Mega #02 Baja Blood (6 page)

“Hanging on!” Shane replied as he grabbed onto the windshield frame.

The other cartel shooter, his face streaked with his dead comrade’s blood and brains, whipped his sub-machine gun around and opened fire, sending a spray of bullets into the midday traffic.

Max floored the Jeep and raced around the panicked drivers, dodging a Prius here, whipping around a BMW there. A convertible VW Beetle slammed on its brakes, blocking the brothers’ way, and Max had a split second to make a decision.

“This isn’t going to be fun!” Max shouted as he rammed the Jeep’s reinforced front bumper into the back of the Beetle.

The smaller car crumpled like paper and was shoved up onto the concrete divider to its left. Max never took his foot off the gas, just kept driving until they pushed through.

“How’s it look?” Max asked as the Wrangler got clear.

Shane, having been knocked down into his seat, stood back up and looked over the hood of the Jeep. “Thumbs up, dude. A little twisted, but then so are we.”

He put the sniper rifle back to his shoulder, but this time he rested the forestock on his doorframe as the Wrangler came parallel with the cartel pickup. They were separated by two lanes of chaotic traffic, but Shane didn’t really care. He sighted, let out a breath, and broke that bitch, placing a .338 caliber slug dead center in the second shooter’s chest.

The man flew backwards, his gun firing up into the air, then tumbled over the side of the pickup. His body was crushed under a Volvo and as Shane looked away from his scope, he could see the driver screaming at the top of her lungs.

“This isn’t going to work out well for us, is it?” Shane asked.

“You mean cops?” Max asked.

“I mean cops,” Shane responded.

“No, we’re pretty much fucked,” Max said. “Despite our heroic rescue.”

The driver side window of the pickup truck rolled down and a TEC-9 sub-machine gun was shoved out. Its barrel barked fire and lead. Shane ducked down behind his door, glad the brothers had modified the Wrangler’s panels with armor.

Slugs whined off the Jeep and Max growled.

“They’re fucking up my ride, bro,” Max said.

“Our ride,” Shane replied.

“More my ride since you can’t drive worth shit with only one eye.”

“That’s because I’m still training my depth perception,” Shane countered.

“More like training pussy excuses,” Max laughed.

“Want me to pluck out your eye? Then we’ll see how you drive.”

More slugs hit the Jeep and Max pointed over at the pickup. “How about you fucking pluck out that asshole’s eye?”

“Sure thing.”

Shane waited until the gunfire stopped, then jumped up, secured his rifle, and squeezed the trigger. The pickup truck swerved back and forth then fishtailed out of control. It smashed into another pickup then got its rear bumper tagged by a semi that tried to speed past it. The pickup flipped up into the air, rolling side over side, then came down with a brutal crash of metal and plastic.

“I think we won,” Shane said. “But I don’t see your girlfriend’s minivan back there.”

“She probably took the first exit,” Max replied. “Hopefully.”

“If she’s heading home then she’s driving right into another ambush,” Shane said as he sat down and pulled out his phone. “I’m calling Uncle Vinny. He can get her address.”

“Shit, hold on,” Max shouted as he swerved around a car that had come to a screeching halt. “All good.”

“I hate you boys,” Thorne said when he answered his phone. “Part of being retired is I get to nap in the middle of the day. It becomes hard to accomplish that napping when my nephews keep calling and waking me up!”

Shane looked over at Max. “Did you already call him today?”

“Yeah. Is he pissed you woke him up?”

“Like really pissed.”

“Say you’re sorry.”

“Hey, Uncle Vinny,” Shane said. “Sorry to wake you up again, but we kinda need some help.”

“With what?” Thorne asked.

“Just need an address for-” Shane looked at Max and raised his eyebrows.

“Helen Sherman,” Max said. “Ex-wife of the SEAL I called him about earlier.”

“Helen Sherman,” Shane said into the phone. “The ex-wife of the SEAL Max-”

“I know who she fucking is,” Thorne snapped. “I just talked to your brother like a half an hour ago. I’m trying to take a nap, not recover from amnesia.”

“Sorry,” Shane said.

“Do you need it right this second?” Thorne asked. “Or can I take a shit first?”

“Uh, well, we’re sorta in a hurry,” Shane responded.

“Of course you are,” Thorne sighed.

A news helicopter flew over the freeway and Max nodded his chin towards it. “Tell him to turn on the TV. That should hurry his old man ass up.”

“Uh, yeah, you may want to turn on the TV and put it to the local news,” Shane said. He pulled the mouthpiece away and looked at Max. “He’s turning on the TV.”

“Thanks for the play by play.”

There was a loud groan in Shane’s ear then, “Boys, what the fuck have you done?”

***

The cockpit of the sub was completely filled with seawater and John had to fight the urge to take a breath. His lungs were desperate for oxygen, but his training overrode nature, keeping his lips firmly sealed until he was able to finally wrestle the rebreather free of the small compartment it was stuck in. He gratefully put the mouthpiece between his lips and exhaled his stale air then took an almost ecstatic breath. Stale air had never tasted so good in his life.

After getting the rebreather secured over his shoulders and around his chest, John found an emergency pack and snapped a couple of glow sticks, then tried to see what systems still worked in the sub. It took all of three seconds to realize none of them did except for a few gauges that didn’t rely on power to work.

One of those gauges was the depth meter. Steady at 675 feet.

So why did the sub still feel like it was moving?

John braced himself as the sub shuddered and shook as impact after impact began to cave in the hull. He watched in horror as the cockpit started to shrink around him and the right side buckled before his eyes. Scrambling to the main hatch, John was only able to get two bolts in position before the hull was breached and a nightmare of teeth tried to chew its way inside.

The water in the cockpit clouded immediately and John looked about him as the seawater took on a milky green hue from the glow sticks. The teeth worked at the metal of the hull, gnawing continuously, determined to widen the hole. John shoved himself as far away as possible, but the cockpit was barely bigger than himself, so there was nowhere to go.

He compartmentalized the terror that threatened to overtake him and looked up at the main hatch again. It was his only shot.

He flattened himself against the side of the cockpit and reached up, turning the third bolt into place then the fourth while his eyes stayed glued on the beast. When the fourth bolt clicked home he looked up and found the handle, pulled it down, then shoved it back in place.

The explosive bolts only sent the hatch about a foot and a half away from the sub before it crashed to a stop. John realized the sub must have gotten wedged under a large outcropping or some rock. The space wasn’t big enough for him to get through with the rebreather on. He took a deep breath then worked the apparatus up over his head and shoulders.

John squeezed his body through the hatch, one hand still holding the rebreather. He was able to wiggle all the way out and found he was indeed crammed under a rocky outcropping, but he couldn’t get the rebreather out also. He didn’t have the leverage to twist it correctly and the back kept getting hung up on the hatch. He tried and tried, but he was quickly running out of air.

He pulled the mouthpiece to his lips and sucked hard, filling his lungs with usable air once more. But that was the last breath he was able to take as the shark ripped into the cockpit and the teeth tore the rebreather from him.

John kept the panic at bay and hurried out from under the outcropping and away from the sub. His eyes went wide as he saw the rest of the shark’s massive body sticking out from the sub, its head wedged firmly into the hole in the cockpit. White bubbles billowed out of the cargo hold and John realized the cocaine kilos had torn and were mixing their contents with the ocean.

No hand fins, no flippers, just skin and muscle, John swam as far and fast as he could, angling his body upwards. It was dark at the depth he was at and the surface was only a faint glow above. His chest started to burn and he knew he didn’t stand a chance of making it to the surface alive.

So he dove back to the sub.

He reached the cargo hold, and shoved his arms through the breach, yanking out kilo after kilo of cocaine until he found a couple still intact. Spots formed in front of his eyes and he knew he only had seconds left as he swam the few feet to the thrashing shark. The monster’s jaws, and most of its head were still wedged into the cockpit, but it thrashed so hard that John knew it would be free soon.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Getting right next to it, John jammed the kilos of drugs into one of the shark’s gill slits. He reached to his belt and pulled the short dive knife he kept strapped there then jammed the blade into the plastic-bagged drugs. The skin on his bare arms was rubbed raw as he brushed against the shark’s hide, but he ignored the pain and kept stabbing the bags, allowing them to open directly into the shark’s gills. His hope was to OD the massive thing.

Surely, a couple of kilos of pure Columbian cocaine could kill the beast?

The monster bucked and heaved then tore free from the sub. It whipped its head at John and he suddenly found himself without his right arm. And most of his torso.

No longer in control of himself, his mouth opened wide and his lungs filled with ocean water.

The last sight he saw was the shark’s own mouth opening wide.

The last thought he had was of his children and his ex-wife.

The last prayer he had was that none of what he’d done would blow back on them.

Then it was over in one final chomp.

***

“Can you text the address to us?” Shane asked.

“Yeah,” Thorne replied over the phone. “But with the way the police scanners are screaming, you won’t make it to the woman’s house before San Diego PD catches you.”

“Uncle Vinny thinks SDPD will take us before we get to your girlfriend’s house,” Shane said to his brother,

“Challenge accepted,” Max smiled as the Wrangler screamed down the I-5 off ramp and onto Clairemont Drive. Cars and trucks honked their horns as they threw on their brakes to avoid the Jeep. “Where are we going?”

“Linda Vista,” Shane replied. “She has a townhouse there.”

“Oh, I know right where that is,” Max said. “Remember Tatiana? That exotic dancer I was trying to get with?”

“That was a man, dude,” Shane said.

“It was not,” Max protested. “Did you see the tits on her?”

“Did you see the bulge below?” Shane replied, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you never figured that out.”

“My tongue was in her mouth,” Max replied. “I can’t undo that.”

“Good kisser?” Shane asked.

“BOYS!” Thorne roared into the phone. “Shut the fuck up and pay attention!”

“Sorry, Uncle Vinny,” Shane responded. “I’ll hang up now.”

“No, wait!” Max shouted. “The other guys!”

“Hold on,” Shane said. “Don’t hang up yet.”

“What now?” Thorne asked. “I need to get off the phone and make some calls. I have a feeling I’m going to cash in every favor I’m owed to keep you two from going to prison.”

“The two other guys that McCarthy recruited,” Max said. “If they have families then they’ll be in danger too, right?”

“Good catch,” Shane said. “Hey, Uncle Vinny? You’ll need to use a couple of those favors to get some police to the other two recruits’ families. If this shit is all connected then the cartel will hit them as well.”

“Fuck,” Thorne replied. “Fine. Can I go now?”

“Sure thing,” Shane said. “Talk to you later if we aren’t dead.”

“Jesus...,” Thorne swore. “Try not to get killed, please?”

“We can try,” Shane said, bracing himself as Max whipped around a corner onto a one way street. “But Max is driving so no promises.”

***

Mike kept the sub at 500 feet and pushed it as hard as the thing would move. Adolescent blue whales top out at twenty miles per hour, but the sub could only manage fifteen. Mike didn’t care, as long as he was moving away from the hell behind him.

He couldn’t get the image of what he saw in the monitors out of his mind. Sharks. Really fucking big sharks.

He’d lost com with Bart and John a while back, but at that point he was more concerned with himself than the other two sub pilots. Either they made it or they didn’t. SEAL brotherhood was strong, but so was the instinct to stay alive. Which brought a very critical thought to mind.