Threatcon Delta (2 page)

One reason Yerby’s missions were typically off the books was that unlike drones that carried sophisticated target-ID software, his hits were instinctual. The target could be a decoy double. It could be a coincidental lookalike. That was why he had to act on solid intel that the individual he sought was on the move and in the vicinity. The good news was, right or wrong—and unlike drones—there was never collateral damage.

But Yerby had been doing this long enough to have a good instinct about whether the person in his sights was the person he wanted. No interaction with those around him, suggesting his elevated status. Persons in his group scanning the region for an ambush. A point man some distance ahead watching for tripwires or alarms; this group had two of them. The usual mule train that consisted of only two or three people, typically a man and two women, did not take those kinds of precautions.

Yerby was in no hurry. The ridgeline was the only clear spot to walk. To their left was a steep drop. To their right was a six-foot brick wall and a property owner who knew what took place on the other side and didn’t want any part of it. He didn’t even have security cameras, though Yerby could see a pair of mountings. No doubt someone had removed them on their way through the mountains at some point and probably left a dead animal in its place. That was the cartel way: offense with a sharp postscript.

Yerby focused on the man in the middle, tracking him as he walked. The elbow pads kept Yerby’s sweater from tearing, allowed him a smooth and steady motion. The man walked tall, had what appeared to be new hiking shoes, and wore a firearm under his dark Windbreaker. The outline wasn’t distinguishable but the bulge was unmistakable. And he wasn’t wearing a backpack. If by some mischance the group was arrested, he could break off from them, say he had nothing to do with the smugglers. That was why Yerby shot people dead. Because guys like Hernandez always had a way of slithering from the fingers of the law.

The monster seemed absorbed in his footing, letting the others worry about his security. Yerby watched the man’s gait. He couldn’t make out any features, but the walk was the same as in the surveillance footage. The man raised and rode horses. He was slightly bowlegged. Yerby was confident—

There was a sound like a dry branch being snapped over a knee. Yerby felt a small fist of air on his left cheek an instant before his chin struck the top of the boulder. His face was dragged to the side, hard. The rifle tumbled from his grip as he slapped his hands out to brace himself. He tried to push off but found that he didn’t have control of his head. It was lopsided and wouldn’t move. He reached for it and felt something strange inside. His teeth had somehow shifted; no, they were loose and they were on his tongue—which hurt him. He tasted blood. He coughed as he finally inhaled, and blood clogged his throat.

All of that had happened in a few seconds. His face hurt. He picked up his left hand. It was weak and trembling violently. He let his hand drop to the rock, which felt sticky. He dragged his fingers toward his face.

What the hell happened? His only thought was that a bird may have struck him, possibly an owl thinking he was dinner.

His wriggling fingers reached his cheek, felt something that didn’t belong. A beak? There were feathers—

He let his hand drop, tried to move his head but it was too heavy. The wind cooled his flesh, which was wet. But it wasn’t raining. This didn’t make sense and he found it difficult to focus.

Someone stepped beside him. He didn’t know who it was because his face was turned the other way. He heard heavy breathing, as if someone had been running. He tried to turn but his head wouldn’t obey.

“Help.”

Yerby heard the word in his head. What came from his mouth, though, was just burbling. He saw light in front of him but the source was behind him. There were two flashes. In the distance he saw two pinpoints of light flare in return.

Oh, Christ,
he thought.
They had a spotter.

That was always a danger on these lone-wolf operations. He had to sleep sometime. It left him exposed if the criminal had been tipped off, or was simply overly cautious.

Yerby had done nightly circuits of the perimeter before taking his position. These guys were tunnel diggers, so a foxhole wouldn’t have been a problem for them. Still, he hadn’t seen anyone. He hadn’t smelled food or waste products or tobacco or anything that would suggest someone was up here. He knew his skills weren’t slipping. Someone was either better at skulking than he was, or luckier.

Yerby pressed his palms on the rock, pushed hard. He had to get up, get to his bowie knife, and at least inflict a wound on whoever was there.

He felt a hard rubber sole push down on the side of his head. His face was pressed to the stone, slamming the pain in harder. He cried out, but all that emerged was a throaty release of air. It blew a metallic taste into his nostrils: his own blood. He felt his teeth tumbling like hard candies in his mouth with every breath, every involuntary move of his tongue. His eye sockets ached. His eyes felt rigid. He was breathing roughly through his nose so he didn’t swallow blood. His brain was finally processing the fact that he had been badly injured. Some corner of his mind was ticking off the little evidence he had. It hadn’t been a bullet or knife that had taken him down. It was a shaft, an arrow. Sighted and fired at night, it was most likely a bolt from a crossbow. Cartel soldiers used those when they didn’t want to make any noise.

Yerby felt someone feeling around his waist. He made an effort to reach down, stop it, but his hands were like empty gloves, limp and helpless. He felt himself being pulled on his left side, then his right. His cell phone was on his left hip. On his right—

He heard a voice speaking a language he did not recognize. He couldn’t place the language but he knew the name he heard: Hernandez. He felt spit land on the back of his neck. A moment later his entire body came electrically alive as the tip of a knife, probably his own—these bastards liked using a man’s own weapons against him—was pressed to the spot where the spittle had landed. There were more words. He was glad he didn’t know what was being said; it allowed him to collect his thoughts. Yerby actually savored the breaths that gurgled deep in his throat, the sudden numbness that filled the lower half of his face as though he were waiting for a root canal. The body was a marvelous machine, a guardian that protected itself from debilitating pain when it could. Except for that point of fire in his neck, he felt surprisingly all right.

But he didn’t want to waste his last seconds running a self-diagnostic. His brain flashed to the wonderful people he had known. Juri, whom he would have married except for the fear that he would leave her a widow. Ryan Kealey, the CIA agent who had understood his approach and goals in the drug war and helped him to perfect his black-ops skills. Yerby sent a wordless wish to the agent, telling him how much he respected him, how grateful he was that Kealey’s unofficial training of him had resulted in so many successful missions. He smiled, his expression frozen as the words stopped in his mind. He knew he only had a moment left. He made an effort to flop over, to dislodge the foot from his head, to put up some kind of struggle—

Yerby felt a fist of fire punch the base of his skull. The spotter leaned into the knife, the tip reaching to the vertebra of the wounded man. The pain caused Yerby to cry through his broken teeth, made his limbs stiffen and shake. He felt the blade cut downward along his spine, blood spilling over the sides of the wound. This was more pain than his body could handle; it didn’t grow dull but just the opposite. Lightning raced to the small of his back, along his rib cage, down through his groin and into his thighs. He screamed horribly and kept screaming, twitching, flopping even as the cutting stopped between his shoulders. However much he wished it, the world refused to go black. It remained a bright, hideous red, like fireworks of blood exploding against the darkness....