The Surge - 03 (39 page)

They continued to advance, walking upright and blasting away. Zach knew he had to chance exposure, finally lifting his head, taking an extra half a second, and centering his optic on a man’s chest.

Two 5.56 NATO rounds tore into the thug’s sternum at just over 3,200 feet per second, the long, tublar body tumbling as they struck flesh, ripping and tearing ribs, lungs, and muscles before exiting out the already-dead man’s back.

Zach hit the deck and rolled as another blizzard of pain launched in his direction. In a single motion, the Texan spun around, stood to his feet, and scurried half bent at the waist, trying to keep the garbage heap between the hunters and his carcass.

The ranger harbored a dim hope that seeing their comrade cut nearly in half would slow his pursuers down was quickly diminished. The cartel enforcers came harder now, seemingly motivated by their friend’s demise.

Zach took the opportunity to slam home a fresh magazine as he ran, zigging and cutting through the rusting hulks of whatever machinery was left behind. Vincent’s hellhounds were breathing hot on his heels.

The ranger managed the back of the building, pulling hard on a metal door. Fresh air and bright sunlight met Zach as he rushed out into the street, but that was no consolation. There wasn’t any place to hide. No cover.

His brain began screaming for the Texan to run like hell, to put distance between himself and the chasers. Some instinct overrode his survival voice, taking no more than a microsecond to realize he’d be gunned down less than 50 feet from the exit.

Zach began walking backward, his weapon on his shoulder, aimed at the door that had just banged shut behind him. He had a little surprise for the first guy who stuck out his head.

The door flew open, the ranger’s finger pulling the trigger instantly. No one came out. “Nice,” Zach whispered. “They must have watched old Westerns, too.”

Now, he was stepping backward as fast as he could. Distance was life. If he could just make the corner.

Again, the door opened; this time, a hunk of metal flew out. Zach pelted it with two shots before he realized it wasn’t a body. Then they came in a rush.

How all three managed to squeeze through the door, shooting at the same time, defied physics and was a mystery Zach didn’t stick around to solve – he was too busy running.

He could feel the rounds snapping by his head as he made the edge of the factory, the building’s façade erupting as at least a dozen rounds chased the fleeing lawman.

Zach hadn’t managed more than 10 steps when he realized another SUV was parked ahead, men with weapons pouring out of the doors.

I am so fucked
, he thought, trying to get his carbine to aim at what he assumed was cartel reinforcements. No wonder Vincent hadn’t scrambled to get out of the kill box – he knew help was on the way.

Pinned between the two groups, Zach finally managed to center the red dot as he skidded to a halt. His finger was putting pressure on the trigger when something flashed familiar … a head of long, dark hair. He knew that hair.

Sam’s face came into his mind just as the new arrivals launched a salvo of their own, all four of the riflemen unloading at the men behind Zach.

Surprised, the cartel hunters stumbled, fell, and danced death’s jig as Sam’s associates engaged with withering accuracy.

Zach, regaining his composure, jogged up to his partner with a look that indicated he was trying to decide if she were a hallucination or not.

“About time you got here,” he spouted with a sly grin. “I had resigned myself to dealing with these assholes all by myself.”

Sam’s fists flew to her hips at the audacious greeting. “Why … you…. From where I stand, Ranger Bass, you were about to get sliced and diced all by yourself. And you are not welcome … asshole.”

A man appeared beside the two rangers, tan, fit … his demeanor carrying an air of authority. While his Hawaiian print shirt and golf shorts made him look like a tourist, Zach’s mind said, “military.”

“Zach, meet Captain Billy Riddell, Republic of Texas Marines.”

The two men nodded, a battlefield obviously not the place for handshakes and the exchange of business cards.

“Captain Riddell was in charge of the training that day at Langtry. He and his men took some of their accrued leave for a short vacation in Mexico. I came along to see if I could help,” Sam explained.

The ranger had a million questions for his partner, but the sound of gunshots a few blocks over stopped the interrogation. “BB!” Zach barked, cursing himself for forgetting his partner.

The ranger started to run in the direction of the gunfire, but Sam put out her hand to stop him. Riddell explained, “My gunny sergeant and a few more of our boys are helping your partner, Ranger. No need to be concerned.”

Zach’s eyes darted back and forth between his partner and the Marine officer. “It’s okay,” Sam reassured. “They were chasing down a couple of stragglers. BB is just fine.”

Nodding with relief, a vision of the third, bulletproof SUV popped into Zach’s mind. “Vincent!” he snapped, again commanding his legs to move.

“Where was he?” Sam asked, holding him back.

“He’s in the third car of the convoy. We disabled three, but El General’s ride was up-armored.”

“There were only three vehicles in the kill zone, sir,” the Marine reported.

Zach looked at Sam with wide eyes, urgency in his voice, “Come on! He’s headed back to the yacht. We can’t let Ghost and that asshole get away!”

Somehow, they all squeezed into the rental unit, gun barrels and Sam’s crutch pointing every which direction.

As they drove toward
La Rosa’s
mooring, Zach spotted BB standing next to his pickup, shooting the shit with a bunch of what appeared to be tourists armed with M4 carbines. The captain had his men jumping into action in a second.

They all rushed to
La Rosa
, Vincent’s dinged, but still-functioning Chevy Suburban sitting at the foot of the gangplank.

Two men appeared at the top of the yacht’s rail, their weapons spraying at the Marines as the brave young assaulters spread out and then began to concentrate their return fire. One of the cartel defenders went down, the other choosing to retreat.

Up the gangplank rushed the Marines, pouring onto
La Rosa’s
main deck and establishing a beachhead in seconds. BB didn’t want to be left out and was soon scurrying to keep up.

Sam, with her crutch under one hand and a .45 pistol in the other, started to follow. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Zach asked.

“I flew all the way down here to end this thing. I intend to see it cleaned up … personally.”

Zach could see she wasn’t going to be denied, and given the fact that she’d just saved his life, decided to stay back and cover his partner as Sam limped up the incline of the ramp.

The Marines were spreading out now, four 2-man teams moving with well-coordinated, disciplined movements as their captain shouted orders and gunny made damn sure they were followed.

“Clear,” came a voice, another echoing further down, “Clear on the bridge.”

“Head for the lowest deck,” Zach advised. “There’s a swim platform down there… maybe Vincent’s going to try and scuba to freedom.”

Shots rang out as another Cartel bodyguard tried to defend the ship. He didn’t last long.

It seemed to be taking hours to sweep the massive vessel, the Marines not wanting to leave any threat to their rear. Zach hung back with Sam, the lady ranger doing her best to keep up despite a gimpy limb.

While he would have never said it aloud, Zach was impressed with her determination. Finally, the main decks and superstructure were cleared.

As the captain was dispatching a team to the engine spaces and another to the forward stores, a single shot rang out from the stern of the ship.

The gunny did a quick headcount, turning to his commander and saying, “Not one of ours.”

Everyone rushed toward the solo gunshot.

Zach was envisioning finding Vincent dead, the ranger guessing that the cartel honcho would kill himself before being captured. It then occurred that perhaps there was only one scuba tank aboard, and Ghost had done Texas a favor and killed the drug lord himself.

The two lead Marines burst into the water garage, closely followed by Zach and the rest of the boarding party.

There was Vincent, his body draped in an awkward position over the seat of a jet ski. There was blood soaking the back of his shirt, leaking from a crater in the back of his skull. Weekend was standing, staring blankly at the dead man’s face, a smoking pistol at her side.

Zach walked up and gently removed the weapon from her limp grip. He could hear her whispering, “You son of a bitch, you son of a bitch,” over and over again.

Zach took her chin and made eye contact, “Where is Ghost? Where is the other man?”

She actually laughed, an evil tinkle echoing off the hull. “He betrayed this fucker when the helicopter went down. He stole the launch over an hour ago.”

Looking out the open bay of the water garage, Zach scanned for any sign of the escaping terrorist. He knew it was hopeless. Ghost was long gone.

Sam stepped up beside her partner as if to help him search the horizon. When Zach finally looked down, it was clear he was feeling beaten. “I can’t believe that guy got away … again. What in the hell does it take to catch that madman?”

“We’ll get him, Zach; I promise. He just got lucky is all. We’ll get him.”

Sam and her Marines had flown down on a private plane, courtesy of a grieving father who had lost a son in the massacre.

As she and Zach prepared to head back to Texas with their rescuers, BB was helping himself to the crème de la crème of the cartel weapons, as well as a few bottles from
La Rosa’s
well-stocked liquor cabinets.

Sam sat down by Weekend, draped her arm around her shoulder and said, “You should start packing. We’ve got room enough on the plane for you and a couple of bags.”

The young lady shook her head, “No, I’m going to stay. I’ve been spying on Vincent for over a year now. I know where a lot of his skeletons are buried, as well as the passwords to a few of his offshore accounts. I even know where he’s stashed the antidote for the plague. I’m going to stay right here and help fix some of the damage he’s done.”

Zach was a bit taken aback by the tiny woman’s declaration, her words and attitude not matching her age or physical appearance whatsoever.

For 20 minutes, the two rangers tried to talk her out of such a high-minded scheme. “How are you going to manage this by yourself? Even if you have access to Vincent’s ill-gotten gains, the organization’s lieutenants are going to step in and take over. They always do.” Sam reasoned.

“Either that or one of the competing cartels will invade and try to take over his territory. They’re not going to want you hanging around.”

Weekend was polite but firm. “Thank you both for your concern, but no, my mind is made up. I can do this.”

About then
La Rosa’s
captain returned, along with two of his non-combatant crew. It took them a while to explain how they had abandoned ship, escaping to hide ashore during all of the shooting. The sailor immediately rushed into Weekend’s arms.

Zach and Sam exchanged looks, the two officers realizing that Weekend had been having an affair with the yacht’s master. After the emotional reunion, she turned to one of the crewmen and said, “Follow me, please.”

Exchanging shrugs, the two rangers decided to follow, curious what the suddenly aggressive woman had planned.

They soon arrived at
La Rosa’s
extensive media room. “I want to make a video and upload it to all of the cartel’s social media accounts,” Weekend stated.

The crewman hustled to execute her wishes, flipping a few switches and then aiming a tripod-mounted camera. Weekend produced her cell phone and ordered, “There is a picture of Vincent on here. I want it to be clearly shown.”

The rangers watched fascinated as the yacht’s tech downloaded an image that showed El General was clearly dead. Then, after straightening her hair and taking a deep breath, Weekend moved to stand in front of the camera.