Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

“Same location. He hasn’t moved.”

“Okay, break-break. Blood, come down south. Hit the traffic circle and head west. Give me a visual.”

“Roger all.”

We pulled over and waited, giving me one vehicle short and one long on the road, with the target in between. I was always a stickler for human eyes versus technology because I’d been burned in the past when relying solely on some magic device. In this case, I didn’t know if the target was truly stationary or if he’d dropped his phone in the trash.

Two minutes later, Blood said, “Okay, I have eyes on. He’s out of the vehicle and at some sort of cantina next to a pizza shop. He’s inside, and he’s talking to a bartender. The bartender doesn’t look happy.”

“What are the atmospherics?”

“It’s mostly just outdoor tables. Inside it has a few more seats and a long piece of lumber in the back for the people wanting some booze. Your kind of place. He’s at the bar with a guy polishing glasses on the other side. Nobody outside, and from what I can see, nobody inside. I don’t think they’re open for business yet.”

My mind was running through the potential opportunity when Blood came back on, his voice slightly elevated. “Cop just pulled his gun. The bartender’s got his hands in the air.”

What the hell? More Keyser Söze shit. “Is he arresting the bartender?”

“Not from what I can see. The bartender is now at the cash register.”

And it became clear. He’s shaking the guy down for cash. Extorting money out of him. Which confirmed he was crooked. I put the car in drive and Jennifer said, “What are we doing? What’s the plan?”

I ran through the options and keyed my radio. “Blood, hold what you got and stand by. Knuckles, close through the circle and get eyes on. Wait until you see my car. I’m going to block his in. We’ll then enter together. Get him on the ground, and we’ll get out.”

“You want to take him in the cantina? Really?”

“Yes, really. Go in hard shouting ‘policía,’ and get him in our car. It’ll be out front. He’s shaking that guy down for cash, and it’ll look like we rescued him. Blood, you copy?”

“Ahh … Roger.”

“You’re our blocker. Anything comes in behind, they’re yours. Decoy, you take the front as lead element on exfil. We’re headed south. Any questions?”

Knuckles said, “Yeah, do you have the number for an attorney in Mexico?”

I said, “I’m sure Mr. Gomez will provide one if we get his kid back.”

I pulled in behind the cop’s unmarked car in front of the cantina, seeing him through an open door at the bar. His weapon now holstered, he was stuffing something into his pants. To Jennifer, I said, “You got the wheel. Get this thing ready to run. Coordinate with Decoy for a route out toward Paseo de la Reforma.”

She looked at me, surprised at how quickly this had erupted, but she nodded. I exited and saw Knuckles to my left, coming down the sidewalk from the pizzeria, a Glock held low by his leg. We paused out of sight of the front door. He nodded, telling me he was ready, and I peeked around the corner. I saw the cop holding his pistol in a two-handed grip, aiming it across the bar.

Shit. Not what I wanted. Now it’s hostage rescue.

I said, “Gun out, gun out,” and entered quickly. I went left, covering the cop, leaving the bartender for Knuckles behind me. I put my front sight post on the cop’s chest, shouting, “Policía, policía!”

And triggered a shit storm.

The cop gave a small jump when I entered the room, his eyes springing open at my words. He snapped his head at me, then back on a target to his front, seeing something in his mind’s eye that wasn’t there. He began jerking the trigger, getting off two shots before his chest erupted in a spray of blood. I heard the blast from my rear, then a snapping of rounds from a Glock. I whirled in the direction of the shot, seeing the bartender leaning against the wall, two holes in his chest, a double-barreled shotgun hanging limply in his hands. And Knuckles’s smoking barrel.

Holy shit.

He glanced my way, still covering the room, saying everything without speaking. In two steps I was on the bartender, leaving the cop for Knuckles. I grabbed his shirt, rapidly becoming soaked with blood, and yanked him across the bar, slamming him to the floor. I searched, finding no other weapons, then began to triage him, but it was too late.

He was dead.

Knuckles finished with the cop’s destroyed body and found his phone. He looked at the log and said, “One call made.”

In a calm voice, I said, “We need to go before a crowd shows up.”

We left the bodies where they lay, with me wondering how it would have worked out for the bartender if I hadn’t entered. Why did he go for the shotgun? The only good thing was we knew for sure the cop was an evil cuss.

Getting to the sidewalk, I saw we were clear. If anyone had heard the shots, they weren’t coming to investigate. Yet. We jumped into the back of Jennifer’s car and I called Blood and Decoy for exfil. She hit the gas without saying a word.

With Jennifer weaving through traffic, Knuckles said, “I took the shot. I’m not sure whose bullets hit him.”

I said, “You did the right thing. It was a gunfight. You couldn’t let him continue with a loaded shotgun.”

He said, “It was a double barrel, and I think he fired both. I killed him after he was no threat.”

I saw where this was going and immediately went to damage control. Not for the mission, but for Knuckles. “Bullshit. It was my call to enter. I did it when I saw the cop’s gun. I should’ve looked into the bar to see what he was aiming at. I should’ve pulled back. Screw all that innocents-killed crap. He had a shotgun and was shooting. I only heard one barrel. You probably saved my life.”

Knuckles nodded, but I could see the cost. I said again, “You made a right call. And you aren’t that good of a shot. The cop probably hit him.”

He laughed for the first time, a stilted thing, but a laugh nonetheless. I said, “Check your gun. Let’s get back into the mission.”

He glanced at me, then dropped the magazine and racked the slide of his Glock, clearing the chamber and checking its function before slapping in a new magazine. Making sure it was ready for another fight. Something I knew he would understand.

Jennifer heard the conversation and waited until we were through the traffic circle before talking, concentrating on driving instead of the chaos behind us. When we were back into the regular flow she asked, “What the hell happened? What was the shooting?”

Knuckles said, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. The cop’s dead, and we didn’t shoot him.”

She said, “Then what was that conversation about?”

I said, “It was about a situation I shouldn’t have put us in. The cop’s dead, and we’re clear.”

She looked at me, getting my eyes in the rearview mirror. She saw not to ask. She cut to the chase, which surprised me. “So what do we have? Since he’s dead, they didn’t get the information about the GPS device?”

Knuckles said, “He made a call.”

I saw her face fall, and the look aggravated me a little, given what we’d just gone through to save her brother. Given what I knew Knuckles was now going to question for the rest of his life. But we still had a mission. A way to make the bartender’s death mean something.

I said, “Knuckles, get a trace of the number he called. Jennifer, keep going south, toward the grid Mr. Gomez gave us for the last sighting.”

I got on the phone, calling the pilots. “What have you got?”

“Nothing. We didn’t get anything. The city’s too big. Saying ‘fly south’ didn’t help any.”