Jodi Compton - Hailey's War

I’d considered it but argued her down. “I’ll have my face turned away from him,” I’d said. “He’ll never make the connection to Mexico. It’s way too bizarre. You’re overthinking this.”

The truth was, this part was dangerous. I’d wanted Serena safe on the hillside, watching the house. Payaso and I would be the first team.

There was a vehicle coming my way. Serena, in the same surveillance spot I’d taken above the house, had already radioed down to Payaso and me that one of the guys was coming, allowing us to take our positions. I’d gotten the idea from something one of my West Point instructors mentioned, offhandedly, about overseas security and diplomat-protection postings. He’d said that terrorists and kidnappers like to put empty baby carriages in the road to get Americans to stop and get out of their cars, and that drivers have to be trained to ignore them. I’d used myself in lieu of the baby carriage-it would allow me to get into point-blank range automatically rather than trying to walk up behind the guy.

In our plans, we’d taken as a starting assumption that Skouras’s guys never left Nidia alone. For that reason, a roadside ambush was useful. A single guy would be easy to take down. We’d get the car he was driving, his keys to the house, and an extra weapon. Then we could walk right through the front door of the house, no trickery or door-kicking necessary.

I was sure, I’d told Payaso and Serena, that no one could drive right past a girl lying on the roadside motionless. “Even if this guy’s no Samaritan,” I’d said, “morbid curiosity alone will make him stop.”

If he didn’t, our job would get a lot harder. We wouldn’t have his keys to the front door. But we’d go through with the raid, anyway.

The engine sound grew stronger, louder. The air stirred around me as the SUV pulled up and stopped. A door opened and slammed. Athletic shoes made their squinching rubber-soled noise on the asphalt.

And then-what a fucking gentleman-he nudged me with his toe. “Hey,” his voice said.

I waited for him to sit on his heels beside me before I rolled over and stuck my SIG in his face, cocking it so he’d know I was ready to fire. “Don’t fucking reach for anything or I’ll put a round in your face,” I said. “Don’t test me. I will.”

He was the stocky guy I saw through the windows last week. Up close, he had almost innocent brown eyes, now wide with shock.

“It’s you,” he said. He was also one of the tunnel rats, it seemed.

“Yeah,” I said. “Teach me about roadside ambushes, prick. See how good I learn.”

Behind us, Payaso had come out of cover, holding his gun on the driver. I didn’t have to tell him to search the guy. We’d discussed it all in advance. “Get his everything,” I’d said. “Billfold, cell, gun if he has it. Who knows what’ll come in handy?”

Payaso did this, and then walked him off the road to bind him in duct tape.

I called after him: “Put on your gloves. I think duct tape holds fingerprints.”

Admittedly, it was unlikely that Skouras’s men had access to any law-enforcement computers, but if they did, they could learn Payaso’s real name from his prints. That was something even I didn’t know. Much less did I want Skouras having it.

I walked down to where we’d parked the Bronco out of sight. Our handheld radio was in the passenger seat. I picked it up and radioed Serena. “Warchild, this is Insula, we’ve achieved our objective down here. Over.”

“This is Warchild. You guys rock. What’s your ETA? Over.”

We should have stuck to cell phones. There was nothing like CB radio to inspire totally idiotic speech patterns.

I said, “ETA five minutes. Holler if you see anything funny, otherwise radio silence, okay? Over.”

I didn’t need to tell her any more. Her job now was to cover the house and driveway, to radio in if there were any unexpected visitors while Payaso and I were inside.

I drove the Bronco back up to the roadside. When I got there, Payaso was already behind the wheel of the SUV. I led him to the driveway of the Skouras place and tapped my brakes to make the brake lights flash, then pulled over. I shut off the engine, grabbed a brown paper grocery bag, and ran to the SUV. I climbed in the passenger side but didn’t stay there, getting into the back instead. If the other soldier was looking out the front window when we drove up, it was probably too much to hope that he wouldn’t notice that his partner had morphed into a Hispanic male, but if he did, well, there was no point pushing our luck by having a blond girl visible in the window, too.

I crouched on the floor. The grocery bag was mostly a prop, filled with crumpled newspaper to give it shape, but there were a few things we’d need at the bottom, and I dug them out. A ski mask. A canister of pepper spray. The duct tape.

When Payaso stopped the SUV in the driveway, near the house, I handed him his ski mask and the handcuffs.

“Anyone in the windows?” I asked, getting the pepper spray out of the bag.

“No, they’re clear,” he said. “Why don’t you have a mask?”

“The guy in the bushes down there saw my face already.”

I opened the side door, shook the pepper spray, and squirted a little into the gravel of the driveway. This would be a bad time for the nozzle to be clogged. It wasn’t.

“Okay,” I said. “Keys?”

Payaso pulled the keys from the ignition and handed them to me. I sorted through them, fast. One was a smallish mailbox key, one was a Honda key, probably to the guy’s private car. Three were what looked like house keys. I chose one at random, isolating it from the others between my thumb and index finger. Then I jumped out and raised the grocery bag to obscure my face. I walked fast to the front steps and up them, stopped at the front door. I stuck in the key I’d chosen. It didn’t go in. Dammit . I tried another. It slid in and the door swung open.

Inside, the entryway was empty. No one was in my line of sight. I leaned back out, signaling Payaso to come.

I stepped quietly into the entryway, onto a floor of linoleum marked to look like distressed gray tiles. I listened for noise and heard it from the kitchen. The other tunnel rat was in there.

Payaso appeared behind me, masked now, gun in hand.

“Jeff?” a male voice said, from the kitchen. “That was fast. You forget something, you dildo?”

His footsteps drew near. Up close, he had that all-over-golden-brown coloring that some southern Europeans have: golden-brown hair and eyes, a touch of warmth to his skin tone, his jawline stub-bled in a lazy-fashionable way.

I didn’t let him get all the way to the doorway. Instead, I walked through it, pepper spray in hand, and sprayed him directly in the face, and when he yelped and stumbled back, I threw my hardest straight right. He fell, and as he pitched forward, I grabbed him around the neck and rammed a knee into his liver. It’s always tempting to aim for the testicles, but it’s harder than many untrained fighters realize to hit that sweet spot that causes instant incapacitation. Liver, kidney, solar plexus-these were all more accessible and nearly as brutal.

I wrestled the soldier onto his stomach and began wrapping his wrists behind his back with duct tape. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Payaso covering us, holding his gun two-handed like a cop.

“I got him,” I said. “Watch behind us, too.”

Serena’s surveillance had suggested that there were still only two guys living in the house-now both accounted for-but you couldn’t be too careful.

The soldier turned his head to the side, to where he could almost make eye contact. His nose was dripping blood from where I’d hit him.