Weston Ochse - Age of Blood

“Yeah. We all made it,” he said, lying because the loss of Ruiz wasn’t any of her business. “Touch and go, but mission accomplished.” His forearm began to pulse. He rubbed it.

“And the suits?”

“All but one. We don’t know where that is, but I imagine it’ll turn up sooner or later.”

She laughed. “You know you’re not the same as you were when I first met you.”

“I was new to the team then,” he said. Flashbacks of the last mission snapped across his mind, including the demon that had almost killed them all. “I’ve seen things.”

“I can tell,” she said.

They drove in silence for another thirty minutes, then turned off the highway. After navigating side streets for ten minutes, she pulled into the parking lot of a generic warehouse in a row of similar warehouses. YaYa didn’t know what the City of Industry built, but if he was told warehouses, he’d certainly believe it.

Under the gawking eyes of the local PD he removed his hoodie, slid into the body armor, then slipped back into the hoodie. He used a shoulder holster for the SIG and cinched it tight to eliminate the folds in the material. He checked the pistol’s slide, then the ammo. Satisfied, he grabbed two extra clips, and slid the pistol into the holster, all while being scrutinized by half a dozen officers who wanted desperately to know who this sickly Arab dressed like a bum was and why he was here. After inspecting the MP5 and running it through a series of dry fires, he nodded, grabbed five magazines, and declared himself ready.

He and Surrey moved to a side door.

“The PD will breach from the front and the back,” she said. “We’ll give them ten seconds, then enter.”

YaYa didn’t like the plan. “What’s to keep us from crossing fire?”

“PD isn’t going to enter farther than a few feet, enough to establish an inner perimeter. The only people in the middle of the room will be beegees. Did I say it right?”

She’d used Holmes’s term for bad guys, beegees.

“Yeah, you said it right.”

“Should I give the go-ahead?”

“Everyone waiting for me?”

“Of course. What would a party be without a U.S. Navy SEAL?”

Walker sat with Yank in the middle of the C-140 Starlifter, remembering when he’d been the new guy, or FNG as they so fondly called it. He’d been the butt of all jokes until YaYa had arrived, a replacement for Fratolilio, who’d perished during the battle with the first Chinese chimera they’d discovered in the hold of a cargo ship in Macau. Now Yank was the FNG, although no one was really giving any good gibes to the SEAL.

Part of it was probably because he could kick any of their asses. An expert in the Hawaiian martial art of Kapu Luailua, he also held varying ranks in Krav Maga, Gracie jujitsu, savate, pencak silat, wing chun, Muay Thai, Kali, and Jeet Kune Do. The latter was taught by Ron Balicki in Los Angeles, who’d had a significant impact on Yank’s journey to becoming a warrior. Not only had Balicki created his own MARS system, but by working with him, Yank had had the benefit of also working with his wife, Diana Lee Inosanto, and her father, Dan Inosanto, Filipino fighting master, escrimadora, and best friend to the late great Bruce Lee.

Yeah, the team was a little in fear of Yank. But Walker couldn’t let that stick. Growing up in an orphanage, he knew what buttons to push. He knew the FNGs of the world had to prove themselves. Yank had to earn his way a little bit more. He had some FNG work to do.

They were breaking down four HK416s that were still in the packing grease from the factory. The first thing Yank had done when assuming the job as the Triple Six weapons sergeant was to get rid of the MP5s. “Too much like a bunch of Crips driving by a bus stop, or Colombians crashing into a hotel room. This isn’t some South American drug deal, this is a military mission.” Although it was Holmes who’d kept the tradition of using MP5s, he hadn’t said a word and had let Yank have latitude to modernize their equipment. “These barrels weren’t meant to sustain the rate of fire we do,” Yank had said, referring to the MP5s. “The manufacturing processes used on these are twenty years old. That they haven’t jammed is a miracle. We’re switching before they have a chance to, boss.”

And with that, every member of Triple Six had been forced to learn the HK416. Not that it was an issue. Everyone, with the exception of Walker, had worked with the weapon in the past. Similar to the M4, it was an easy transition. Walker hadn’t, because he hadn’t ever worked as a SEAL outside Triple Six. In fact, he hadn’t finished training until recently. Probably the only SEAL ever to be awarded a BUD/S device and go on mission before he’d actually graduated. Adjusting to the 416 wasn’t such an issue, however. Their models had OTB (over the beach) capability, meaning they could fire coming straight from the water. YaYa, who carried a Super 90, was going to be allowed to continue carrying the shotgun. Yank wanted the team to have the extra firepower if needed. But YaYa’s knowledge and ability with the 416 still had to be the same as the others. Just like Walker, whose primary weapon was the SR-25 sniper rifle.

Produced by a collaboration with United States Delta Force and the German arms maker Heckler & Koch, the 416 used a proprietary gas piston system allowing for reduced time between firing and less cleaning by the operator. With the 10.4-inch barrel, it was as agile as the MP5, but had a greater round throughput and a higher cyclic rate of fire. The rifle used standard NATO 5.56mm ammunition, which had greater stopping power than a 9mm. The rifles were augmented with Tango Down front grips, Gen II 30-round magazines contoured to reduce the wobble, holographic diffraction sight, and an AN/PEQ-2 laser indicator with visible-spectrum, infrared, and IR-spectrum illuminator.

Walker and Yank set about getting the weapons ready for action. Yank was deep in concentration, wiping each piece and setting it aside for re-oiling.

“I heard you don’t like jumping out of planes,” Walker said. He glanced at Laws, who rolled his eyes. Walker had heard of Yank’s predilection for landing inside a plane rather than jumping out of one. Word gets around and such things are ammunition for the verbal sport of FNG baiting.

“Where’d you hear that?” Yank asked, cool and easy. Too easy.

Walker made a show of trying to remember, staring at the ceiling and wrinkling his brow. “You know, I can’t recall. Heard it from a lot of people though.” When he noticed Yank looking at him, he added, “Saw it online, too. And I think the bathroom wall of a club in Patpong.” He turned to Laws. “Was it Patpong?”

Laws shook his head. “I saw it spray-painted on the ceiling of a brothel in Tijuana.”

“Funny thing,” Walker added. “But I also saw it in the bathroom at the Hobbit House,” meaning the all-midget-staffed restaurant and bar in Manila, Philippines.

“That where you met your girlfriend?” Laws asked.

“No,” Walker said, making a play at looking really sad. “But your mother was lap dancing as they held her like a beach ball.”

This had Yank laughing… until Walker redirected the conversation back to him again.

“Good thing there’s an airport in Cabo San Lucas. Listen, Yank,” Walker said, leaning in conspiratorially, well aware it was like leaning into a lion’s mouth. “We’ll jump into the Sea of Cortez and wait for you. After you land and hail a taxi, then find a small boat, then engine out to us, we’ll begin the op. I know it’s a lot of moving parts, and I know you’ll be tired and stuff, but you think you can manage to stop on the way and get us some Happy Meals? After treading water in the ocean for all that time we’re going to be hungry. I’d also like—”