Cliff Ryder - Aim And Fire

“With pleasure—you had to pick the day they threw out their old meat, didn’t you? My wife’s gonna make me sleep in the den again. Okay, Lima Juliet Kilo five-one-niner. That matches the truck we’re expecting.”

Nate sat up and pushed his hat back. “All right, everyone. Get ready—the cargo has arrived. We’ll give ’em a few minutes, then move in after the truck has docked and they’ve started unloading. Carter, Juan, you guys take the front. Hernando, move to the back corner and keep an eye on the truck. Ryan and I will circle around the block and take them from behind.” He clicked off his radio. “All right, George, get up here.” He leaned toward the door as the stocky man clambered into the front seat.

“Damn two-door,” he muttered.

“Hey, do not insult the vehicle. This little son of a bitch has gotten me through hell and back.” Firing the engine, Nate pulled a U-turn and headed past the grocery store, then turned right down the side street.

Hernando’s voice came over the radio. “Nate, I’m in position. The truck just parked in the loading dock, and it looks like our boys are in quite a hurry for some reason.”

“We’ll be there in thirty. Front team, you ready?”

“Give the word, and we’ll be inside in ten seconds.”

“Copy that. No one moves until my signal.” Nate turned right again, aiming the Bronco down the alley toward the auto parts store and pulling forward until he could just see the white snout of the truck’s hood. Drawing his .40-caliber HK P-2000 pistol, he chambered a round, waiting until George did the same. “We’ll pull in front of the truck as Carter and Juan sweep from the front, round everyone up and be done with it. You remembered your vest, right?”

George thumped his chest. “You mean the thing I’m swimmin’ in here? Hell, yeah.”

“Good man. Get ready.” Nate hit his radio. “Hernando, are they unloading yet?”

“Looks like it.”

“Okay, follow us as soon as we’re in front of the truck, and the three of us will go in together. Carter, Juan, on my signal.”

The three other agents confirmed the orders, and Nate slipped his SUV into gear, creeping down the alleyway until he judged he was close enough, then flooring the accelerator. The Bronco rocketed down the alley, and Nate squealed to a stop in front of the truck, trapping it between his vehicle and the building.

“Go, go, go!” he shouted. He yanked the key out of the ignition and slipped out the door, running around the hood, his cowboy boots slapping the pavement. George was already covering the driver, and Nate headed around the passenger side of the truck, seeing Hernando running down the other side of the vehicle.

The truck had backed up to a concrete loading dock that let people walk from the truck into the building without climbing up. Approaching it at a full run, Nate leaped up between the truck and the side of the building, squeezing through the narrow gap, pistol first. “U.S. Customs agents.

Nobody move!”

The interior of the warehouse was large, easily several thousand square feet, and was filled with rows and rows of metal racks, stacked full of cardboard boxes and wooden crates of every size. Five shocked men, all standing in a line ready to relay the cargo into the warehouse, stared back at him. The second-to-last man had just tossed a box to the next guy, who had looked over in surprise, only to have the heavy container smack into his chest, sending him to the ground with a surprised grunt.

Nate heard the footsteps and shouts of his agents as they came through the front door, but knew it would be at least a minute before they secured the area and got to his location. He knew that was plenty of time for something bad to happen. He peered into the gloom, waiting for his eyes to adjust and not liking what he saw. There was too much cover where more men could be lurking, too many shadows to hide people.

Nate’s gaze flicked over to the other side of the loading bed, expecting his partner or Hernando to come barreling through at any second. He turned back to the five men, three of whom had put their hands up. Any day now, guys, he thought. “Everyone down on your knees and raise your hands—you know the drill.” He repeated the command in Spanish, trying to keep all of the men covered. The man farthest inside the warehouse edged a step away, then another.

“Buddy, you take another step you’ll be missing your knees something fierce,” he growled. Where the hell is he? “Agent Ryan, report!”

A shadow fell over the other side of the loading dock, and George Ryan forced his way inside. His face was red and he was panting with exertion. “Sorry, bastard driver… didn’t wanna…come outta the…truck. Hernando’s takin’care of him.”

“All right, read ’em their rights,” Nate ordered. Keeping his pistol trained on them, he walked to the other agent and removed two pairs of handcuffs from his belt. “I’ll start trussin’ them.”

His pistol in one hand, George took the laminated Miranda rights card out of his pocket and held it up. “You have the right—”

The loud, unmistakable sound of a shotgun slide being pumped echoed throughout the warehouse. Ducking, Nate barely had time to yell “Get down!” before the dark interior lit up with a booming flash as the scattergun let loose. He twisted around to see George stumble and go down, a cloud of buckshot tearing at his body. The five men scattered in different directions as Nate squeezed off several shots in the direction of the ambush.

“Shots fired, shots fired! Hernando, get in here, Ryan’s down! Carter, Juan, watch for suspects coming out the front!” Nate crawled over to George and dragged him behind the nearest metal rack, his chest hitching as he struggled for breath. He checked George’s vitals, seeing blood stain his fingers. It looked as if the vest had stopped most of the pellets, but at least two had penetrated. “You’re gonna be all right, buddy,” he said.

The shotgun boomed again, and a shadow fell over Nate as Hernando hit the floor beside him. “I called for backup and the medics. Jesus, boss, what did you get us into this time?”

“Just the usual—hip-deep in shit.” Nate heard a flurry of shots from the front of the store, and knew the other two agents had bottled up anyone trying to leave—at least he hoped that’s what was happening. Another boom from the front made him wince. “Goddammit, these bastards are fuckin’ with the wrong guys. Take the right, I’ll take left, let’s see if we can pin ’em in a cross fire,” he said.

Hernando nodded and rolled over to a rack of crates, rising and ducking into the shadows of the warehouse.

Nate checked George again, finding his breathing had steadied. “How you doin’?” he asked.

“All right—just prop me against the jamb, and I’ll cover the back.”

Nate nodded admiringly. He’s tougher than I thought.

“You got it. Let’s give ’em something to think about first.”

Sticking his pistol around the corner, he shot three times toward where the shotgun blasts had erupted. He propped George against the back wall. “Medics will be here soon enough. Keep your powder dry.”

George coughed, but held his pistol steady. “Go get ’em.”

Nate fired two more rounds, reloaded, then ran to the other side, hunching against the expected fire. Just as he ducked behind the parts rack, the shotgun roared again, and the corner of a wooden crate exploded into jagged splinters. But the shot had given him valuable information—he now knew the shooter’s location.

Nate looked up at the sturdy shelves around him and decided to take the high ground. Holstering his gun, he had just gotten a firm handhold when a shape barreled out of the shadows toward him. Caught in the act of lifting himself up, Nate had just turned his head when the man tackled him at the waist, shoving him off the rack and to the concrete floor.