Weston Ochse - Age of Blood

Once loaded, the trucks carried them from the castle and along Las Auroras Boulevard to the private airport that served the greater metropolitan area of Alamos. Used mostly by Mexicans and the rare vacationing American, there wasn’t so much as a terminal. Yet as desolate as it was, the airport boasted a five-thousand-foot runway. Overkill for private airplanes, but something necessary for the billionaires and jets hauling cargo from sketchy South American countries.

Laws sat in the front seat of the first truck, with Walker, Yank, Jen, and two techs in back. Holmes was in the front of the other truck with YaYa and Musso in the back. They brought J.J. with them, his corpse wrapped in a body bag and resting on top of the gear in the second truck.

The airport was surrounded by a ten-foot-high chain-link fence, but the entrance was nothing more than a guard shack with a piece of wood that could be raised and lowered at the doorway. A laconic guard pulled himself away from a black and white television set and approached the driver’s door of the first truck. He wore military fatigues, a New York Yankees baseball cap, and flip-flops. He carried an AK-47.

After a few moments of conversation, including the donation of two hundred American dollars, the guard let them through. Walker watched the man return to his seat, then pick up the telephone.

The trucks roared to the far end of the tarmac. The distance to the fence was across fifty meters of dead grass. Yank and YaYa climbed out first. Holmes had decided to uparmor everyone and put them on alert. Not that he was worried about the Knights retaliating, but he needed to keep his men and the SPG personnel safe at all times. Everyone else stayed inside. A GAFE C-130 was inbound, but it would take the better part of an hour to arrive.

It was ten o’clock in the morning and the temperature was beginning to rise. The insides of the trucks were stuffy, but at least it kept them out of the sun. Jen got Holmes’s attention and beckoned for him to join them in the back of their truck.

As Holmes passed Walker, he squeezed his SEAL’s shoulder, then found a seat along one of the benches. “What gives?”

“We have some information about our mystery beeper.” Holmes raised his eyebrows expectantly. “SPG-JSOC took the task while we were down,” she continued. “They found a choke point a hundred and fifty klicks north of Mexico City. Construction has routed everyone along a frontage road that then siphons traffic through a tunnel. We have a platform on task to provide overhead visual.” She paused, seeing the surprise on his face. “Yeah. Suddenly we get a satellite. I wonder how that happened?”

Walker and the rest of them knew the answer to this hypothetical. Senator Withers had happened. He’d probably been saving up markers for quite some time.

“Go on,” Holmes said.

“We have the vehicles narrowed to a line of ten. Six cars, three trucks, and a motorcycle. We’ve discounted the motorcycle, but have left the other nine vehicles open as possibilities, although we’re thinking one of the trucks might be the best bet.”

“Can’t we just call and narrow it down further?” Holmes asked.

Jen nodded. “The number of the caller appears on the beeper. We did it once, but don’t want to do it again. They can explain away one wrong number, but more would compromise the device.”

“What’s the plan, then?”

“We’re going to take a few snaps and run the faces through databases. It’s a long shot, but if one of the nine men driving has been affiliated with a cartel, we’ll know.”

“What if all of them are affiliated with a cartel?” Holmes asked, the same question Walker had.

“Then we’ll stop all of them. My agency has been in contact with SEDENA, the Mexican Secreteria de la Defensa Nacional, which governs our counterpart. They’re more than pleased to cooperate. Moving closer to Mexico City is to our benefit, really. The U.S. can call in some favors on multiple levels, unlike out here in the country.”

“I don’t want this to become some huge party. Remember, Ms. Costello, we don’t exist.”

“Coronado Pest Control,” she said, referring to the sign out front of their headquarters back on the island. She winked. “Gotcha. Musso is tracking the movement of the vehicles via his tablet.”

“Were you able to get a data pack about Tenochtitlán?”

“It’s downloaded and ready.”

Static erupted from the MBITR Holmes had draped around his neck. “Ghost One, this is Ghost Five. We have beegees at nine o’clock.”

Holmes stuck his head out of the back of the truck and looked. On the other side of the fence, two pickup trucks filled with men had already unloaded and another two pickups were at the main gate where no guard currently stood.

“What the fuck is this, the Wild West?” Laws said over his MBITR. “SEALs, get your game on. Walker, get the cannon ready.”

Holmes leaped down and assessed the situation.

Walker opened the case and assembled the SR-25 within moments. He heard Holmes shout and saw their two drivers running away in the direction of the tree line, which meant at least part of the local militia was involved. Had the Knights of Valvanera set them up?

He also became aware that the canvas would offer no cover if there was a firefight. And judging by the arsenal the men in the pickups were unloading, it appeared that there was going to be one hell of a war. Walker ordered all four members of SPG out of the vehicle and made sure the vehicle was between them and the attackers.

Holmes assigned YaYa and Hoover to keep the civilians safe, ensuring that no threats would come from the tree line opposite the attacking forces. As YaYa moved into place, he sent Hoover racing to the tree line to find out whether or not hostile forces were lying in wait.

Walker snapped the tripod into place and shimmied beneath the truck. The M35 two-and-a-half-ton truck, or deuce and a half, as it was better known, had ten wheels, two in front and four on each of two axles in the rear. The fuel pod was on the passenger side, which was the side away from the attackers. Whatever dumb luck had made that happen, Walker hoped for some more. He set up the barrel of the rifle midway beneath the cargo carriage, with his lower body jutting out from under the passenger side of the vehicle. He had a clear field of fire, and was in defilade. The closer their attackers moved toward the vehicle, the more impossible it would be for them to hit him. And with their AK-47s, at their current distance, he felt as safe as a nun during communion.

The two pickups at the gate were coming through. They were old Toyotas with two men in each of the front seats and a pile of angry men in the back of each one.

Walker sighted in on the driver’s-side wheel of the lead truck, breathed easy, then fired. The tire exploded. Sparks began to fly as the metal tore into the asphalt. The driver did exactly what he wasn’t supposed to do. He turned the opposite way of the blown tire and flipped the truck. Several men were flung free, but most ended up underneath the truck as it tumbled.

But Walker had no time to count. He sighted on the driver of the second vehicle, whose mouth was wide open as he watched his compadres become ground meat. Walker fired, sending a 7.62mm round across thirty meters to pierce the glass and enter the man’s mouth, exploding the back of the man’s head onto the rear window. The driver’s reflex sent him turning the wheel to the right in a tight turn, which had he been going faster, would have caused the truck to flip. But when he died, so did the pressure on the accelerator, and the truck rolled to a stop.

Yank and Laws opened fire with controlled three-round bursts from their HK416s. Without the suppressors, the sound of each bullet leaving the barrel was an assault on the very idea of peace, smashing it with the same sound little boys had once imagined when they’d fired finger pistols against aliens and commies in their backyards and on playgrounds.