman back to the reality of her situation. She had killed one of her tormenters, but her primary target still needed to be dealt with.
Washington tried to pull the blade out of Snake, but her hand slipped off, the letter opener slick with blood. She snatched up the shotgun from the floor, spinning around just as Jorge’s door opened. The gangster stood in the doorway, his left hand holding onto the frame for balance, the Colt Python in his right hand, dangling at his side.
As Quintero’s eyes focused on the scene in front of him in the flickering candlelight the gangster snarled, bringing the .357 Magnum revolver up, the muzzle tracking towards her midsection. Janelle quickly pointed the .12 gauge shotgun and pulled the trigger a split-second before Jorge fired the revolver. Something whizzed by her as the gangster dropped his gun and crumpled to the floor, a groan coming from deep inside of him.
The young woman stepped forward, sighting in on the Mexican and pulled the trigger again. Nothing happened. Janelle had a very limited knowledge of guns and had no idea how to make the pump shotgun shoot again. No matter how hard she pulled the trigger, it wouldn’t fire at the prone figure lying on the floor a few feet away.
Washington had to make sure the rapist and murderer was really dead, cautiously approaching the doorway. She turned the shotgun around, planning to use it to club him to death since she couldn’t get it to fire. In the candlelight, she saw the pool of blood forming around his waist.
The cartel thug lay on his left side, his head tantalizingly close, a low moan coming from his lips. Janelle raised the long gun over her head, bringing down the stock towards his skull. Jorge’s left arm suddenly shot out, grabbing her right ankle and jerkin
g her to the floor.
Washington dropped the shotgun as she fell, screaming as the wounded man pulled her towards him, and then using her leg to pull himself towards her. She kicked him in the face with her free left foot, eliciting a grunt of pain from the criminal. His grip remained strong as he dragged his victim closer. Quintero’s right hand was suddenly grasping her throat and squeezing.
Janelle tried to scream again but nothing would come out, blackness starting to overtake her. She grabbed at the hand that was choking her, trying to pull it off but his grip was too tight. Janelle felt hair and then the animal’s face with her right hand, and she drove her thumb into Quintero’s left eye socket. Washington heard him squeal in pain as a loud crashing noise came from the other side of the room. For the woman, however, everything had gone dark.
The two CDC teams moved together down the stairwell to the forty-ninth floor. The captives on the top floor had told them that Jorge Quintero occupied the floor below Corona and Fleming chose to keep all the agents together as they prepared to confront the cartel leader’s lieutenant. The women weren’t sure where the armory was, although one of the girls had heard two of the guards talking about storing some supplies on the twenty-fifth level.
Each floor contained four luxury apartments. Jimmy Jones cautiously opened the stairwell door, scanning the dark corridor with his night vision goggles. Clear. That was good news, but the federal officers had no idea which door to start with.
Andy motioned to the first door on the right, his team stacking outside as big Scotty Smith prepared to kick their way in. Tu’s team would stay in the hallway providing rear security and to prevent anyone from escaping from the other three doors.
Suddenly, the sound of a struggle came from across the corridor, grunts of pain carrying into the hallway. Smith paused, his foot in the air, and the agents listened, trying to hear what was happening. A man’s voice and then two gunshots rang out, and the CDC officers quickly moved as one man, lining up outside the new apartment.
Andy nodded at Scotty and the former Army Ranger drove his foot into door, shattering the frame. Fleming was the first one in, moving to the right, his rifle up and ready. Eddie, Jimmy, Hollywood, and then Scotty followed, alternating going left and right.
A body was lying in the middle of the room, a blade protruding from its abdomen. Fleming kept moving to the right, towards the struggle taking place in an open doorway on the far side of the room. A black woman was on her back, Jorge Quintero choking her with one hand, his other hand covering his left eye, blood seeping out between his fingers.
Andy recognized the gangster’s face from the photos that the admiral had provided. Actually, at the moment, the officer couldn’t recognize Quintero’s bloody face, but the shaved head covered with tattoos was a clue. The former MARSOC Marine operator fired two quick rounds from his suppressed M4 into the Mexican’s face, snapping his head back, killing him instantly.
“Bad guy down. Clear the rest of the apartment, guys. Scotty, we’ve got a woman who needs to be checked after the apartment is secure,” Fleming said. Smith also functioned as the team’s medic, and Scotty and Andy covered their teammates as they quickly, but thoroughly, made sure there were no other threats in the condominium.
Two minutes later, Eddie gave the all clear and Scotty knelt beside the woman, feeling for a pulse. Smith noted Quintero’s bloody corpse, the shotgun blast having caught him in the crotch.
“Hey, guys, she did a number on this dirt bag. It looks like she shot his balls off.”
As he touched the girl’s neck, her eyes flew open, her hands shooting towards the bearded man’s face. Smith calmly caught both of her arms with his left hand.
“Hi, I’m Scotty and you’re safe now. We’re police officers and are here to rescue you. I’m also a paramedic; are you hurt anywhere?”
Janelle tried to answer, her voice coming out as a croak after being choked unconscious. “I…I don’t think so. My throat hurts. Is he dead?”
“Very. Remind me not to piss you off. You took out his privates and my buddy, Andy, over there, put a couple of bullets in his head. Who’s the other dead guy? What’s your name, by the way?”
“I’m Janelle. Janelle Washington.”
She sat up, sliding back against the wall so that she could get a look at her rescuers. Washington wasn’t able to see much, the candlelight not illuminating much of the room. Big men, dark clothing, helmets, guns. They really had come to rescue them. Janelle had long since given up hope, but here they were.
“That was Snake,” she said, pointing at the man with the letter opener sticking out of him. “That’s what we called him. His real name was Pedro. He was my guard. He…,” she looked down, embarrassed. “He hurt me and some of the other girls.” Janelle pointed at Jorge’s body. “He was the worst, though. I’m glad he’s dead.”
Andy knelt beside Janelle. “Like Scotty said, you’re safe now and we’re going to get you and the other girls out of here. Do you have any idea where Antonio Corona is?”
Washington shook her head, pointing at Quintero. “No, Corona’s been coming by regularly to check on him. He got injured last week and they had me taking care of him. I was waiting for my chance to kill Jorge, maybe even kill both of them. Antonio’s apartment is upstairs.”
Fleming nodded. “Yeah, we just came from there. There were two other girls in the apartment, but no Corona. We’re going to take you up there while we clear the rest of the building.”
Tu Trang and his team covered each of the other four doors in the hallway. Three of them led to other condominiums, which would be searched shortly, and the fourth led to the stairwell. Trang peeked back into the open door after hearing Andy’s suppressed M4 and saw that everything was under control. Each of his men knelt in the corridor, making themselves smaller targets and focusing on protecting Andy’s team. Jay Walker was responsible for the stairwell door.
A few minutes later, the sound of footsteps climbing the stairwell could be heard. Walker had the best angle on the door and he waited, his muzzle pointed in that direction, the former SEAL peering through his NVGs over the top of his rifle. The door burst open and three cartel soldiers, all carrying rifles, rushed into the hallway, breathing loudly from their exertion.
Jay triggered a burst at head height that connected with all the gangsters before the Mexicans even realized that they were under attack. The three thugs collapsed in the doorway, their dead bodies propping the door open. The CDC agents waited, expecting to see more of the criminals show up, but silence prevailed.
LeMarcus Wade whispered loudly across the corridor, “Come on, Jay, sharing is caring, man. You got to let us kill some of the bad guys, too.”
Inside the apartment, Janelle flinched at the gunshots from outside the doorway. Jimmy and Hollywood cautiously took a look, checking on the other CDC agents. A minute later, Jones walked over to Andy and reported in.
“All good. They just took out some bad guys who were probably coming to see Señor No Balls.”
“Cool. Let’s get Janelle upstairs and then we can kill some more, too. Grab those guns and we’ll leave them with the ladies.”
Ten minutes later, Washington had been delivered to Antonio Corona’s apartment with assurances that someone would be back for them after the team finished eliminating the cartel.
Buckhead, Atlanta, Wednesday, 0425 hours
Corona had watched the shootout for several minutes at his window before complying with his security team’s wishes. His concern now was whether or not they could actually get away. The gringos had helicopters circling overhead and he knew that he couldn’t outrun them or their weapons. They had also brought some kind of tanks and his humvee would be no match for them if he stayed and fought.
Tony the Tiger had noticed that the armored vehicles had tires, though, four on each side. Maybe he could use that to his advantage. The cartel leader would try to escape, but he was no coward and would punch the gringos in the nose first. And if they killed him,
he would die fighting living up to his name.
His four-man protection detail led the way into the garage. They had already packed some supplies in the back of the hummer. Antonio seated himself in the front passenger seat, clutching an M-16, stolen body armor strapped uncomfortably around his chest, his fat gut sticking out from underneath. Carlos, the leader of his bodyguards, carefully eased open the garage door, and motioned for the others to get into the vehicle with their boss.
Carlos climbed into the driver’s seat. Tico stood in the turret, manning the light machine gun. Corona gave quick orders to his team, the concern evident in their eyes. They clearly all wanted to get away to fight another day, but the gangster knew that he needed to hurt the Americans before he fled and possibly even slow their pursuit of him.
The driver slowly pulled out of the garage, keeping the headlights off, easing towards the end of the street, where Martina Drive intersected with Piedmont Road. Looking down to their left, less than the length of a soccer field away was the closest armored vehicle. The silhouette of the second LAV was evident further down the road, at least a hundred feet of space between the two.
Antonio saw the soldiers or police officers, whatever they were, crouching behind the menacing-looking vehicle, firing at his men who were shooting at them from the windows of the high-rise.
“Tico, put a burst into the soldiers and then take out the tires on that tank. Carlos, be ready to turn around and get us out of here.”
“Air One to CDC One.” The drone was flying high over the action, providing a video feed for Admiral Williams back at Dobbins Air Force Base.