Blaze of Glory (34 page)

He held the man until he stopped moving.

His rushing blood made his face hot. He let the man drop.

“Must you always make a mess?”

Zinsser turned to see Rich by his side. Before Zinsser could answer, another sound drew his attention. A large man in a plaid shirt rounded the corner and pointed the barrel of an Uzi at his head.

CHAPTER 36

J. J. PAUSED HIS breathing.

He squeezed the trigger with slow, steady pressure.

The recoil of the M110 slammed his shoulder.

J. J. saw a wet spray emanate from the guard’s head.

SOMETHING WET HIT ZINSSER in the face. He looked at the man on the ground at his feet. No question about his life status.

The sound of booted footsteps to Zinsser’s right drew his attention from the gory sight on the ground. Zinsser froze. The inside of his skull itched. He looked up. Did he hear helicopters?

“Data, I need you.”

Zinsser slammed his eyes shut.

Moyer’s voice hissed at him. “Data, you with us?”

“Yeah, Boss. Of course.”

“Check out the window.”

Zinsser said nothing more as he returned his Benchmade knife to its sheath and poked his head around the corner. Seeing no other guards, he moved to the one window in the building and squatted below the sill. Pulling a small video device from his vest, he attached a gooseneck spy camera and raised the small lens just over the sill. He studied it for a moment, then returned the device to his vest. He raised a hand to his eyes then raised three fingers: three men inside.

A moment later Moyer crept past and took a position by the door. Rich did the same. Jose followed on his heels. Pete stopped by Zinsser’s side. The next action had been planned and discussed at length on the flight here. Zinsser kept his eyes trained on Moyer.

Moyer raised three fingers, then retracted them one at a time, counting down. When the last finger disappeared, Zinsser stood.

MOYER TENSED.

This was the weakest link of the plan. In a perfect mission there were no unknowns. Too bad there were no perfect missions. J. J. had reported two men inside, but his vision was restricted to the window. Zinsser had had a better look through a digital periscope, and he reported three armed men. No one knew how many more might be in the storage area of the warehouse. For all Moyer knew, there could be twenty men ready to do battle. He doubted it, but the doubt didn’t make him feel any better.

He raised his hand, three fingers ticking off the seconds to action. He studied Zinsser; the man’s mind better still be with them. Zinsser’s skill and willingness to engage the enemy without hesitation had kept the guard from sounding the alarm. If the man had opened up with his weapon, then one or more of Moyer’s men might be dead.

He pulled in his last finger and saw Zinsser and Pete pop up. Zinsser put the butt of his M-4 through the glass, then spun away from the window. Pete tossed a small cylinder through the opening, then stepped back and turned his face away. The M84 “nine-banger” stun grenade exploded, releasing nine mini-explosions of blinding light and ear-shredding noise.

A moment after Pete tossed the grenade, Moyer nodded to Rich, who kicked the door just to the right of the knob. It exploded inward. Moyer was first in, his silenced service sidearm drawn. The effects of the nine-banger grenade would only last a few seconds.

The door opened into a shabby office area with a battered dinner table for a desk. On the table was a deck of playing cards. Three men stood near the table, their chairs knocked over backward. Two steadied themselves against the table, and one plugged his ears with his fingers. Tears, the result of the grenade’s intense light, ran down their faces. Each man wore a sidearm. Two AK-47s were propped next to the wall. Two men reached for the automatic weapons, the third pulled his hand from his ear and dropped it to the holster hanging on his right hip.

Moyer squeezed the trigger twice and saw the escaping gas from Rich’s weapon. The three men crumpled to the floor.

Jose brushed past Moyer and stepped to the door that stood between the storage area of the warehouse and the office. Three whispered shots told Moyer that Pete had found more men. He turned and followed his medic into the room. The sound of footfalls behind him told him the rest of the team had arrived. A movement to the left snagged Moyer’s attention. He spun, weapon at the ready. He saw a man raising some kind of automatic pistol. Moyer was faster. The man’s head snapped back, but not before he unleashed a stream of bullets, rounds fired without benefit of a noise suppressor. The sound of it stabbed Moyers ears, but worse, he was sure the sound traveled outside. The flash-bang grenade had been a concession Moyer had to make, but the closed environment most likely muffled the sound. Now he hoped the warehouse would contain the sound of weapons fire.

Most of the space was filled with large bundles of plant material wrapped in plastic. Boxes of smaller bags filled with white powder were stacked in the corner. Moyer didn’t waste time focusing on such things.

He had to make sure the area was secure.

J. J. REMAINED UNMOVING on the shed roof, his sniper rifle at the ready. His breathing was regular, his limbs steady, his heart calm. His brain, however, raced like an Indy car out of control. “Come on, Boss. Come on. Talk to me.”

He knew better than to tie up the radio. His unit mates might need to contact him. The noise of the flash-bang he expected. But the unsuppressed gunfire—exactly the sound he’d prayed he wouldn’t hear. “Someone talk to me.”

He was just about to key the radio when two things caught his attention. First, just moments after the team made entrance, a dirty, ancient-looking SUV pulled onto the street and started north. It didn’t slow. J. J. couldn’t make out the driver, but he appeared to be lost. When the sound of gunfire pierced the air, the car slowed, then sped off.

The second thing J. J. noticed made his heart tumble. Lights in some of the buildings came on. Seconds later several men emerged from the cantina. “Not good,” he said to himself. “So . . . not . . . good.”

THE SUSPENSION SYSTEM OF the ten-year-old Toyota Land Cruiser squeaked with every pothole and bump. That didn’t surprise the driver. The odometer read 212,512 miles. It was a wonder the beast continued to roll. It was the worst rental car the man had seen, let alone driven. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t here as a tourist. He had business to conduct, and if it took a few hours in a creaky auto, then so be it.

A few moments before the driver had turned the vehicle from a horrible dirt road onto an almost passable one. Frontera was everything he expected it to be: small, dirty, poor, and asleep. It should have been asleep. Just as he turned on the main road, he heard gunfire and ducked, lowering himself to the seat. When no bullets struck his car, he pressed the accelerator and pulled away. He had not been alone in noticing the noise. Five or six men poured from what looked like a bar.

The driver didn’t wait to see what happened.

He just didn’t care.

“WE’VE BEEN COMPROMISED.”

J. J.’s voice poured into Moyer’s ear. “Understood. Time?”

“Two minutes tops, Boss. Make that ninety seconds.”

“Number?”

“I count five men. All are armed with handguns.”

“Roger that, Colt. Hold your position. Sounds like we’re going to need you again.” Moyer looked at the others. They’d heard the broadcast. “Doc, Junior, take positions at the window and door. You too, Data.” The three men sprinted to the office area.

“I don’t get it, Boss. We were sure the hostages were here.”

Moyer stepped to the only empty corner in the area. Dark stains covered the floor and the lower portion of the wall. He turned and saw a small video camera standing in the corner. “This is the place.”

“You think they killed them.”

“I think we were hunkered down behind their graves a short time ago—”

One of the guards groaned. Moyer stepped to a dark-skinned man with a beard. He looked to be fifty. Blood oozed from his chest. The man looked like a fish stranded on the dock, moving his mouth to suck in air.
Pneumothorax.
The bullet had punctured the lung and the pleura. He couldn’t inflate his lungs.

Moyer squatted by him. “Do you speak English?”

The man’s eyes went wide, and he nodded.

Moyer watched the rise and fall of the man’s chest, then at the right moment, he placed a gloved hand over the wound closing off the hole. The man took several good breaths. Moyer saw the fear of death in his eyes. “Listen, amigo, you are going to die, and I can’t do anything about it. I’m going to give you a chance to do one good thing with your miserable life; something you can take with you when you go. I don’t know if it will help or not. It’s just a chance you’re going to have to take. Do you understand?”

The man nodded.

“I only have time to ask this once. Are any of the hostages still alive?”

He nodded. “Two.”

“Where are they?”

He hesitated, but when it looked as if Moyer were going to remove his hand, he said, “The church.”

Moyer nodded. “Give me your left hand.” The man did. Moyer pressed the man’s hand over the sucking chest wound. “Keep the hole closed.” He stood.