Jennifer struggled to keep up with the conversation. Struggled to find an anchor for her brother, searching to translate the Spanish in her mind and failing. She saw the suit bend over the man and whisper in his ear. She unconsciously leaned forward, straining to hear. She heard what she believed were the words honor, trust, and death. She closed her eyes, focusing all of her concentration on her hearing. She heard an explosion of noise, a concussion that snapped her eyes open, and she knew what it was.
Gunshot.
She saw the suit rise from the body, the head punctured right between the eyes. The suit handed the weapon to the gunman, then walked to her.
She looked up at him, and he said in English, “Sorry for making you wait, but we had a few other matters we needed to attend to.”
*
Looking at the target house through night vision, Knuckles said, “Well, this is possibly the goofiest plan I have ever heard. Outside of The Boondock Saints, that is.”
I said, “Really? You’re a SEAL. Goofy Hollywood bullshit is what you do.”
He put the NODs down and said, “You really think this car will let us penetrate?”
“I know it will. They’re waiting on me to show up in the trunk.”
After getting the go-ahead for the Prairie Fire, I’d traveled into Mexico using my stolen car. I’d stopped short of the border and camouflaged the blood splatter on my clothes with dirt from the side of the road, making my shirt look like I worked at a mechanic’s shed rather than a slaughterhouse. Proud of myself, I’d approached the Mexican checkpoint like a hundred other beat-up sedans, but mine drew instant focus.
It had dawned on me why immediately: I was in a car that they were supposed to let pass with no issue. But now there was a gringo driving it solo. I had sat behind the wheel in a panic but showing nothing outwardly. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Then I realized that it was smart. I could use this asset.
I’ll pull an Entebbe to get out Jennifer.
When the border official approached and asked a question I didn’t understand, I just stared at him, locking eyes until he backed down, giving him the death glare that he wanted.
He waved me forward, and I drove to the international airport coming up with a plan. In 1976, Israel had rescued ninety-eight hostages inside Uganda by landing on the airfield posing as the Ugandan president, Idi Amin. They’d driven a Mercedes specifically designed to look like Amin’s off the aircraft, complete with presidential flags and other adornments, and had lulled the opposition. Instead of questioning the aircraft, Idi Amin’s soldiers began scurrying about in a panic at the surprise visit. The end result was one of the greatest hostage rescues in the history of warfare. And I was now driving the Mexican version of Idi Amin’s Mercedes.
I’d met Knuckles at the Abraham González International Airport’s fixed-base operator center for general aviation, having already rented an SUV at the main terminal. Away from the commercial hub of the international concourse, it was a small island still in the land of make-believe. Every FBO I had been in catered to the richest bastards on the planet and thus had no security whatsoever. If you could afford to fly a plane in here, then you were clearly on the up-and-up.
Knuckles had brought the Gulfstream IV that was “leased” to my company, Grolier Recovery Services, and it was still loaded with a package. Meaning it had all manner of death and destruction embedded in the nooks and crannies of its frame that I could use, from suppressed sniper rifles to full-on explosive breaching charges.
He and the team, of course, had been a little confused at the change of direction. We’d talked in the FBO conference room, a perk provided for folks flying in on general aviation in an attempt to lure corporations back to Ciudad Juárez. When I’d closed the door, Decoy had been the first to speak, in a subdued tone I’d never heard from him. “Is that blood on your shirt?”
I said, “Yes. Before anyone says anything, I understand that you have no standing here. No cover for status. No protection. If something goes wrong, we’re in a world of hurt.”
I paused, judging the reaction and not getting a lot of love. I continued. “You’re probably pissed that I left Turkmenistan early, and I understand that, but I need your help. Jennifer is being held by the same group of savages that I’m wearing on my shirt. I need you to focus on that and forget the implications. I don’t want any Taskforce bullshit here. We will not get out clean. I can promise that. If you don’t want in, then say so now. I can’t order you to do anything.”
I had waited on the response, wondering what the answer would be. It came from Knuckles, of all people. My friend, and now my Judas. He said, “Jennifer, huh? So this is personal?”
I turned to him, shocked, and saw a grin.
He said, “What the hell are you babbling about? We got a Prairie Fire alert for a teammate. You going to give us a plan or sit there begging?”
I stood for a moment with my mouth open, about to let fly a few choice words until what he said sank into my brain. Relieved, I laid it out. The whole crazy Idi Amin plan.
It had sounded great at the FBO, but now, as I stared at the house with night vision, it wasn’t looking so hot. In fact, it looked downright suicidal.
Since I had Jennifer’s phone in her bag, along with her tablet and the digital recorder from her brother, there was no way to track her actual location. All I had was the last known location of Jack’s phone, which she’d pinpointed on her earlier ludicrous recce attempt. As much as I had berated her before, it was now my only anchor.
The house was set up on a hill with a circular drive leading to it, sitting about two hundred meters past a large iron fence with an electronic gate. Outside, on the front porch, were two watchers, both armed with some type of long-gun variant of the AR-15. Probably sold to them by our Justice Department. On the circular drive was an old sedan like the one we were sitting in, which I was convinced had transported Jennifer.
All we had to do was penetrate the perimeter fence and get up to the front door. No small task, but while waiting on Knuckles to arrive, I’d conducted my own recce and studied the gate, seeing no cameras or speakers or anything else to check on arrivals. While I watched, a car had approached and had simply sat outside for a moment doing nothing, then the gate had opened. I couldn’t prove they weren’t talking on cell phones, but I was fairly sure they simply let in anyone they expected. And they were expecting me in a trunk.
I said, “You ready to roll?”
“Yeah. No sense waiting. This either works or it doesn’t.”
I turned around to the backseat, getting confirmation from Retro and Blood. I started the car, and Retro said, “Hope Decoy can hit them. I don’t like a Navy guy watching my back.”
I pulled into the slot in front of the gate and said, “You’d rather have a Marine?”
Blood, from the back, said, “As a Marine, given the choice, I’d much rather be on the outside shooting right now.”
I said, “You’ll be shooting soon enough.”
We waited, headlights to the front, wondering if we were going to initiate a firefight just by being here. After a pause, the gate triggered, the giant piece of iron sliding to the right on its track, slowly inching open. When it was enough for the car, I proceeded forward, saying, “Remember, no shots early. We need total surprise.”
I continued up the drive at a slow pace, watching the gunmen on the porch. They showed no alarm. I keyed my radio. “Decoy, you got both?”
“Yeah. A little spread, but no issue.”
“You got to hit them quick. I can’t have a gunfight right out front. The first thing I want them to hear is the breach.”
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