Suicide Mission (25 page)

Henry Dixon's legs hurt like the very devil. Phantom pain, of course, since his legs weren't even there anymore, and he wasn't thinking about the stumps where the prostheses attached, either, although those ached considerably after hours of climbing around in the mountains. It was the legs themselves, the ones he'd left behind in Africa. Stubborn little bastards.

It would be nice to be young and whole again, but of course, that was never going to happen.

He had moved in during the night, when he was less likely to be seen, and once it was light he began working himself into position with all the stealth at his command. Now he was perched on a high ledge overlooking the valley. He could see every building in the camp with the naked eye, and when he looked through the scope attached to his rifle, details sprang into sharp relief.

The rifle was resting in a cleft between two rocks where the sun couldn't reach it and strike reflections that might be spotted by the enemy. All the surfaces of the weapon had been dulled to minimize that danger, as well. The sun might still glint on the scope's lenses, though, if he allowed that to happen.

He wouldn't.

Dixon liked being in a position like this. He was content. He had no delusions of grandeur, but the comparisons to God were unavoidable: he sat in a high place, seeing all, ready to reach down and smite the evildoers, delivering death to them from above.

God didn't have a satellite phone in His pocket, though. Dixon did. When it buzzed, he took it out and opened it.

“Dixon.”

“Are you ready?” That was Megan Sinclair's voice.

“I am.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“All right,” Dixon said. He broke the connection and put the phone away, then leaned forward and nestled his cheek against the smooth wood of the rifle's stock.

It felt good to be home.

 

 

The SUV looked like a beat-up old American vehicle, but really it was heavily armored and all the glass was bulletproof. Clark had delivered it to Dos Caballos the night before, along with its “cargo”: Bronco Madigan, Calvin Watson, and a lot of big guns and ammunition.

Wade was a little surprised to see Clark. The boss of the whole operation should have been back across the border somewhere. Somewhere safe, because this part of Mexico was fixing to be anything but.

Clark had come in person, though, because he had news. Worrisome news.

“Using the intel we developed from that flash drive Catalina brought to us, we've been able to track some of the email traffic between high levels in the terrorist organization,” Clark had explained. “Something's coming out of that camp today, something bad. I don't know what it is, but they call it the Night Flowers.”

“The New Sun didn't sound all that bad, either,” Megan had said, “but it would have been if they'd gotten away with it.”

“Yeah, I know, that's why we're concerned. It's a good thing we're able to make this move now.” Clark had looked around at Megan, Wade Stillman, Nick Hatcher, Madigan, and Watson. “Wade, when you and your men get in there, try to find out what the Night Flowers are, and do something to neutralize them, okay?”

“You mean while we're tryin' to kill as many of those varmints as we can and keep from gettin' killed ourselves?”

“I know it's a lot to ask, but stopping this new operation may be the most important thing you ever do.”

Wade had shrugged and nodded.

“Sure. Sounds like a piece of cake.”

“It'll be easier if you leave most of the killing to us,” Madigan had said. “That's what we're best at.”

Watson had nodded in agreement.

Wade was struck by the change in the two convicts. They still looked tough and scary as hell, but they seemed to have reached some sort of truce between themselves. The seething anger ready to explode just under the surface was still there but it wasn't as strong. He didn't know what had caused the change, but if he didn't have to worry about the two of them being completely loose cannons, that was a considerable improvement.

Nick was at the wheel of the SUV, of course. Madigan had shotgun, Watson was behind him, and Wade and Clark were in the back. Megan had argued that she ought to come along, too, insisting that she could fight, but Wade and Clark had both vetoed that idea.

“You may think that your father's disowned you,” Clark had told her, “but I'll still be damned if I'm gonna let Old Iron Balls' daughter get herself killed in one of my operations.”

“It's not fair. Bill promised me excitement.”

Madigan had growled, “This kind of excitement, you don't need, lady.”

In the end, they had left her in Dos Caballos.

Nick brought the SUV to a halt when it was still a mile from the entrance to the Canyon of the Serpent. Wade turned to Clark and said, “You can get out now. One of your fellas ought to be along to pick you up in a little while.”

“Who said I was getting out?”

Wade frowned.

“No offense, sir, but this is a field operation. You're in charge of puttin' these things together, not taking part in them.”

“I was right there in downtown San Antonio helping Bill stop Maleef from blowing it up. And I was doing fieldwork while you were still in diapers, sonny.”

“I don't care,” Wade said stiffly. “Bill left me in charge of this part of the deal, and it's supposed to be just the four of us. You know what the odds are against us.”

“Yeah, and I know you wouldn't be risking your lives like this if those ass hats in Washington would just realize the world's still a dangerous place and there are people out there who have to be stopped before they kill us all. I'm coming along, Stillman, and you might as well get used to the idea.”

“He's the boss,” Madigan said with an ugly grin. “You can't argue with him.”

Wade saw that it would be a waste of time and sighed.

“All right,” he said to Clark. “But when you get your butt shot off, old man, don't blame me.”

“I won't,” Clark said. “But I'll remember that ‘old man' crack, buddy-roo.”

The phone in Wade's pocket buzzed. He took it out and said, “Yeah?”

“It's a go,” Megan's voice said in his ear. “And Wade . . . ?”

“Yeah?”

“Come back if you can.”

That took him by surprise. He hadn't seen any sign that Megan cared for him in any way other than as a comrade-in-arms in a dangerous game. And maybe that's all it was he was hearing now, to be honest. But maybe not, he thought.

“Do my best,” he told her. He closed the phone and put it back in his pocket. To Clark, he said, “Last chance to get out.”

“Are you kiddin'? Let's get this rodeo started!”

 

 

The gathering crowd around the pit parted to let Bill, Bailey, and the other two prisoners walk through, followed by Jorge and the rest of the gunmen. Jeering shouts came from the cartel men. The terrorists-in-training looked at the prisoners silently but with cold hatred in their eyes. Bill had dealt with their sort enough to know that they considered anyone non-Islamic to be barely human, even their so-called allies.

The Mexicans didn't know what they were letting themselves in for by partnering up with those fanatics. It was like the old folktale about the scorpion crossing the river on a frog's back and stinging it halfway across so they both drowned.

Death and treachery were just in their nature.

Someone had placed a ladder in the pit. Jorge jerked the barrel of his gun toward it and ordered, “Get down there. Now.”

One of the other prisoners shook his head and started backing away. He said in a panicky voice, “No, no, no—”

A guard struck him in the back with a rifle butt, driving him to his knees. Jorge said, “We'll throw you in if we have to, and then you might break an arm or a leg. You'd be easy prey. Climb down and at least you'll be able to fight.”

The prisoner was sobbing silently in fear, but he struggled back to his feet, stumbled over to the ladder, and started to descend. The second man started forward, ready to climb down as well, but Jorge stopped him.

“The old man next,” Jorge said with a sneering grin directed at Bill.

“Sure,” Bill said. He made himself move awkwardly as he went down the ladder, as if his shoulder where Jorge had kicked him was still bothering him.

“Now you,” Jorge told Bailey.

Bailey sneered right back at Jorge, climbed halfway down the ladder, then jumped the rest of the way to the bottom of the pit, landing as easily as if he had just stepped down from a curb. The fourth man came down behind him.

As the ladder was drawn up, the crowd closed in again so everyone would have a good view. Jorge stood at the edge of the pit and said, “This is how it will work. The three of you,” he pointed at Bill and the other two prisoners, “will fight the gringo. He's so big, three against one will only make it fair.”

“I don't care how many there are,” Bailey said. “I'll fight you all, one at a time or all together. Come on down, you bastards. I'm not afraid of you.”

“You will learn to be afraid,” Jorge told him. “But not for long, because then you'll be dead. But if you kill these three, there will be more opponents for you, don't worry about that. You can stay down there as long as you kill those we send against you, even if it takes all day.”

Bill saw Bailey swallow hard. Bailey didn't want to kill any of the prisoners. Neither of them did. How were they going to avoid it, though?

If help was going to show up, soon would be a mighty good time.

Jorge took a handful of machetes from another man and held them above his head. Only three machetes, Bill saw. Somebody in the pit was going to be the odd man out. Just one more way of ensuring that blood would flow down here and the damned pit would live up to its name.

“As soon as our leader and our special guests arrive, we will begin,” Jorge went on.

“Ah, hell, let's get it over with,” Bailey said. “The sun's hot and I'm tired of waiting.”

“I said, as soon as Señor Sanchez and Señores Maleef and al-Waleed get here,” Jorge snapped. “This entertainment is being staged for them before they leave.”

Bill didn't let the reaction he felt show on his face. So Tariq Maleef was here, he thought. And he knew from briefings with Clark that the man called al-Waleed had to be Anwar al-Waleed, another leader of the terrorist organization who was supposed to be some sort of scientific genius.

According to Jorge, Maleef and al-Waleed were about to leave Barranca de la Serpiente. There had to be a good reason for their departure, and a chilling possibility occurred to Bill.

Maybe they were setting out on some new operation, a new strike against the United States that would bring death and destruction if it wasn't stopped in time.

With that thought in mind, each second that ticked past took on a whole new importance. He and Bailey had to get out of here, Bill thought. They had to find Maleef and al-Waleed and kill the two men. That was the surest way of stopping whatever deviltry they were about to get up to.

Bill's instincts told him that the lives of millions of people might be riding on this.

But the ladder was up now, and he and Bailey were stuck in this pit, and if Maleef came to watch the bloody show, he might recognize Bill from San Antonio. He might order his killers to machine-gun them without mercy and leave them here in this damned hole in the ground. The breaks were going against them, and Bill felt what little control he had of the mission slipping away from him.

The crowd stirred, parted again. Three newcomers stepped up so they could see. Bill kept his head lowered and his eyes downcast, hoping Maleef wouldn't get a good enough look at his face to recognize him.

That brief glance had been enough for Bill to recognize the terrorist leader, though. Maleef had a serene look on his face, as if he were confident that everything was going his way again.

And his way meant death to Americans.

Jorge threw the machetes into the pit and yelled, “Fight!”

The other two prisoners leaped for the machetes, but Bailey was too fast for them. With almost supernatural speed for such a big man, he grabbed their shirt collars and jerked them back, then swung them together like they were nothing more than rag dolls. Their heads cracked against each other with a resounding thump. When Bailey let go of them, they both fell limply to the sand, out cold.

Well played, Bill thought.

Bailey bounded over to the machetes and scooped them up. He slid one behind his belt and held the others, one in each hand, as he faced the wall of the pit, tilted his head back, and bellowed at Jorge, “What now, you son of a bitch? What now?”

“Kill the old man,” Jorge ordered coldly.

Bailey spat contemptuously.

“The hell with that,” he declared. “That's not a challenge. Give me a challenge.”

Rage flushed Jorge's face. The slim, elegantly dressed man at his side, who had to be Alfredo Sanchez, looked angry as well. Sanchez snapped, “Give the gringo what he wants.”

“But señor—” Jorge began.

“Did you not hear me? Send four of our best men down there. They are not to come out of the pit until those two are dead!”

Jorge shrugged eloquently and said, “I will be one of the four.”

“Suit yourself,” Sanchez said.

Guards lined their rifles on Bill and Bailey while the ladder was lowered into the pit again. Armed with machetes as well, Jorge and three more of the cartel soldiers descended.

Bailey turned and tossed one of the machetes to Bill, who caught it deftly. He didn't mind fighting for his life against cartel goons. He could kill them without any stain on his conscience.

That didn't come any closer to getting him and Bailey out of this damned hole in the ground, though.

The last of the cartel men reached the bottom of the ladder and stepped off it. As he did, two more men edged up beside the trio of Sanchez, Maleef, and al-Waleed. Bill's heart pounded harder as he recognized Braden Cole and Jackie Thornton. So he'd been right about seeing them earlier, he thought. But what—

Cole slid his hand out of his pocket and turned it so that Bill could see what he was holding. It was just a little box with a red button on it, but Bill knew what it was. Cole smiled, the first sign of genuine warmth Bill had ever seen on the man's face, as he pressed the button.

The ground shook as a huge explosion rocked the valley.

Bailey didn't waste any time. He leaped forward, holding two machetes again as his arms whirled in a deadly windmilling motion. Jorge's face still wore a shocked expression as his head leaped from his shoulders, sheared cleanly off by one of the razor-sharp machetes. Two more of the cartel men went down in a shower of blood before the lethally whirling blades.

Bill finished off the fourth man, driving the machete into his belly with such force that the tip tore out through his back. Bill ripped the blade loose as he shoved the body away. He had moved so fast and agilely that he had taken the cartel soldier completely by surprise.

Even holding the two machetes, Bailey swarmed to the top of the ladder like a monkey going up a coconut palm, before the riflemen surrounding the pit could bring their weapons to bear on him. The explosion had shocked them and made them turn toward it, and that delay gave Bailey the time he needed to get out of the pit.

Bill scrambled toward the ladder, but by now a couple of the gunmen had recovered their wits and opened fire on him. Bullets kicked up sand around his booted feet as he ran. He would be an easy target as he climbed the ladder, he knew, but he couldn't stay down here.

Bailey bulldozed into the crowd, knocking several men over the edge. They toppled yelling into the pit. That disrupted the shooting long enough for Bill to make it to the top. In the distance he saw a huge cloud of smoke and dust billowing into the air from the spot where the long, low white building had been. He had no doubt that Cole was responsible for that blast.

That wasn't all Cole was doing. He chopped the edge of his hand across a cartel gunman's throat, then ripped the machine pistol out of the man's grip. Spinning, Cole squeezed the gun's trigger and sent a hail of lead slicing through the crowd.

A few feet away, Jackie Thornton scooped up a fallen pistol and opened fire with it. One good thing about being so outnumbered: anywhere you turned there was an enemy waiting to be shot down. Several of them spilled off their feet as Thornton's slugs ripped through them.

While that was going on, Bill and Bailey used the machetes to chop down several more cartel soldiers and would-be terrorists. They fought their way to the side of Cole and Thornton. The four Americans had done an amazing amount of damage in a matter of a minute or two, but they were still surrounded by bloodthirsty killers. So far, surprise and momentum had kept them alive, but they couldn't hope for that to hold true for more than another few moments.

They needed help, and they needed it now.

 

 

Dixon had been upset when the cartel thugs put Bill and Bailey into the pit. From this angle, and with so many men crowded around, he couldn't see them anymore. If he couldn't see them, he couldn't help them. He couldn't see who to shoot.

Then he'd spotted Cole and Thornton among the crowd, and for a split second, he had thought that the two men must have double-crossed the team. He settled his sights on Cole's head, the crosshairs resting on the hit man's temple. It would have been easy to take up the slack on the trigger . . .

That was when one of the buildings on the other side of the camp blew into a million pieces, and Dixon realized that Cole had just carried out the main part he had to play in the plan. That phony suitcase nuke might not have been a nuclear device, but it was packed with enough regular explosives to take out that building, anyway.

And now Bill and Bailey were out of the pit, Dixon saw, fighting with machetes, mowing down the cartel men and the Middle Eastern terrorists while Cole and Thornton armed themselves and contributed to the carnage.

Tracking the scope to the side, Dixon settled the crosshairs on one of the terrorists and stroked the trigger. The man's head exploded in a grisly spray of pink as the high-velocity round blasted through it. Before the body could hit the ground, Dixon had shifted his aim and was ready to fire again. A cartel gunman's skull burst open like a melon.

Head shots, one after the other, continued. Death from above, Dixon thought grimly. It was what he had been born to do, and he felt a deep gratitude to Wild Bill Elliott for giving that back to him.

 

 

Catalina heard the explosion and knew the battle was starting. Some of the guards would probably rush toward the trouble to try to help, while the others would make sure the prisoners were secure.

She was waiting behind the door when a couple of men carrying automatic rifles burst in. A kick broke one man's knee; clubbed fists to the side of the head sent the other to the floor. Both men were still dangerous, though. Catalina bent and jerked a holstered Colt .45 from one man's hip and shot them both in the back, their bodies jerking as the heavy slugs hammered them into the floor.

The rest of the women shrieked in terror and cowered against the far wall of the barracks. Catalina shoved the .45 into the waistband of her jeans and picked up one of the automatic rifles. She yelled, “Shut up!” at the women and had to repeat it before they started to settle down a little.

Then she went on, “I'm getting out of here. There are two guns left.” She pointed at the other guard's pistol and rifle. “Anyone who wants to fight for your freedom, grab a gun and follow me.”

She whirled through the open door as bullets stitched across the wall beside it. Spotting the guard who had opened fire on her, she squeezed off a burst that punched into his body, spun him around, and dropped him to the ground as a bleeding sack of meat. Catalina didn't see anybody else. From the looks of it, the other guards on the women's barracks had run off to join in the battle on the other side of camp.

Catalina did the same.

 

 

The explosion was their signal to go. Nick tromped the gas and sent the SUV surging along the crude trail that followed the winding canyon. He had sent it careening around a couple of bends before bullets began thudding into the vehicle's armored body.

“They're up on the rim!” he called to the men behind him.

“My job!” Calvin Watson yelled. He stood up, reached to the ceiling, and rolled back a specially designed sunroof.

Then he picked up a huge, air-cooled machine gun so big it took a man with massive strength to handle it. Watson had that strength and more. He stepped onto a firing platform bolted to the floor of the SUV. His head, shoulders, and arms extended up through the sunroof opening. He thrust the machine gun's barrel toward the canyon rim on the right and bellowed as he began firing. The gun swung back and forth as he hosed the guard positions on the rimrock with lead.

“Leave some of them for us to kill, you black bastard!” Madigan yelled at him.

“There'll be plenty, you damn redneck cracker!” Watson shouted back.

Bucking and rocking over the ruts, the SUV kept going. Hatcher was driving faster than any sane person would have on such a rough road, but somehow he kept the vehicle under control. Dust and grit sprayed from under its madly turning wheels and left a cloud filling the canyon behind them.

Bodies of guards shot to pieces by the storm of bullets from Watson's gun plummeted from the rocks to smash onto the canyon floor. Whenever a dead man fell in the road, Nick didn't try to avoid the corpse. He just plowed right over it and kept going. The cartel bastards couldn't get any deader, after all.

Suddenly Watson's gun fell silent. Wade heard it and thought at first that the convict must have fired the gun dry and run out of ammunition.

But Watson slumped back against the edge of the opening and started to slide down. Legs braced wide against the motion of the SUV, Madigan stood up and grabbed the gun as Watson dropped it. Watson slumped heavily to the floor, blood pumping from a gaping wound in his upper chest.

“Madigan . . .” he croaked.

“What?” Madigan snapped as he knelt beside the other convict, holding the gun.

“I still . . . hate you,” Watson gasped out.

“I hate you, too, you black son of a bitch.”

“If I . . . gotta die . . . you better not . . . live through this. Wouldn't be . . . fair . . . Freakin' . . . racist . . .”

Watson sighed and died.

That was the first one, Wade thought, the first one of their team to die, at least as far as he knew.

But he was mighty damn sure that Watson wouldn't be the last.