An Eye For An Eye (30 page)

Lying on the floor, the chair in splinters below him, Richter fought the waves of darkness washing over him. He forced his eyes open and stared up at his tormentor. Guerrero glared down at him, his dark eyes filled with venom.

“You don’t look like a man now,” he taunted, waving the prod in Richter’s face.

Richter flinched.

“Do you think your government will help you, Señor Richter? Your army? Your Navy SEALs?” Guerrero shook his head. “Instead of fighting like men, you send your remote control planes to spy on us, to drop your bombs on us.” He shook his head again. “No, Señor Richter. You are on your own. And so that is how you will die. On your own. Then your body will be strung up from a pole, left for the birds to eat.”

Guerrero leaned over, shook the cattle prod again, and Richter saw his opportunity. With every bit of energy he had left, he lashed out with his foot, catching Guerrero between the legs. Guerrero’s eyes went wide and he grunted as he doubled over. Richter scrambled up, shaking to try and free his arms from the ropes. He was still struggling to free himself when Guerrero—gasping—reached for the cattle prod lying at his feet. Richter stepped forward and thrust his knee into the cartel leader’s face. Guerrero let out another grunt as his nose exploded and he fell to the floor.

Richter glanced up at the door, praying that Guerrero’s men were still occupied outside, and then concentrated on the ropes. With Guerrero lying in a fetal position moaning at his feet, Richter succeeded in loosening the rope around his right wrist. He flexed his right arm and gasped at the sharp pain in his shoulder.

“Look out!” Magaña yelled.

Guerrero pushed himself up to his knees. Richter lunged forward. Grabbing the cattle prod with his left hand—a two-foot piece of rope dangling from his wrist—he thrust the contact points into Guerrero’s neck, sending nine thousand volts through his body. Guerrero screamed and, like a rag doll, dropped back to the floor. As he lay writhing on the ground, Richter hurried over to President Magaña.

He began working on the ropes that bound Magaña’s legs and arms when there was a shout outside. He stopped and stared at the door.

“Hurry!” Magaña hissed.

Richter watched the door for another second before turning his attention back to the rope. After a moment, he loosened one of the president’s wrists and began to work on the other when he heard a door slam.

The two MH-60S Knighthawk helicopters flew fast and low over the ground. Using nap-of-the-earth navigational systems, both helicopters jerked up as they approached the small hill then plunged down the other side, hugging the ground as they skimmed over the dips and rises of the uneven terrain. Equipped with stealth technology, designed to suppress engine and rotor noise as well as to reduce their radar profiles, the Knighthawks had passed into Mexican airspace undetected.

Each Knighthawk carried a crew of four: two pilots, a crew chief, and a gunner manning the door-mounted M-60 machine gun. The passengers, eight Navy SEALs in each Knighthawk, were dressed for war. Codenamed Jackhammer, they were on a kill or capture mission. The preference was to take Banjo alive, if possible, but the mission planners were realists, and the Knighthawk carried body bags just in case. Secondarily, the Jackhammer team would, if possible, execute a rescue operation. With no direct evidence that Spartan and Aztec were in Banjo’s custody, the team was prepared for that possibility.

The SEAL platoon leader, a lieutenant in the lead helicopter, glanced back at his men. Once the building had been identified, they had little time to prepare. A few satellite images, a floor plan, a map, and a rushed briefing by a CIA analyst were all the intelligence and preparation they would get. Not ideal, but they would have to find a way with the information they had. While no mission was routine—in the last two years, his team had rescued a downed pilot in Afghanistan, killed a warlord in Somalia, and rescued a kidnapped ambassador in the Philippines—this was what he and his men did and did well.

Two of his men, he noted, were studying the pictures of their target. The rest were quiet, several with their eyes closed, others staring straight ahead. Some already had on their warrior masks: eyes hard, muscles stretched tight across clenched jaws. Each man, he knew, was going through his own pre-game ritual.

The communications specialist sat next to the lieutenant, a computer perched on his lap. He tapped at the keys then looked up.

“Got Sea Dog online, boss.”

“Sea Dog.” The sensor heard the voice of the mission controller. “Jackhammer inbound. Jackhammer has assumed mission control.”

“Sea Dog copies,” he said into his mic. “Jackhammer assumes mission control.”

A second later he heard a click.

“Sea Dog, this is Jackhammer.”

“Copy, Jackhammer,” the sensor responded.

“Jackhammer inbound to LZ Whiskey. ETA one-three minutes.”

“Sea Dog copies. Jackhammer ETA one-three minutes.”

The sensor’s eyes flicked across the screens. On the upper right hand screen, he saw the dust plume of a vehicle on the access road to the slaughterhouse.

“Jackhammer, we have company. Standby.”

He zoomed the camera in and saw the four armed men in the back of the truck, the federal police emblem clearly visible on the side.

“Jackhammer. Be advised we have federal police approaching on the access road from the west.”

He watched as cartel guards fanned out around the gate, their guns held ready. The truck came to a stop twenty yards from the gate. An officer in the front passenger seat hopped out, and the four masked cops in the back jumped down. The sensor centered the laser designator on the truck.

“The police truck is Target Four,” the sensor said as he clicked the button on his joystick.

“Jackhammer copies. Target Four. Jackhammer ETA eleven minutes.”

“Pilot copies. Target Four.”

Grabbing the cattle prod, Richter jumped up and rushed to the door as a man burst into the room. Richter shoved the prod into the man’s neck. The man let out a grunt as his body arched before his legs buckled. Richter grabbed the man by the shirt—gritting his teeth against the pain that shot up his arm—and yanked the man in, then banged the door shut. He took the man’s weapon, an automatic rifle, then hesitated and shocked the man again. The man screamed and, as he jerked and twitched on the floor, Richter ran his hand along the man’s legs then around his waist, up his sides toward his chest. He found the handgun in a shoulder holster. Sticking the handgun in his waistband, he thrust the prod under the man’s chin and pressed the trigger again and the man went still. He dragged the unconscious man away from the door, his right arm on fire. Then, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and grabbing the cattle prod, he hurried back to the Mexican President.

Kneeling on the floor behind Magaña, his eyes darted from the ropes to the door to Guerrero then to the ropes again as he struggled to free the Mexican President.

“How many are there?” Magaña whispered.

“There were two in here earlier,” Richter responded. “And I heard at least two other voices outside when they brought us in.” He grunted, then, steeling himself against the pain, finally succeeded in loosening the last knot. “But I think there may be more.”

Magaña stood and rubbed at his sore wrists. “So what’s our plan?”

Richter thought for a second. “You were in the navy?”

Magaña nodded. Richter handed him the rifle, knowing that with his injured shoulder, the gun was useless. Then his eyes darted around the room, first to the door, then to the opening behind them where the rail system curved into the next room. He glanced back at the door and saw the electrical box, the series of light switches, and then the wash station near the corner. His eyes traveled down the wall to where the overhead rail began and to a second door that led to the hog pens. He glanced back at Guerrero, motionless on the floor, and spotted the radio.

“Okay,” he said after a moment. “Here’s what I need you to do.”

The sensor’s eyes flicked back and forth from the five cartel guards to the building then to the federal police. The cartel guards were fanned out in a large semicircle inside the gate, their weapons held cautiously. Outside, the police truck was idling; the four masked and armed officers who had been riding in back had also fanned out, two taking defensive positions behind the truck. The driver remained in the cab. One cop, a tall, heavyset man who was not wearing the usual face mask was standing on the other side of the gate. He was speaking to one of the cartel guards—the one, the sensor noted, who appeared to be in charge. The cop was gesturing toward the truck. After a moment, the head guard turned and spoke to the man next to him. The man nodded, then turned and jogged across the lot to one of the SUVs.

The sensor saw the rear hatch open. The man was apparently looking for something in the back, but the rear hatch blocked the camera’s view. After a moment, the guard closed the hatch, then jogged back across the lot with, the sensor could now see, a backpack in his hand. The man handed the backpack to the head guard. The head guard opened it, glanced inside, then nodded to the tall, heavyset cop on the other side of the gate. The heavyset cop returned to the police truck and, a moment later, dragged a hooded figure from the cab. The figure’s hands were bound behind his back. The heavyset cop led the prisoner to the gate and, after a few words were exchanged, pulled the hood up.

The sensor adjusted the camera but the cop’s hand and the scrunched up hood blocked the prisoner’s face. The head guard nodded as the cop slid the hood back down. The gate was opened, and the sensor realized that an exchange had been negotiated. The guard handed over the backpack as the cop pushed the prisoner forward. The cop pulled a bundle of bills from the backpack—U.S. currency, the sensor noted—fanned it once in his fingers, then dropped it back inside. He nodded once then turned back toward the police truck.

The sensor’s eyes caught movement, and he glanced back at the screen that showed the sound wave images from inside the building. The figures there were moving. Something was happening inside. As if reading his mind, he heard a hiss in his earphones.

“Sea Dog, this is Jackhammer. Police truck is priority. Vehicles in the lot are secondary. We have the building.”

“Sea Dog copies. Target Four is priority,” the sensor responded as his eyes shifted back to the police truck. “Target Three is secondary. Jackhammer has Target Two.”

“Pilot copies,” he heard a moment later.

He flipped a switch. “Weapons are hot.”

“Hold for clearance, Sea Dog.”

“Sea Dog copies. Holding.”

Crouched in front of the plastic strip curtains hanging at the entrance to the chilling room, Richter peered around the corner. The only light came from the window in the door that Guerrero’s men had used. The door, Richter had determined, led to a hallway and then outside. But the small shaft of light was enough. Once his eyes had adjusted to the relative darkness, he had a clear view of the kill floor. Guerrero, like a rag doll, lay motionless in the middle of the floor; the lone guard, also unconscious, was ten feet away next to the wall.

Richter glanced back at the Mexican president then pointed across the room to the scalding tank.

“I’m going to take up a position over there,” he whispered.

Magaña nodded his reply, and Richter handed him the radio.

“Call them inside. Make something up. Tell them you need help. Make it sound urgent.”

Magaña nodded and Richter stood. Suddenly, the bang of a door interrupted the silence. Instinctively, Richter crouched and trained his gun on the door. Half a second later, the door opened partway. There was an exchange of words in the hallway, something in Spanish that he didn’t understand, then the door opened wide and two men stepped into the room. Wary of the darkness, they held their guns ready. Richter, his own gun in his left hand, centered the sights on the first man’s chest. He fired twice, the sound incredibly loud as it echoed off the concrete walls. As the man fell, Richter swung his gun to the man behind him. He squeezed the trigger again and the man staggered. As the man began to fall forward, Richter tracked him with his gun and fired once more. As the second man crumpled to the floor, a third man burst into the room. Before Richter could swing his gun back, there were two sharp cracks behind him and the third man’s head exploded in a spray of blood.

Richter glanced back at Magaña. The Mexican President, his head angled as he squinted down the rifle’s sights, had his weapon trained on the door. After a second, he lowered the rifle and glanced over at Richter. Even in the darkness of the room, Richter recognized the eyes: stone-cold and without remorse, they were the eyes of a soldier.

The sensor saw the men running toward the building. Two of Guerrero’s men remained by the gate.

“Jackhammer,” he said into his radio. “We’ve got three Tangos entering the building. Looks like they have a prisoner with them.”

“Jackhammer copies. We see them. Do you have an ID on the prisoner?”

“Negative, Jackhammer.”

“Okay, Sea Dog. Hold on Target Four.”

“Copy. Sea Dog holding on Target Four.”

The cartel guards and the prisoner entered the building where they suddenly became white blobs on the sensor’s screen as the X-Box picked them up. They seemed to shift and ooze as they moved inside, then, a moment later, they all went still.

“Sea Dog, Jackhammer ETA eight minutes.”

“Sea Dog copies.”

The sensor’s eyes shifted back to the gate. The cops had climbed back into the truck. A second later, the truck began to pull away, kicking up a wake of dust behind. The two remaining guards watched for a moment, then turned and began running toward the building.

Richter glanced at the door then back at the Mexican president. “I think there are more outside,” he hissed. “Cover me.”

Magaña nodded as Richter dashed to the corner of the room next to the scalding tank. The tank didn’t offer much cover, but he had a clear view of the door. And with the Mexican president by the chiller, it created a crossfire, a kill zone. Crouching by the tank, he nodded at Magaña, then trained his weapon on the door.

He didn’t have to wait long before the door burst open again. One man, apparently seeing the bodies, jerked to the right, toward Richter, while the second dropped low, crouching by the wash station. Richter trained his sights on the first and squeezed off a shot. As he adjusted his aim for a second shot, there was a staccato roar as Magaña, his rifle set to automatic, took down both men.

“We have two more Tangos entering the building.”

“Copy, Sea Dog. We see ‘em.” There was a pause, then, “Sea Dog, pull off Target Four. Hold for orders.”

“Sea Dog copies. Off Target Four.” The sensor glanced back at the police truck. It bounced along the dirt road, a dust plume trailing in its wake. “Sea Dog holding.”

“Jackhammer ETA six minutes.”

He glanced back at the building and saw the clusters of white blobs scattered around the room. Most were still; only two blobs seemed to ebb and ooze as they moved across the room.

Lying still, Pablo Guerrero opened his eyes and saw the American kneeling by Alberto. Even in the dim light, he could see that Alberto was dead, his lifeless eyes staring vacantly at nothing. President Magaña—a puppet of los gringos—was holding a rifle while the American searched Alberto’s pockets.
Hijo de Puta!
Guerrero swore silently as he glanced at the floor around him, searching for the cattle prod or a gun, something, anything. They had killed his daughter! His Carolina! They should be on their knees begging for his mercy! But he had underestimated them, and now all he saw around him were the bodies of his men. He reached behind him, blindly searching. Then the American stood, and he saw the cattle prod on the floor next to Alberto. The American turned his head, and Guerrero lay still again. The American spoke—said something that he couldn’t hear—and the Puppet answered. Whatever the American had said hadn’t been directed at him. He slid his hand behind him again and felt something at the edge of his reach. As his fingertips slid over the surface he could feel the cold metal of the gun.

Richter stared at Guerrero for a second. The man was coming to. He glanced back at the cattle prod but decided against it. They couldn’t carry an unconscious man, and there was no way they were leaving Guerrero here. He was responsible for too many deaths, too much suffering not only in Mexico but in the U.S. as well. If they left him here, he would only continue to wage his war of terror against the Mexican people until the country collapsed. And even though Fogel was in custody, Guerrero had already demonstrated that the border meant nothing to him and that American blood could be spilled just as easily as Mexican. If they left him here, it was only a matter of time before there was another attack. With the possibility that Guerrero might have access to cesium, it was a risk he couldn’t take. He turned to Magaña.

“We need to tie him up.” He lifted his injured arm slightly. “You’ll need to do it.”

Magaña nodded, then slung the rifle over his shoulder. Richter moved to the side so he could watch the door and Guerrero at the same time. As the Mexican President picked up a section of rope from the floor, Guerrero sprang.