Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

“All right,” Lyle said. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Victor-Romeo replied. “The major will be interested to know that her father, General Macintyre, has been spending a great deal of time with Ramos. And he’s at the Quality Inn, too. I’ll take the boat down the slipway and hide it. Good hunting.”

Victor-Romeo faded into the darkness, leaving Mac to think about her father. Would she see him? And what should she do if that happened?

The noise generated by the Chris Craft’s twin Volvo engines increased, and Mac saw the boat turn. Myron and Hunt appeared as it sped away. “Victor-Romeo knows her way around boats,” Myron commented. “We could use her in the canoe club.”

“This is Carter,” the TC said over the radio. “I located the van. The key is in the ignition. Over.”

“Okay,” Mac said. “Let’s hit the road.” A path led up to a graveled parking area normally used by fishermen and kayakers. The Chevy was HUGE, with seating for twelve. The team piled in. Carter slid behind the wheel—and Timms was going to ride shotgun. The rest of them were seated in back. It was nearly midnight by then, which meant there was very little traffic on Highway 317, and that was good.

But conditions changed as they turned onto westbound 90. A Mexican convoy was traveling eastbound in the lane next to them. None of the team members said anything. But Mac figured that their thoughts were similar to hers. How long could Union troops hold the line? Mac pushed the question away. Stay focused, she told herself. Do what you can do. Sam will find a way.

It was a short drive to Franklin, and with Victor-Romeo’s map to guide him, Timms gave directions. Would someone attempt to stop the van? If they did, the mission would be blown. That was Mac’s greatest fear. So she felt a profound sense of relief when the hotel appeared. It was a block away, and a Jaguar armored car was blocking the street that led to it. Carter turned without being told to, followed an alley into the parking lot located behind a restaurant, and parked.

“Okay,” Lyle said. “Let’s go over this again. Carter, Ryson, Myron, Hunt, and Yang will remain here. Find cover away from the van. If the cops stop to look at it, or the Mexicans come by, let them scope it out. What we don’t need is for you to start a firefight while we’re in the hotel.

“The rest of the team will follow me. The major will be in the six slot. She will assume command if I go down. And remember… No noise! And if you have to off somebody, hide the body. Are there any questions? No? Let’s do this thing.”

Lyle departed at a jog. The rest of them followed. And, thanks to the well-lit sign on the front of the hotel, they knew where they were going. The Mexicans have arrived, and the locals feel safe, Mac mused. But not for long.

According to the military intelligence, only 20 percent of the Mexican troops were equipped with night-vision gear. But it seemed safe to assume that the individuals assigned to protect Ramos would have the latest goodies. So concealment was important.

Lyle made good use of what cover there was as he led the team out and around the roadblock, as well as the troops stationed at it. Then he followed the edge of the parking lot past parked cars, islands of shrubbery, and a Dumpster to the east side of the hotel. A door was located there, but it was locked.

As the last person in the file, Mac had responsibility for the team’s six, and she was looking back, when Lyle spoke. “Down!” It was a whisper but emphatic nonetheless.

Mac dropped into a crouch. And, when she swiveled, the threat was obvious. A sentry had rounded the corner of the building and was walking toward them. He was using a flashlight to probe the surrounding shadows, and he had a dog on leash.

Mac knew that while the soldier might miss them, the animal wouldn’t. So she wasn’t surprised when Lyle rose from his hiding place and fired his pistol four times. Two for the dog and two for the sentry. Both died without uttering a sound.

“Timms and Wynn on me,” Lyle said. That left Orney and Mac to provide security, while the others went forward to grab the bodies and drag them behind a knee-high hedge.

So far, so good. But the clock was running. A noncom would go looking for the sentry eventually, find the bodies, and sound the alarm. In the meantime, every second was precious, and the team would have to rely on brute force rather than stealth to enter the hotel.

Lyle peeked around the corner. “Five soldiers are standing around the front door shooting the shit,” he whispered. “We’re going to approach them like Confederates on a patrol. Then, when we get close, we’ll put them down. Be ready, Timms… Use your HK.”

It went down exactly the way Lyle said that it would. The Mexicans had seen plenty of Confederate soldiers by that time—and had no reason to expect an attack. They turned as the team walked towards them, but showed no signs of alarm. “Buenas noches, amigos,” Lyle said. “¿Cómo va todo?” (Good evening, friends… How’s it going?)

The Mexicans never got an opportunity to answer as Timms opened fire with his MP7. It made a soft clacking sound as the Green Beret emptied a thirty-round magazine into the group. They jerked spastically. Some twirled, two collapsed, and one fell over backwards. Mac had seen a lot of killing, and killed people herself, but was shocked by the sudden brutality of it.

But there was no time for reflection as Lyle gave orders. “Drag the bodies over to that pickup truck… Throw them in back. Mac will provide security.”

That was Mac’s cue to turn her back on the carnage and scan the surrounding area for threats. None had appeared as the men completed their task.

As Lyle led the way into the lobby, Mac paused to pull a piece of indoor-outdoor carpeting over the bloodstains before entering the hotel herself.

The lobby was empty except for the night clerk. She took one look at the warlike intruders and raised her hands. Timms circled the counter and ordered her down onto the floor.

“Be sure to gag her,” Lyle instructed. Then he turned to Mac. “Take over the desk, Mac. Shed the vest and the shirt—but keep the headset. If someone enters, they’ll assume it’s for answering the phone. Your job will be to make things look normal. Are you up for that?” Mac had no choice but to nod.

Lyle smiled. “Good. Let me know if things go south.” Then he left, and the others followed along behind.

Mac circled around the counter to the point where the real receptionist lay hog-tied on the floor. The woman’s eyes were huge, and Mac felt sorry for her as she placed the MP7 on a shelf under the counter. Then she removed the vest and her shirt. The reception desk would conceal her clothing from the waist down.

The phone rang and rang again. Mac answered it. “Hello, this is the front desk.”

“Yeah,” a female voice said. “I need a six A.M. wake-up call.”

“No problem,” Mac told her. “Have a good night.”

The woman said, “Thanks,” and hung up.

Lyle and the others were up on the top floor by then. And Mac could listen in as Lyle gave orders. “Drag him into the linen closet. Okay… Wynn will blow the door. We’ll go in fast. Is the injector ready? Good. Place the charge.”

That was when a Mexican soldier dashed in through the front door, and looked around. He was an officer, judging from the railroad tracks on his epaulets, and his English was good. “I’m looking for my men… They were stationed out front.”

Mac brought the .22 up, waited for the red dot to center itself on the officer’s chest, and fired two shots. The soldier staggered, but he didn’t fall!