Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

A police killing here, even an accidental one, could turn Vic into Spain’s own version of Sarajevo and ignite another bloody war.

Brossa thanked the pilot, a woman, and her copilot before stepping onto the grass, lowering her head instinctively as the composite fiber blades spun overhead. As soon as she cleared the rotor radius, the chopper lifted back into the air with the roar of its twin turbo engines and headed back to Barcelona. The blast of warm air from the turbines felt even better in the crisp mountain air.

Brossa approached Captain Asensio, waiting by his command vehicle and kitted out like his men in green combat BDUs, a tactical vest with armor plate, and a Kevlar ATE bump helmet. She noted the H&K USP pistol on his hip but his subordinates all carried the H&K MP5 nine-millimeter submachine guns strapped across their chests. They looked less like a police operation than a full-on military strike force.

Standing next to Asensio was a man in his forties with fierce brown eyes behind his rimless glasses. He was shorter than Asensio but obviously physically fit and wore a tactical armored vest over his civilian clothes.

“This is Mr. Dellinger. He’s with the American consulate and will be observing today’s events.”

“ Mucho gusto, Agent Brossa,” Dellinger said, shaking her hand.

“ Igualmente, Señor Dellinger.” Brossa nodded at the tactical vehicles. “Change of plans, Captain? I thought this was a simple arrest.”

“New intelligence reports suggest they are heavily armed. I had to make adjustments.”

“We need to take them alive.”

He nodded toward one of his troopers behind a heavy machine gun. “A show of force will make them think twice about resisting. The cowards will piss their pants and drop their weapons when they see us pull up in these.”

Brossa wanted to argue, but what was the point? Asensio was in charge of the tactical operation. She was only in charge of the arrests and crime scene investigation.

“Anything else, Agent Brossa?”

“We should get moving. No telling how long they’ll be hanging around.”

“Agreed.” He barked orders into his comms and the six diesel engines coughed into life. The captain pulled open the door of his command vehicle and Brossa climbed in for the ride up into the high granite mountains above, Dellinger right behind her.

—

The abandoned eighteenth-century two-story farmhouse was built with rough-hewn granite stones from the surrounding mountains, as were two of the smaller outbuildings nearby, both in severe disrepair. A fourth building, a crumbling cow barn, was mostly wood. The ancient dairy farm stood at the end of a dirt track that ran off the small, winding asphalt road leading up from Queralbs, less than five miles from the French border.

Captain Asensio reviewed his plans with Brossa over their headsets inside the roaring VAMTAC. He pointed out the approaches his men would take on the infrared photographs his drone operator had made the day before. The narrow road would be blocked on both ends a half kilometer out, and his troopers would approach on foot to maintain the element of surprise.

A sniper team was already in position on the hill behind the farmhouse and reported that thirteen tangos—nine males, four females—had arrived the evening before and were still in place. At least one AK-47 and two Beretta 92FS pistols had been spotted through the windows. The sniper had permission to take out any RPG or other heavy-weapons operator on sight but to otherwise maintain fire discipline until ordered into action.

“There won’t be any problems,” Asensio assured her with a confident grin. “It will be sweet and easy, like a sip of your grandmother’s sangria.”

Flirting? Now? Seriously? she said to herself.

“Oh, Captain. If you only knew my grandmother.”

—

Over the captain’s objections, Brossa jogged along with the rest of the assault team, approaching the farmhouse under cover of the surrounding trees and low rock wall. Dellinger remained behind in the company of a young private as ordered.

According to the sniper team, no lookouts had been posted outside of the building, though men frequented the windows, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. It was just after seven a.m. now, and everyone inside the farmhouse appeared to be awake.

The captain raised a bullhorn to his mouth. “Attention! You inside! You are surrounded by the Guardia Civil. Come out with your hands empty and over your heads!”

His second-in-command, Vázquez, another combat veteran, ordered the remaining four VAMTACs forward at top speed.

Panicked, angry voices shouted inside the building, as the ground-floor window shutters slammed shut.

Asensio swore under his breath.

“Easy, eh?” Brossa said.

The captain jabbed a finger into her tactical vest.

“No matter what happens, you don’t move from this spot until I give the command for you to advance or I’ll shoot you myself. Understood?”

Brossa forced a single nod of her head in reluctant compliance, swearing silently to herself at the man’s arrogance.

The four VAMTACs roared up closer, skidding to a halt in a cloud of dust. They formed a ragged line some hundred meters from the house, machine guns pointed at the ancient stone walls.

“I won’t make the offer again,” Asensio shouted in the bullhorn. “Leave your weapons inside and come out with your hands over your head or we’re coming inside to get you.”

“Go away, porcs feixistes !”—fascist pigs!—a man’s voice shouted from inside, hiding behind a second-story wall. “We are assembling peacefully, as is our right under the Spanish constitution!”

“You are all suspects in a mass murder,” Asensio replied. “I have a warrant for your arrests. You have two minutes to comply.”

“That is a lie! We are innocent!” the man shouted.

Asensio whispered a command in his comms, and the four heavy machine guns racked in unison.

He cast a sidelong glance at Brossa. “You’ll see. They’ll come right out, the cowards.”

Brossa checked her Casio G-Shock. The second hand swept the dial twice.

Nothing.

“It’s been two minutes—”

Asensio cut her off with a chop of his hand in the air. He put the bullhorn to his mouth.

“Time’s up! We’re coming in! If you resist, we will shoot.”

A young man with long hair and a full beard appeared at one of the second-story windows, waving a white pillowcase in his hand. From here, he didn’t look to be more than twenty years old, Brossa thought.

“Hey, feixisto ! We called our lawyer. She is on her way from Vic. She will be here in thirty minutes. Let her see the warrant. If it is legal, we will comply.”

Brossa let out a sigh of relief. “Excellent.”

The captain ignored her. He whispered a command. “Vázquez, we will advance on my order in thirty seconds. Get ready to—”

Brossa yanked his arm. “Stop! What are you doing?”

“Hold!” Asensio ordered before whipping around. “What the hell are you doing? This is my operation!”

“Our orders are to take them all alive, for questioning.”

“And that is my intention.”

“But they just said they would comply. All we have to do is wait for their lawyer.”

The captain shook his head, his eyes raking over her smaller form in a derisive inventory. He could barely hide his disdain.

“You damn desk jockeys don’t have the first idea about field operations. ‘Wait for their lawyer’? How do you know they called a lawyer? Do you know if they even have a lawyer?”

“I don’t. But thirty minutes won’t cost us anything.”

“Really? What if instead of calling a lawyer they called in for armed reinforcements? Have you thought of that, Agent Brossa?”