Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (96 page)

Straight ahead there was an automobile parking lot, nearly empty, and on the other side there was another chain link fence, and another gate was visible in their headlights.  This unguarded gate was already rolled wide open, and the SUV passed through it without slowing.  Alex continued sawing with the tiny knife, visualizing the blade working against the nylon flex cuff, glancing at Ranya, who was staring straight ahead, as expressionless as the Sphinx.

The SUV drove across an expanse of asphalt past a dozen single and light twin-engine prop planes.  Beyond them was a larger twin-engine aircraft, a white transport plane with high straight wings like a giant Cessna. A white van was parked just behind the plane’s tail, shining its headlights down the left side of the fuselage.  The van’s lights were illuminating the plane’s open cargo door, which was a four-foot by four-foot square opening, just behind and below the wing.

Ramos said to Bullard, “Take it nice and slow.  Now, turn around and back in.  I want the back of this truck ten feet from the cargo door, no closer.  Slowly…that’s it, a little more.  Okay, back up, slowly—that’s it, fine.  Put it in park and turn it off.  Good.  Keep your hands on the wheel until I tell you something different.”  

The bottom of the wing and the horizontal tail elevator were both around nine or ten feet above the ground, and Alex could see there was no risk of the roof of the SUV running into them.  Only the stationary propellers of each engine descended low enough to be a concern, and they were at the front of each engine, four feet in front of the wings.

Bullard whined, practically begging, “You’ll let me go now?”

“Patience.  In a little while.”  Ramos aimed his Glock pistol at Bullard with his left hand, with his right he reached over and pulled out the car keys.  “You’ll get these back after we take off.  I’ll toss them out on the tarmac.  Once we’re gone, find the keys and go home.  Okay?”

Bullard croaked out, “Okay.”

Ramos turned in the seat to address his two henchmen.  “Alright, go ahead and load the gold.”

Chino and Genizaro got out of both sides of the Navigator, and lifted the SUV’s rear cargo door.  Genizaro asked, “What about the boy?”

“Put him on first—that way the traitors won’t give us any problems. Keep him in the bag.”

Corky Gutierrez came out of the plane through the side cargo door, behind the left wing.  A hinged ladder swung down to form crude steps, it was four feet from the tarmac to the bottom of the hatch.  The plane’s actual hatch rolled up inside the fuselage like a garage door, to allow for opening in flight, in order to conduct parachute operations.

“What are you waiting for?” the Comandante yelled to the pilot.  “Get the engines running!  I want to be in the air in two minutes—come on, let’s go, let’s go!”

“Are you sure?” asked Corky.  “You want me to start up while you’re still loading?”

“You heard me, do it!  Crank her up!”

The pilot disappeared back inside.  The two Zetas carried the fourteen heavy steel ammunition cans across from the back of the Navigator to the cargo hatch one at a time, sliding them onto the cargo deck at their chest level.  Carlos Mendoza, who had been the pilot’s “babysitter” while the team was in San Diego, took each box from that point.  He stowed them against the rear bulkhead on the cargo deck, weaving a thick rope through their carrying handles to keep them from shifting in flight.  Each steel box weighed about forty kilos.  

First the right and then the left engine was switched on, coughing and belching before catching, then roaring with fury.  The propellers disappeared, but with their props set at flat pitch, they were taking the plane nowhere.  The plane’s running lights came on next, red and green on the wingtips, white behind.  Flashing white strobes blinked off of the transparent circles created by the whirling props, creating frozen propeller images.

“Okay,” said Comandante Ramos, “That’s all of the gold, what about the computers?”

“They’re aboard,” answered Chino.

“Then get the prisoners—we’re leaving.” He walked to the driver’s side of the Navigator, between the van and the SUV, to check that Bullard was still obediently holding the steering wheel.  He was.

46

The right side rear door opened in front of Ranya,
and the ugly Zeta called Genizaro unlatched the folding middle seat and pulled it forward. He had to yell to be heard over the airplane engines.  “Okay, the boy is already on the
avión
,” he said in Spanish.  “If you want to see him again, don’t make any problems.  You first,
chica
.” He reached inside and grabbed the neckline of Ranya’s white sweatshirt with his left hand, while aiming his MAC-10 machine pistol at her with his right, and began to pull her out.

Ranya’s hands were still crossed behind her back.  She leaned forward at the waist—it was not a simple process to climb out of the vehicle from the far back seat, without using her hands for support.  She saw Genizaro’s finger outside the trigger guard of his MAC, and she saw that the .45 pistol he had swiped back on the yacht was still tucked into his belt, Mexican-carry. She recognized the pistol: it was her Jardine’s Custom, which she had taken from Basilio’s bedroom.

Genizaro had to steady her as she bent forward and put one foot outside of the SUV’s middle door.  Then she tripped, off balance, falling against him with all of her weight, turning into him with her left shoulder. He raised his MAC-10, shoving it sideways against her to hold her back, grunting “
¡Puta estupida!
”

Her unbound left forearm came up to block the machine pistol, while her right hand swept up in a flashing arc toward his face.  She had been holding Alex’s keys since he had cut off her flex-cuff, the tiny knife ready for this moment.  Its razor-sharp serrated blade struck him below his left clavicle, ripped through his windpipe, and exited behind his right jaw.  A shower of blood erupted from his throat, and both of his hands flew to his neck to try to do the impossible, to stop the Niagara of his own hot blood. 

They continued to lean against each other for a few seconds—he was still standing but rapidly weakening while clutching his throat.  She dropped the key chain and grabbed the .45 pistol from inside of his belt with her right hand.  Chino, in his black DHS uniform, was standing only a few yards behind his teammate when this unexpected flurry of movement took place. He raised his MAC but Genizaro was directly in his line of fire and he didn’t shoot.  Ranya snapped down the .45’s thumb safety and tried to take aim at Chino one-handed.  As she put the green glowing front sight on him and squeezed the trigger, the dying Genizaro twisted and collapsed against her and the shot went high and wild.

Chino backpedaled furiously, trying to run past the Otter’s left wheel and wing strut and around the nose of the plane to get cover.  Ranya aimed again, two handed now that Genizaro had dropped out of the way, and while she was squeezing the trigger she watched Chino’s head disappear from the nose up, his cranium and half of his face were instantly gone! The headlights of the van and the flashing strobes revealed the cause, they illuminated a blurring circle—Chino had backed straight into the spinning propeller! His body continued its backward movement until it was stopped by the ground.

Ranya didn’t dwell on the two men who were down, because she had seen Basilio Ramos standing on the other side of the white SUV before she had been dragged out.  She spun to her right with her pistol still outstretched in both hands, looking for him.

***

Basilio Ramos was standing
behind the Lincoln Navigator while overseeing the final step, the loading of the prisoners, when Genizaro opened the right door to pull out Ranya.  With her wrists bound behind her back, she seemed to stumble off balance, when her hand unexpectedly shot up toward Genizaro’s throat.  What! How?  Chino ran backwards away from her, and as Ramos watched, most of his head was hacked off in an instant—he’d gone into the spinning prop!  Ramos stared in momentary shock as Chino’s body tumbled backwards. 

In his peripheral vision he saw that Ranya was holding a pistol, aimed at Chino’s corpse.  She began to turn his way and he stepped back, around to the opposite side of the white SUV.  To reach the airplane’s side hatch, he would have to cross ten feet of open space, directly under her gun.  Did she even know he was there? There was no indication she did.

Ramos made a snap decision to use that open ground between the back of the SUV and the airplane to his advantage.  He sprinted around the back of the Magic Chef van, keeping the white SUV between himself and Ranya to avoid being seen.  From behind the right side of the van, he had a clear field of fire down the length of the Otter’s fuselage.  The van’s headlights would shine on her when she crossed the open space to the plane, and they would blind her to his location.  When she went for the plane and tried to climb its ladder, he’d have an easy ten meter shot at her with his pistol.  The Glock didn’t have glowing night sights, but at ten meters its ordinary sights would be enough.

***

Alex was crouching
in the Navigator’s open door, ready to jump out behind Ranya, when he saw the half-Asian’s instantaneous propeller decapitation. The pockmarked goon who had come for Ranya was already down in a spreading pool of blood beside the white SUV, his throat slashed with the tiny key chain knife.  The dead man had dropped his MAC-10 machine pistol when he fell, and Alex snatched it up as he hopped out of the SUV and over the body.

The two former captives huddled behind the open door of the SUV, shouting to be heard over the airplane engines. Only one shot had been fired, and there was no evidence that anyone on the plane had noticed.

Alex asked her, “Where’s Ramos? He was outside—did he get on the plane?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t see him, maybe he did.”

“Brian’s on the plane, he’s in the green bag!”

“I know!” wailed Ranya.

He said, “We have to get aboard…”  It was three or four yards from the back of the Navigator to the open hatch of the Otter, which was four feet above the pavement, up an aluminum boarding ladder.  “We can’t wait, we have to go, Brian’s on the plane!”

Alex stepped from the back of the SUV, and a pair of shots cracked out from behind the white van’s headlights and he jumped back behind the cover of the SUV.  

Another man appeared in the Otter’s open cargo door with a pistol in his hand.  Ranya immediately took aim at him with her .45 pistol and fired a pair of shots into his chest, and thinking ‘Kevlar vest’ she fired another pair to his groin and hip as he turned, and he fell forward from the plane onto the tarmac. 

A sudden gust of wind blasted them as the engine noise grew and changed in pitch.  The aircraft jerked and slowly began to roll.

“Where’s Ramos?” she yelled. 

“I think he’s behind the van,” Alex shouted back, “I think I saw his muzzle flash.  But we have to go for the plane, Brian’s on it!  I’ll keep him down with this,” he said, lifting the MAC-10.  “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready!”

“When I go—GO!”

They ran together to the moving airplane, Ranya behind Alex as he fired a full auto burst at the van one-handed, the MAC-10 pouring out a wild salvo of .45 caliber slugs.  

***

Ramos saw someone move from the SUV
toward the plane and he instinctively fired two quick unaimed shots from his Glock, and the figure disappeared back behind the vehicle.  It was a man, so it had to be the FBI agent. The catering van Ramos was using for cover was a few yards behind the airplane’s high left elevator.  The van was angled slightly toward the airplane, bathing it in the light of its headlamps.  He stood behind the van’s passenger door so that he could remain concealed and fire right handed, waiting for the FBI agent to try to run for the plane again.

Mendoza’s face briefly appeared in the open cargo hatch, crouching to look outside.  More pistol shots boomed out, and Mendoza tumbled onto the asphalt.  The plane lurched and began to move, and a moment later, the FBI agent tried for the plane.  Ramos fired three or four fast shots, and a torrent of bullets slammed into the catering van.  He ducked behind it again for cover as glass window fragments peppered his face, and then something struck his right foot like an axe!

***

As if things weren’t already bad enough
for Bob Bullard, everything went completely, totally to shit when they came to get Ranya Bardiwell out of the back seat.  Somehow, she’d gotten free of the plastic flex-cuffs, and somehow she’d killed the short ugly Mexican gangster and grabbed a gun, and while Bullard continued to watch in astonishment the half-oriental gangster wearing the DHS uniform managed to stumble into the left engine’s spinning propeller, removing most of his head in a split second!

This was followed a few seconds later by even more shots, and Bullard had seen enough.  He was safe from pistol fire behind two inches of bullet resistant Lexan glass and a door sandwiched with Kevlar and ceramic panels, but they had the keys—what if they came back for him? Once the killing began, it was inconceivable that he would be left alive as a witness.  Any deal to let him go was off the second the shooting began.

Out of the blue, he remembered that there was a spare ignition key taped to the bottom of the ashtray.  Usually he had a driver when he used the Navigator, so this extra key business wasn’t really his responsibility, but thank God that he knew about it anyway!  Alone and unguarded now, Bullard pulled out the ashtray and peeled off the hidden key.  He fumbled it into the ignition, switched on the hot engine, and dropped the SUV into drive with his left foot on the brake.  He hunched down in the seat, floored the accelerator and the big truck launched forward and out of the line of fire.  He sideswiped the open chain link gate, hit a parked car, skidded through the next sharp turn and kept going.