Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

Mac said, “Thank you,” and was reaching for the metal mug when the Stryker began to pitch and roll. Adams fell sideways, and Mac was forced to grab both sides of the hatch for support. That was when she realized that she was feeling the effects of an earthquake. Mac was still in the process of absorbing this when Hollister shouted over the radio. “Rockslide! Coming down on us! Gun your engines!” Mac looked straight up and waited to die.

TAMPICO, MEXICO

United States Secretary of Energy Samuel T. Sloan was standing on the uncertain surface of a floating solar farm as the meteor shower fell. Sloan, along with a delegation of Mexican officials, was on the raft to symbolically throw the switch that would send a surge of solar-generated electricity to the east coast city of Tampico a couple of miles away.

The purpose of the project was to provide the town with a source of renewable energy, help revitalize the crime-ridden community, and strengthen the often testy relationship between the United States and Mexico. And the fact that most of the equipment involved had been manufactured in California didn’t hurt. So that’s what Sloan was doing when the meteor flashed overhead. It was brighter than the sun and traveling so fast that it broke the sound barrier. The resulting boom was loud enough to be heard from miles away.

The object was visible for only a few seconds before it disappeared over the eastern horizon. Then the officials saw a flash and heard what sounded like a second clap of thunder. That was followed by an upwelling of what ? Steam? Sloan wasn’t sure. But one thing was for sure… One helluva big wave could be coming their way, and Sloan didn’t plan to be standing on the solar farm when it arrived. And judging from the speed with which the Mexicans were boarding their patrol boat, they shared his concern. Sloan turned to his sole bodyguard, an ex–special ops type named Brody. “Let’s haul ass.” A blast of hot air hit the farm, causing the rafts to rock back and forth. Sloan struggled to remain upright.

Brody had a full face and was one size too large for his tan suit. “Roger that… Follow me.” Brody was out of shape, but he knew his stuff, and rather than allow Sloan to travel on the navy patrol boat with the Mexican officials, the contractor had insisted that they have transportation of their own. The fiberglass fishing boat wasn’t fancy, but it was equipped with a huge outboard, the kind that could be used to run drugs when its owner needed some extra cash.

The Mexicans were casting off when the fisherman started his engine and, under orders from Brody, opened the throttle all the way. Sloan was forced to hang on as the narrow hull cut a straight line through the water and left the larger craft behind.

As Sloan looked back, he saw that an ominous-looking cloud was spreading across the eastern sky even though it was still sunny in Tampico. Sloan was starting to question his own judgment. What would Mexico’s Secretary of Energy think about the haste with which the norteamericano had fled? A Televisa news crew had been present to tape the ceremony. Would they play footage of Sloan speeding away? And would CNN get ahold of it? Should that happen, Sloan would be held up to ridicule, and that would reflect on the president.

That was what Sloan was thinking as the fisherman reduced power, the boat slid in through light surf, and Brody fished a wad of money out of his pocket. “Here,” he said, as he gave the fisherman a fifty. “Muchas gracias.”

If the fisherman was grateful, there was no sign of it on his sun-darkened face as he killed the engine. Sloan heard a whining noise as the prop left the water and the bow slid up onto the wet sand. A gang of boys ran out to steady it. “Let’s haul ass!” Brody said as he vaulted over the side. “If a wave comes, there’s no telling how far inland it will go.”

Sloan jumped over the side and followed Brady up the mostly empty beach. The big man was nearly out of breath by the time they made it to the street. A black SUV was waiting for them twenty feet away from a dilapidated taco stand.

Had Sloan been the Secretary of State, the vehicle would have been guarded by a team of people from the Diplomatic Security Service. But the Secretary of Energy didn’t rate that kind of protection—so Brody had been forced to hire a vehicle and driver from the local limo company. It had tinted windows and was extremely shiny. “Stay back,” Brody instructed, as he slipped a hand into his jacket.

As Brody went to inspect the vehicle, Sloan took a moment to scan his surroundings. Tampico had been a burgeoning tourist town a few years earlier. But that was before two drug cartels began to fight over it. Citizens were assassinated in broad daylight, grenades were thrown into crowded bars, and the population of three hundred thousand lived in fear

Sloan turned just as Brody pulled the SUV’s back door open and was thrown backwards by a blast from a shotgun. Brody’s body hit the street with a thump, and he lay there staring sightlessly into the sun. Sloan stood frozen in place as a man with long black hair got out of the SUV. He was dressed in a neon-pink shirt, black trousers, and silver-toed cowboy boots. A pair of empty shell casings popped out of the double-barreled weapon and fell to the ground as he broke the shotgun open. “Buenos días, Señor Sloan,” the man said conversationally. “Get in the truck.”

The bastard knew his name! It was a kidnapping then… What would a high-ranking American official be worth? Nothing really, since the government wouldn’t pay, but maybe the Tampico cowboy wasn’t aware of that. Or maybe he knew and didn’t believe it.

All of that flashed through Sloan’s mind, followed by the impulse to run. He circled the SUV in an attempt to use it for cover. Then he took off. Thanks to the adrenaline in Sloan’s bloodstream, plus the fact that he was a competitive runner, he got off to a fast start. His goal was to put as much distance between himself and the man with the shotgun as he could. Maybe the Tampico cowboy would hold his fire. After all, what good is a dead hostage? Unless…

Sloan felt the pellets strike his back a fraction of a second before he heard the BOOM. He stumbled, caught his balance, and continued to run. Sloan had grown up on a farm in Nebraska and, like all farm boys, knew a thing or two about shotguns. The fact that the man in the pink shirt was firing birdshot, rather than buckshot, meant he had a chance. Especially after sixty feet or so, when the spread produced by the short-barreled weapon would grow even wider.

As if to prove that point, the cowboy fired again—and if any of the shotgun pellets struck Sloan, he didn’t feel them. He was running west on the Avenida Álvaro Obregón. The thoroughfare consisted of two lanes divided by a median. Shabby stores lined both sides of the street where they waited for tourists who were unlikely to appear. But where were the shop owners? Gone. And no wonder… A man with a shotgun was chasing a gringo… Why hang around?

Sloan spotted some taller buildings up ahead and forced himself to run faster. He didn’t dare look back over his shoulder because that might cause him to break stride. He could hear the roar of an engine though—and knew his pursuers were about to catch up.

Sloan was desperate to get off the street, so he made a sharp left and ran toward an open doorway. Then, as he slipped into the shadowy interior, Sloan realized he was inside what had been a shopping arcade back before the gangs seized control of the city. A dry fountain marked the center of the inner courtyard, and a frozen escalator led to the floors above. Sloan took the trash-covered stairs two at a time.