Don Pendleton - Hell Dawn

Mendoza’s son, Bernardo, appeared in the door of one of the choppers and gave Cortez a questioning look. He replied with a nod and the younger man hopped from the craft, an olive drab duffel bag in his hand, and strode up to Cortez.

Taking the bag, Cortez ran after the two gunners. Sliding down a small incline next to the car, he ran to the two men, both of whom gave him a questioning look.

Pulling open the rear passenger’s-side door, he stuffed the bag into the space on the floor between the front and back seats.

“More ammunition,” he said. “In case you need it. Now go, get out of here.”

The driver nodded. Cortez slammed the door and dismissed the two men by banging a fist on the roof of the car, watching as the vehicle backed up, then drove back onto the road and roared away. Grinning, he sprinted for the helicopters and boarded the nearer one.

Moments later, both craft were aloft.

Cortez pulled out a black box that featured several switches.

The Mexican stared at the box for a moment. He realized it was only a matter of time before the police caught up with the Hyundai. Most likely, the pigs would force the vehicle from the road and take the men into custody. He’d like to think his people were dead-enders, that they’d sooner take a bullet than sell him out. Sure, he’d like to think that. But he was a realist. If the police applied the right amount of pressure, his men would give him up in a heartbeat. He knew this because he’d do the same to them, in even less time.

Casually, he flicked a switch and snuffed out both men’s lives. Just the first of many to die this day, he thought.

MIGUEL MENDOZA FINISHED his morning swim in his Olympic-size pool. He climbed the ladder out of the deep end, water sluicing off his body. A young maid was on hand, a towel in her hand. He snapped his fingers and she unfurled it and wrapped it around his shoulders.

He strode up from the pool to his terrace. His wife, Rosa, looked up from her newspaper and smiled at him, exposing perfect white teeth. Her wavy hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a long T-shirt over her bikini-clad body as per his instructions, and he was pleased.

“How was your swim?” she asked, still smiling.

“It was fine, my love. Thank you.”

He walked past and admired her, like another man might admire a fast car. She was thirty years his junior, and he considered her his most prized possession, something to be trotted out, shown off and appreciated by others. He guessed that that was how others felt about great art, something he’d never developed a taste for. But like other treasures, he knew others wanted her. And he made sure he tucked her safely away, particularly when he wasn’t around to watch her.

She chewed on a small piece of grapefruit while he seated himself. He scanned the smooth concrete walls that surrounded the estate and congratulated himself once again on the stronghold he’d created for himself and his family. The maid handed him a short-sleeved cotton shirt and helped him shrug into it. He snatched the newspaper from a second maid’s hands and whisked them both away with a wave of his hand.

“Darling,” Rosa said, “I want to take the children to town today. We are going shopping. After that I promised them that we’d eat shrimp at the old man’s restaurant on the beach.”

He nodded. “That’s fine. You’ll take Carlos and his people with you.”

Carlos was his personal security chief and one of the few men Mendoza trusted to guard his wife. The man was exceedingly loyal to Mendoza, almost as though he were one of his own children. As he spoke, he saw something flicker in the woman’s eyes.

She looked down at her plate. “Of course,” she said. She speared a grape with her fork, popped it into her mouth and chewed. He felt her unhappiness from across the table. His hands clenched into fists and he slammed one of them down on the table. Dishes jumped from the table and silverware clattered against the china. “What?” he yelled. “What’s your problem, woman?”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with shock, terror. “I have no problem, darling. I swear.”

“Is it Carlos?”

She looked down at her plate and shook her head. “No, no.”

“What did he do?”

“He did nothing.

“Really, it’s not him.”

“Then what is it?”

“Please, please. Let’s forget I said anything.”

His voice dropped into little more than a whisper. When he spoke, he did so through clenched teeth. “Tell. Me. Now.”

“I just wanted some time alone. With the children,” she said. “Everywhere we go, we have guards. It just makes me self-conscious.”

“It keeps you alive, you ungrateful bitch.”

She nodded. He saw tears beginning to brim over. He considered letting it go at that. But obviously he needed to teach this little bitch a lesson. She’d either taken leave of her senses or she just didn’t appreciate all he did for her. Regardless, the woman needed to be taught a lesson.

He noticed her hand had slipped off the table and she clutched her stomach. “So you never complained before, but now you are. Now, it’s a big deal, yes? Suddenly you must complain.”

When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible. “Forgive me. I have no right to complain.”

“But here you are, feeding me this bullshit. You think this is a bad life? You think I’m giving my children, my babies, a shitty deal, right? I’m a bad Papa to my babies. Is that it?”

He turned and found one of his guards standing in the door leading from their bedroom onto the terrace. “Go get your boss. We’ll settle this bullshit once and for all.”

Rosa gave him a panicked look. “Miguel?”

He silenced her with a wave of his hand. They waited in tense silence for a couple of minutes. The security chief, dressed in khakis and a starched white shirt, sauntered through the Mendoza’s bedroom and onto the terrace. He winked at one of the guards, pointed a finger and smiled at the other one. When Carlos approached the table, he nodded politely at Rosa, but didn’t look at her too long. Rather, he turned to face Mendoza.

“You wanted something, sir?” he asked.

Mendoza leaned back in his chair. He laced his fingers together and rested the back of his head in the palms. “Carlos,” he said. “I have news.”

“News?”

“Yeah, news. I gotta let you go.”

Carlos smiled and began to shift on his feet. “Let me go? You’re firing me?”

Rosa interjected, “Miguel, no.”

His face whipped toward her. “You shut up!” he said. He underscored each word with a jab from his finger. “This is between him and me. Understand?”

“Is there a problem, boss?”

“You’ve offended my wife. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Carlos’s face tightened with anger. “Ma’am, is this true? I offended you somehow?”

Mendoza came out of his chair and punched Carlos in the stomach. The younger man staggered back, but almost immediately got his footing. He started to bring up his fists in a fighting stance, thought better of it and let them drop to his sides.

Mendoza glanced over his shoulder. He wanted to make sure the others were watching, particularly his wife, who now sat sobbing at the table. He knew they weren’t just questioning him, they were questioning his authority, his competency. They wanted to take him down. His wife, this pack of overpaid killers. They were all a bunch of damn savages. They all wanted what he had, and he needed to take them down before they took him.

He turned to the guards at his back. He nodded at Carlos. “Take him out.” The guards, both of them armed with Uzis, stared at him for a moment. “What, are you deaf? I said—”

One of the guards suddenly reached out, shoved him out of the way. He hit the ground, his outstretched hands breaking his fall. He heard autofire erupt overhead from the guards’ SMGs. Shell casings struck the ground and rolled underneath him. Somewhere in all the noise he heard his wife’s screams of terror. A moment later, the shooting had ended. He rolled over onto his rear. Carlos lay facedown on the ground, his back ravaged by bullet exit wounds. His handgun lay on the ground next to him, inches from his outstretched fingers.